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• It is curious to observe the attempts of the French dramatists to escape from the critical despotism that hems them in like another cordon sanitaire, and drives them back to rot one upon the traces of another. The translated drama of Falkland, successful this season, was somewhat new. But the very principle of Sylla is a daring in

The catastrophe of the piece is simply the abdication of Sylla, which is represented in the frontispiece-the figure which purposely resembles Napoleon more than Talma, exclaiming in the words of the piece "J'ai gouverné sans peur, et j'abdique sans crainte." The reader will have perceived that the great interest of the tragedy lies in Napoleon being sha-novation, evidently taken from our dowed forth in Sylla, nor is the re-present taste in literature. "Hithersemblance at all covert-Jouy's preface contains a comparison between the Roman and the French dictator.

"Children of their own deeds, both ardent partizans of liberty before their individual elevation, both thought they had purchased at the price of victory the right to enslave their countries. One laid violent hold of power, the other received it as a deposit, and used it as an inheritance, &c. The systematic coldness of the two men was in each the result of different principles in one it was the egotism of vengeance, in the other the egotism of grandeur. The craving after rerenown which devoured them both, entirely withered up the soul of Sylla; that of Napoleon still remained accessible to the pure pleasures and sweet affections of domestic life. Napoleon introduced severity in manners; Sylla's power on the contrary was wasted in debauch, &c. Sylla abdicated the empire, Napoleon lost it. Sylla teriminated his days peaceably at Rome, which he had bathed in blood, and in the midst of a people whose fathers he had prescribed. Napoleon died a prisoner to the English, on an isolated rock in the ocean, where he himself marked out the space of his tomb." Talma, we all know, is not unlike Napoleon, but in Sylla the actor has rendered the resemblance most striking, by imitating the bearing, dress, &c. of the late Emperor. His hair is arranged for the same effect, with the top of the head bald-the peculiarity which gained for Napoleon among his soldiery the pet name of " notre petit tondu," and with the solitary lock lying sideways across the forehead. Another allusion is the character of Roscius introduced into the piece, and Talma is even called Roscius in the preface; his familiarity with the dictator, and the good offices thereby performed, bear a striking and honourable resemblance to the great living actor,

to," says Jouy, "the pathetic and the terrific have been excited in tragedy by the combat of passions or the fatality of events; I have attempted for the first time to make them spring from the energy of a single character, and to open to the spectator the abysses in the spirit of a superior mortal, and from this solely to derive all the interest of my performance." To this the critics exclaim, "These are not the elements of tragedy, but of biographicdialogue, divided into scenes and acts. You must make choice, M. Jouy, and be either a dramatic historian, or a tragic poet."

Jouy is a liberal. He wrote for the Minerve, and writes at present for the Miroir and Constitutionel-these tendencies, of course, bring down upon him the old school in politics and literature. From this we prophesy much advantage; the revolution and the upset of opinions preceding and subsequent to it, created a new order of judgment and taste, with respect to every thing, but poetry-every other compartment of literature was regenerated. And the regeneration of the muse might perhaps have followed, had not Buonaparte stepped in, and completely shut up her temple. But if liberality in poetic criticism should come to be united, through the zeal of opponents, with liberality in political bias, the consequence will be (a consummation devoutly to be wished for) that originality and unfettered passion will become popular in verse, as well as independent principles in prose. Too much stress on both sides has been laid on the unities-a decent observation of them never shackles a poet of genius: it is not the confining of the tragic muse to the unities that cripples her, it is the confining her to generalities, and forbidding her to represent individual passion.

The preface to Sylla sets out, by way of precaution, in protesting against the dramatic taste of the English and German schools; as this is merely a ruse to deceive his readers into enjoy ing the very thing which he abuses, we pass it over, merely applauding the author for his ingenuity. But the classification of the French drama is too interesting to be omitted.

