CLO. "Hath Time no power upon thy hopeless love? IM. Yea Time hath power, and what a power I'll tell thee— To one dull throb of ceaseless agony, And lock it in the heart-freeze the hot tear " The reception of Manuel, on the first nights of the performance, was not less distinguished than that of its splendid predecessor; but, from some cause not sufficiently explained, and which we have heard attributed to individual caprice, it has never since been represented. Mr. Milman's Fazio has much poetical beauty, but the plot is too inartificial to admit of an effective representation. The author has fallen into an error decidedly contrary to that which we have before had occasion to censure, and has relied too exclusively upon the power of language, wholly unaided by dramatic effect. The scene best calculated for the stage is that in which Bianca accuses her husband, in the violence of her passion, before the council. Her momentary fury, and subsequent eagerness to recant all that she has confessed, when the probable consequences of the discovery appear more serious than she had meditated, are very powerfully conceived. Her soliloquy at the commencement of the third act, lamenting the absence and neglect of her husband-the contrast between the past and her present forlorn state-her horror at the supposition of Fazio's infidelity with Aldabella, and her subsequent highly impassioned burst of frenzy, on finding her suspicions realized, are as beautiful and pathetic as any thing we meet with in modern tragedy; whether considered with reference to the beauty of the poetry, or the effect produced upon the audience. Fazio ranks among the best of Mr. Milman's compositions ; it is more finished than any of his works, and has less of that wordiness and mannerism, which generally mar the productions of his undoubtedly great genius. Mirandola is a play of considerable merit, and though rather cold in interest, possesses great beauty of language, and several very effective scenes. The catastrophe is remarkably well contrived, though the last speech is too evident an imitation of that which precedes the death of King Lear. On the whole, however, Mirandola is a good instance of that style of tragedy which we wish to see more generally cultivated. We have often thought, and the observation has been made by others, that a play by the Author of Waverley would amount, as nearly as human fallibility will allow, to the perfection of dramatic writing. We do not in particular allude to the fragments of " Old Play," which have been considered as betokening such skill in dramatic language-but the Waverley novels are, from first to last, crowded with scenes of the most admirable kind, both lively and pathetic. It is to those which are tragic that we now confine our attention,-and some of these we do pronounce to be, even as they stand, perfect. We might cite multitudes of these the interviews of Waverley with Flora and Fergus M'Ivor at Carlisle-that between Rebecca and Bois-Guilbert, in Ivanhoe-and, in a different style, the colloquy of the three crones at the wedding, in the Bride of Lammermuir;-but we must not go on quoting instances, for we know that if we once get involved in the maze of these enchantments, we shall never bring this already long article to a conclusion. We cannot, however, but name the interview (which is almost entirely in dialogue) between Jeanie Deans and her sister in prison, as, perhaps, the most striking instance of the dramatic power of the Author of Waverley. It is one of the most beautiful, affecting, and perfect tragic scenes of any in the whole compass of our literature. It will be observed, that it is between persons in low life, and that the language is in no degree raised above what is natural for their condition-yet, by real knowledge of the heart, and strict adherence to nature, it has, even in the reading, a depth and power of pathos almost unequalled. We think it impossible to read it unmoved; what, therefore, would it be, if it were embodied into life, by actresses capable of giving it its real effect? Such writing as this has, indeed, like the rod of Moses, the power of causing water to gush from the veriest stone that ever was misnamed a heart. With such ideas of the dramatic power of the Author of Waverley, it was natural that our expectations should be raised to a very high pitch, when we heard of a forthcoming Dramatic Sketch by Sir Walter Scott;-for, entertaining, like the rest of the world, small doubt of the identity of the poetical baronet with the author of that wonderful series of Tales, (though we always considered the poetry unaccountably inferior to the prose,) we presumed that this Sketch would be at least a prelude and a token of future and illustrious specimens of excellence. In proportion, therefore, to the expectation, was the disappointment, on the appearance of Halidon Hill; a composition so vapid, uninteresting, and utterly unpoetical. We have only to say, that should the Author of Waverley be hereafter identified with Sir Walter Scott, his power of mutability will be not the least of his many and extraordinary qualities. But we repeat, if that genius which appears so remarkably to unite the very elements of tragedy-sublimity and pathos; which has displayed such boundless variety of imagination, and such deep insight into human nature; if, in short, the genius which bursts upon us in every page of those matchless Tales, were to assume a dramatic form, we apprehend that even Shakspeare himself might tremble on his throne of supremacy. In this necessarily very brief review of the more prominent tragedies of late date, we are quite aware that we have omitted the mention of many, which, in more ample space, we should have been glad to. notice." Among these, we would cite one entitled "Conscience, or the Bridal Night"-as possessing great power of pathos on the stage, and very considerable beauty as a poem. It will be seen, that we have confined ourselves to acted plays as it is with reference to the stage that the whole of our argument has been conducted ;-and at the present moment, when so many poems are thrown into dialogue, it would be endless to give specific consideration to each *. We regard Lord Byron's tragedies * We wish to make one exception to this, and to say a few words concerning a very remarkable production of this sort, which has lately appeared, entitled, "The Bride's Tragedy." We call it a remarkable performance, from its being the work of a very young man, (he states himself, in his preface, to be a minor,) and as conjoining very striking poetical merits with what we consider the greatest dramatic faults. It is "brimmed up and running over" with poetry of the wildest imagination and most beautiful fancy-but we have devoted great part of this article to prove that such writing is out of place in a play. The management of the plot is very inartificial and unskilful, as might be expected from so young a writer,—and the dialogue, as we have said, is nearly all entirely inappropriate, as regards the situation of the speaker; but regarded as poetry alone, it is (with the pardonable exception of occasional unsuccessful daring, and, here and there, of a little downright extravagance,) of a degree of originality and beauty which even these most poetical days rarely present. We cannot forbear, long as this article has already stretched, transcribing the following passage, which will serve also to prove that the praise we give to the poetry of this piece is by no means overcharged. It is in a love scene, in which Floribel thus describes her dream :— 'Twas on a fragrant bank I laid me down, Laced o'er and o'er with verdant tendrils, full Of dark-red strawberries. Anon there came wholly in that light-as neither intended nor fitted for the stage. It would have been as fair to act a canto of Childe Harold, as it was to do Marino Faliero. It is On the wind's breast a thousand tiny noises, In beauteous languor, lay the Queen of Smiles : Or fay-spun threads of light, her locks were floating, Dark as the nectar-grape that gems the vines Within the ivory cradle of her breast, Astride their darts. And one there was alone, Of fickleness, and woe, and mad despair. This is the perfection of graceful and poetical fancy. If Mr. Beddoes would write a poem instead of a play, we have no doubt that he would realize all the expectations which this brilliant first performance has excited. |