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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
The hold of pride, and wrench the bent of nature;
Did doom myself to gnawing cares for ever!"

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,
When he perceives his rival in art, that treble-toned babbler,
Whetting his teeth: he will then, driven frantic with anger,
Roll his eyeballs fearfully.

Then shall we have plume-fluttering strife of helmeted speeches,
Break-neck grazings of galloping words and shavings of actions,
While the poor wight averts the great genius-monger's
Diction high and chivalrous.

Bristling the stiffened mane of his neck-enveloping tresses,
Dreadfully wrinkling his brows, he will bellow aloud as he utters
Firmly rivetted words, and will tear them up plank-wise,
Breathing with a Titan's breath.

Then will that smooth and diligent tongue, the touchstone of verses,
Twisting and twirling about, and moving the snaffle of envy,
Shatter his words and demolish, with subtle refinement,

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).
HERE let me stand. To me there is a charm
In this old stone-a mystic fascination-
A spell-bound and spell-binding mystery.
Whence-wherefore this inscription? What the sense
That lurks around the words? Oft have I turned
From the gorgeous temples, and the dazzling pomp
Of sculptured fanes, where the Athenians worship
The thousand gods of Homer, to this lone
And simple altar. 'Tis a revelation
Of a far higher mythology-the grandeur
And glory of transcendent science veiled
In simulated ignorance. How my soul
Expands to the eternal Nameless, when my eyes
Wet with strange tears rest on these syllables,
"To the God Unknown." The Deity of Deities-
Dark with excessive light-Men know him not.
They must be gods themselves, and in themselves
Reflect the inscrutable essence, ere they know
That which he is. The infinite cannot

Be apprehended by the finite, till

The finite merges in infinitude.

'Tis well. I would know God, as the Unknown,
Unknowable, fount of knowledge. I rejoice
To lose myself among the sombre veils

That shroud his name. The light of light must be
A light most blinding-in the midst of clouds
And darkness is its dwelling. Let no vain
Impious presumption prompt the audacious hand
To tear the curtains from the Ineffable.
'Tis the mysteriousness of Deity

That makes it so attractive. The deep wish
Of searching, the rich hope of fathoming
His perfect attributes still urge us onward.
Methinks this most divine ambition

Flourishes best among the dewy shades

Of a most youth-like faith-too much of knowledge
Would mar the fine enchantment.

The GENIUS OF SOCRATES suddenly making an apparition.

Socrates.

SOCRATES.

God of my fathers, shield me! Who, and whence
Art thou, that on my lonely meditation

Stealest like a spirit? Ah, thy eyes are kindling
With a radiance not of the earth, and thy swift step
Is silent as the snowfall. Beautiful presence,

If thou be more or less than mortal, speak,
I do adjure thee.

GENIUS.

Mark my answer well.
From Jove I come. I am thy guardian genius,
One of the Olympian angels who go forth
With high command to educate men's souls
For an immortal glory. Such the charge
That from the gods I did receive o'er thee.
Even from thy cradle have I dwelt within
Thy spirit like divine vitality,

And made thy echoing conscience resonant
With holy admonitions. Socrates,

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
That some supernal watcher compassed me
With his mysterious breathings. "Twas thy voice
That harmonized the silence with the deep
Soul-thrilling symphonies of truth;-thy words
That vibrated along the chords of thought,
Making me start and tremble.

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
Thou hast hesitated on the verge of action,
Hast thou not heard a voice cry-Socrates!

Do this, or do it not? Hast thou not found
A kind of conscious impotence gain on thee
While planning some misdeed of vice?

SOCRATES.

I have;

And when long intricate subtleties have wound
My harassed soul almost to the point of madness
With jarring doubts, was it not unto thee
I've owed the dawning of some radiant star
Of truth within me, which, like Hesperus,
Smoothed the vexed waves of strife.

GENIUS.

All this, and more,

Have I wrought in thee; for I longed to make thee
A blessing to thy country and thy kind:

And now before this altar, which the citizens

Raised to the God that stayed the plague at Athens,
Come I to show thee more than is revealed

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List the command of Jove!
If thou obeyest my guidance, thou shalt be
Hailed as the wisest of the wise of Greece;
Thou likewise shalt diffuse thy wisdom freely,
Without all grudging, unto all who seek thee;
And in thy daily life's reality

Be all that other sages merely boast;
So shall thy name be dear to all the gods
And all the godlike, and eternal bliss
Shall ripen in thy heart.-Divinity
Itself shall so inspire thee, that thou too,
Obedient to its impulse, shall become
Divine. But think not so, my Socrates,
To escape the teeth of envy-nay, the more
Thy merits shall develope their rich fruit,
The more the false, the base, the secular
Will hate thee and detest thee. Thou must dare,
And bear their malice bravely. They will call
Thy piety profanation, and thy patriotism
Rebellion, and thy darling innocence

The very vice of vices. They will bring thee.
Before the judges, and their unjust sentence

Shall doom thee to the death. But death will give thee
A life like mine, and in the spirits' world

We will exult together-evermore.

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