"With us, the only people who are elèves of the Greeks, the drama is naturally divided into three classes: manners, intrigue, and character. And this classification, so simple, so real, is no less applicable to tragedy than to comedy. The comedies of manners are, Turcaret, the Femmes Savantes, the Precieuses Ridicules, the Philosophe sans le savoir, &c. &c.; the tragedies of manners are, the Orphelin de la Chine, Bajazet, Britannicus, Alzire, in which Racine and Voltaire had for the principal object to paint the manners of the people, amongst whom passed the action of the drama. The Marriage de Figaro is the chef d' œuvre of the comedy of intrigue; the tragedy of intrigue has for its single example the sublime enigma of Héraclius. Voltaire has infused all the ardour of the passions into Zaire and Tancrède, which are but tragedies of intrigue, happily modified by a slight delineation of manners. The comedy of character is the highest of dramatic conceptions; hence the Tartuffe and the Misanthrope, in which the genius of Moliere has surpassed the very summit of his art, remain above all comparison. To seize a character in its ensemble, to drag, in the forcible expression of Locke, the monster from his cavern, to sound the human heart, and develope it in a single character, under all its phases, in its force, and in its weakness, in its pride, and in its shame-what a task-what a glory for a poet to fulfil !

"The tragedy of character has been half intended, dimly shadowed forth by Racine in the person of Nero,nevertheless there is but a trace, an exquisite sketch, in the midst of a composition of altogether another order. The Mahomet of Voltaire might also be considered as a tragedy of this class, if historical truth had not been sometimes sacrificed to high philosophic thought in this admirable representation. The character of Auguste, in the tragedy of Cinna, is more historical; but in the midst of the passions and events, of which Auguste is the pivot, though not the cause, Corneille

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reserved but single monologue to the developement of this character." There could not well be devised a more pernicious classification, and it proves that the originality and freedom of this author in the drama, is more owing to his genius than his taste. First of all, we exceedingly regret to be informed, that the chefd'œuvres of the French stage, the Orphelin phelin de la Chine, Bajazet, Britannicus, and Alzire, have, for their principal object, to paint the manners of the nations in which they pass-if this be the case, the tragedies must be intolerably stupid: Sir Walter himself could not compose an interesting romance even, if manners were not a very subordinate object in the performance. In the second place, how inadequate must be the classification, that excludes Zaïre and Tancrède, and leaves them between two kinds, neither one thing nor the other. From what the author= says about the comedy of character, and the momentary burst of eloquence which he indulges in on the subject, we instantly see, that there is the point of perfection for the French drama-that the flow of the poetic tide has stopped there, and has not yet reached what he calls the tragedy of character:-in short, from this sentence, as from a free confession, we learn that the French have no great tragedy. This is a truth, which however convinced of we were ourselves, yet certainly we never expected to see it thus leap, as an inevitable corollary, from the sentence of a French critic. He allows that the French possess no tragedy of character, and consequently in the consideration of the minor species, the comedy of character, he expends the acme of his panegyric. Further, we perceive from the passage quoted, that they are not only without tragedy of character, but without even an idea of what it is, or should behistorical truth, and consequently subservience of imagination, being considered the grand requisite, for failing in which even the " Mahomet" falls under the critical ban. We (or more properly I) entered upon the study of the French drama with an ardent wish to bestow upon it an admiration equal to that paid to our own-I swallowed an immense dose of anti-prejudice, which went further than mere neutralizing its opposite, for it became in itself a prejudice, and a strong one

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but it was in vain. From the French criticisms, and panegyrics of French poetry, is to be learned simply this that there is no such thing.

We conclude this article, already too much extended, with an extract from an essay on "Sylla," by M. Le Brun. From this, it will be seen with pleasure, that there does exist in French criticism some germes at least of independent feeling in poetic and dramatic

taste:

"There are many fine and beautiful characteristics in the composition of "Sylla;" but it is the exposition chiefly that is remarkable. The most important part of a dramatic work is the exposition. It is on the manner more or less forcible with which the spectator is first stricken, that depends the greater or lesser degree of interest he will take in the action throughout; the poet must transport his auditor at once into the midst of the time, place, manners, and characters he has to paint, and metamorphose suddenly the Parisian into a Greek, a Roman, or what he will. Such a sudden and complete illusion can never be produced by a simple recital. The framers of dramatic rules have forgotten to establish this grand one, that all exposition ought to be in action. In our theatre there is little exposition that can be cited. The English and Germans understand this far better than we do, and, above all, the Spaniards. Lopez de Vega, often so barbarous, might, in this respect, serve as our master. In the management of this, Mr Jouy is deserving of much praise. The interior of the mansion of Sylla, -the silence of the night,-Rome slumbering, while proscription wakes, -the lamp that glimmers on the table, and around, the familiars of the dictator, who pass from hand to hand the fatal list, and pause to add to it the names of their enemies, and last of all, Sylla himself, in his terrible simplicity, now pacing up and down, now seating himself, and, with a dash of his pen, negligently distributing life and death-all this is so full of truth and interest, that it prepares admirably for what is about to follow. We tremble for the events of the day, that succeeds to such a night," &c.

"They have exclaimed against the work, that it is romantic. I cannot think that those who make such frequent use of this word, are well acquainted with its meaning. There is

nothing definitive about them but their intention, which is to defame. They will not allow the poets of their country, under any pretence whatever, to get out of the wheel-track. They compel us to march rank and file, one after the other. And when one diverges a little from the line, or advances some steps in front, the whole troop cry out after him, and overwhelm him with the epithet of romantic. They could not fail to bestow upon Mr Jouy this compliment of an injury. What a pity that this name romantic was not invented when Corneille wrote the Cid! When he sought in that chef-d'œuvre to liberate himself from the laws, not of the great masters, but of Jodèle and Garnier! What a noble rallying word would it have been for the cabal! What a lucky hit for Mr the Cardinal, and Mr de Chapelain! Who knows what would have happened, if these gentlemen, together with the Academy, had not succeeded in checking the free genius of Corneille-perhaps we should at this moment possess, what we do not, a theatre truly national; for that poet had attempted in the Cid, a drama different from that of the ancients. He endeavoured to enlarge the narrow circle of the unities, for the purpose of introducing subjects of modern history. But the Cardinal-author did not wish this; and the powerful genius of Corneille, like a tree checked in its natural growth, shot forth in the only direction allowed. Forbidden to be the creator of a new drama, he has at least raised the ancient so high, that, astonished at its elevation, we are induced to regard as blasphemy, any desire towards a more independent species. But for all this, it is not less true, that had our genius of old been left to its free exertion, our theatre would be greater than it is; it would be more modern, more national, more romantic, if you will, that is, more in concordance with our manners, our times, our institutions, our creeds, and even our passions. To seek, then, to introduce modern forms upon our theatre, is not to imitate the English, the Spaniards, or the Germans; it is to remount to the brilliant period of our Cid, and to follow the precepts and example of our great Corneille!"

We cannot close without expressing our admiration and esteem for the critical genius of Mr Le Brun.

C. N. the Younger.

CRITIQUE ON LORD BYRON.

"Claudite jam rivos, pueri, sat prata biberunt." VIRG.

So the Public at length is beginning to tire on
The torrent of poesy pour'd by Lord Byron!
Some guess'd this would happen: -the presage proved true.
Then now let us take a brief, rapid review
Of all, or at least of each principal topic,
Which serves as a theme for his muse misanthropic.

First, note we the prelude, which sung by the Minor,
Gave promise of future strains, bolder and finer;
Though the bitter Scotch critic loud raised his alarum,
And swore men and gods could not possibly bear 'em!*
To the fame of the bard men have given a shove-
Whate'er may be judged of his merits above.
Thus stung, did the youngster assail, we must own,
Some names which his fury had well let alone;
As a colt, who a thistle beneath his tail feels,
At all things around madly launches his heels.
Yet blithely, though sharply, the young minstrel caroll'd,
To Reviewers and Bards, ere he croak'd with Childe Harold,
That wight, who, in endless Spenserian measure,
Roams through the wide world without object or pleasure;
Till at last, we find out, with the pilgrim proceeding,
That we gain no great object nor pleasure in reading!
But, first, with what glee did all palates devour
The fragments, which bear the strange name of the Giaour?
'Tis a tale full of pathos, and sweet is the verse :-
Would some pains in connecting have render'd it worse?
Then next was our caterer pleased to provide us
With an exquisite treat in the Bride of Abydos;
Abydos
Zuleika, so lovely-so simple-so tender-
Yet firm, from her purpose no danger could bend her.
Sour critics may say, all this praise duly granting,
There seems in the plan probability wanting.
By what happy means could these lovers contrive,
With Giaffer's suspicions so warmly alive,
Of the Harem's strict bondage to lengthen the tether,
And so pleasantly take their amusements together?
Of Eastern serais, though not versed in the fashions,
We've heard, in those climates, where boil all the passions,
No youth could approach, howe'er prudent they thought her,
The sacred retreat of his own father's daughter.-
Such objections are dull;-'tis a pity to show 'em,
If adherence to fact would have spoil'd a good poem.
Now swift in his bark sails stout Conrad, the Corsair,
To surprise Seyd Pasha, with his three tails of horse-hair.

* The Edinburgh reviewer, who vainly attempted to crush Lord Byron at the commencement of his poetical career, thus began his animadversions: "The poetry of this young Lord belongs to the class which neither men nor gods are said to permit. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water." Having made this estimate of the noble poet's powers, which, however justified by some of the Minor's Hours of Idleness, must preclude the Northern Seer from all pretension to the gift of second sight, he adds the following wholesome advice :-

"Whatever success may have attended the peer's subsequent compositions, it might have been followed without any serious detriment to the public. We counsel him that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents and opportunities to better

account."

But the destinies order unlucky mishap!
That Conrad, not Seyd, should be caught in the trap.
Those minds must be steel'd with an apathy rare,
Which mourn not Medora, nor sigh for Gulnare.
Medora, soft Queen of the Island of Thieves,

Whose heart, too susceptible, bursts as it grieves!
The woes of Gulnare, too-we feelingly share 'em-
The pride, though the cold passive slave of Seyd's harem :-
But touch'd by the the robber, she mounts to the class
Of dames whose whole soul is inflammable gas.
Though caught was the Corsair, the fates had decreed
That this foe, though in chains, should be fatal to Seyd.
Ah! sensitive reader, 'tis hard to persuade ye,
That man could be cool to so kind a fair lady-
When he knew her warm heart, of his terrible fate full,
Risk'd all for his safety-'twas somewhat ungrateful!
And since such great hazard she ran for his sake,
Could his fancy prefer writhing spik'd on a stake,
To giving-(but Poets are full of their fibs)
The savage Pasha a deep thrust in the ribs!
Such delicate scruples we prize at a high rate-
They seem rather squeamish, perhaps, in a pirate!
Quick vanishes Conrad :-bold rover, adieu!
But who is this Lara, that starts into view?
If Conrad thou art, as some people suppose,
Gloomy chief, thou'rt less qualmish with friends, and with foes!
If strong were the "stuff o' thy conscience," oh say
How was Ezzelin so snugly put out of the way?
We see, too, the spirit and warmth of Gulnare in
That feminine page, so attach'd and so daring;
And we shrewdly suspect that the small crimson spot
On her amazon forehead is nearly forgot.
'Tis true, when the Corsair old Seyd's palace saw burn,
The Queen of his harem had ringlets of auburn ;-
That the page's are black contradicts not our guesses-
Since ladies sometimes change the hue of their tresses.*

Then tack'd to this story, strange mixture, are seen

Those dullest of stanzas yclep'd Jacqueline.
Alas! for poor Rogers-'twas certainly hard
To be made, as a compliment, foil to a bard
Who needs no such foil-so unapt too to flatter!
'Twere better have borne the worst lash of his satire!
Yet of high-season'd praise he is sometimes the organ,
This Shelley can witness, and eke Lady Morgan.
Shall Rogers's name be inscribed in this set
Whose former bright laurels none wish to forget?
But Jacqueline sues for the garland in vain,
For Memory here brings us nothing but pain.
Can the laud be much relish'd by Gifford and Crabbe,
Which is shared by the crazy-brain'd muse of Queen Mab?
Would Dryden or Otway, or Congreve, or Pope,
Sweet Burns, or the Bard who delights us with Hope,

* The Poet in describing the faithful attendant on Count Lara, did not perhaps exactly recollect his former account of Gulnare's person

That form of eye so dark, and cheek so fair,

And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair.

Dealers in fiction, both in verse and prose, require good memories. Whether this solution, or the suggestion in the text, best meets the difficulty, the sagacious reader will determine according to his fancy.

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