IV. Peter Pindarics: The Mayor of Miroblais; Rabelais and the Lam PAGE. 385 391 395 / 399 401 406 412 418 423 431 434 436 442 451 452 457 461 462 469 470 475 XXII. A Summer's day at Oxford: concluded 476 XXIII. Epigrams, &c. : On a pretty but poor Girl going to a Rout; An Ancient Tale for Modern Times; Cn a Bad but Safe Man; City Love 477 XXI. Sonnets from Petrarch REMOVAL. OLIVER EVERETT, HAS removed from No. 6, Court-street, to the Rooms over Messrs. Bartlett & Brewer, No. 13, Cornhill, sign of the Good Samaritan, where he has for sale, an ASSORTMENT OF BOOKS AND STATIONARY. Subscriptions are received for the following publications: Unitarian Miscellany and Christian Monitor, published at Baltimore, price $150 per year. Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, $8 per year. Silliman's American Journal of Science and Arts, $6 per year. The Journal of Foreign Medical Science and Literature; published at Philadelphia, price $4 per year. Orders for Books received and carefully executed. (385) LES VEPRES SICILIENNES. A TRAGEDY. A STRONG prejudice has lately prevailed in England against the system upon which French Tragedy is founded. The dramatic productions of our neighbours have been proscribed in an indiscriminate, and, in our humble judgment, very unjustifiable contempt. Our critics are not satisfied with offering to the writers of the reigns of Elizabeth and James the homage to which they are unquestionably entitled, but have extended the worship of their genius into a fanatical idolatry of their defects. Not contented with asserting the divinity of Shakspeare, they hold it in their exclusive faith. They have intermingled with criticism much of the acrimony of polemics, and denounce as heterodox any belief in the powers of those distinguished authors, to whom the rest of Europe has assigned such an exalted fame. There appears to be something of national antipathy in the inveterate scorn with which some very able, but possibly mistaken men, have treated the works from which every Frenchman has from infancy been taught to derive a portion of his individual glory. Every Frenchman is accustomed to consider the reputation of the great dramatists of his country as an ingredient of his own. On the other hand, our rivals in literature, as well as in arms, have indulged in a preposterous retaliation, by decrying the genius of that great poet, whose fame is established upon human nature itself, and should endure as long. Both parties are much, though not equally mistaken; and may be said to contend in the dark. To the great proportion of French readers, the works of Shakspeare are almost wholly unintelligible. Scarce one of those who pretend to a minute acquaintance with our language, can appreciate the power or delicacy of his rich and variegated phrase, the melody of his versification, and the noble familiarity of those scenes through which he introduces us into the domestic recesses of the heart: while it must be acknowledged, that there are not many amongst ourselves, notwithstanding the vulgar diffusion of some scanty knowledge of the French tongue, who can perceive those felicities of diction, and those nice degrees of expression, that confer a charm upon every thought, to which they must be altogether insensible who are unacquainted with the refinements of the language in which it is conveyed. We have known few who, without some intimacy with the principles of art, could estimate the value of the Elgin marbles. To the unpractised eye they offer a rude heap of mutilated fragments; while to those who are habituated to the contemplation of fine sculpture, and who are possessed of that discernment which is as much the result of practice as of intuition, they supply a source of deep and inexhaustible delight. So it is with the poetry of a language with which the reader is not familiar. The bare idea is presented to him without colour or decoration. Its varnish and splendour are worn away. It is offered to the mind in cold, unvariegated sterility, and affords a fainter image of the imagina-, tions of the writer, than an obscure and misty print could furnish of a noble picture, glowing with the richest colouring, and swelling with the finest forms. It is not upon a light perusal, but after a strict acquaintance with the eminent writers of a foreign tongue, that we should pronounce upon their merits. The Muses are slow in revealing VOL. IV. No. 23.-1822. D3 their beauties, and unveil them in their perfection to none but those who have rendered themselves worthy of that high enjoyment by a long and faithful intercourse. An Englishman, who makes allowance for the imperfect medium through which he sees the noblest productions of the French masters, will be more inclined to blame his own incompetence, than to pronounce authoritatively upon the absence of all merit in what he so obscurely comprehends; and will be slow to depreciate the genius of those illustrious men, whose writings are among the noblest productions of the dramatic art, however wide may be the interval between them and the works of that great searcher of our nature, whose almost unearthly faculties may be considered as incalculably distant, and to shine like those stars which are only made for contemplation. The tragedy before us cannot be classed with the masterpieces of the French stage, but is entitled to high commendation. It is the work of a young man, Monsieur Casimir Delavigne; and affords strong grounds to expect great future excellence in the career of literature, on which he has already so prosperously entered. The monopoly which was for many years enjoyed by the Théatre Français of the more important departments of the drama, and its exclusive right to act tragedy, had in a great measure superseded the necessity of offering the allurements of novelty to the public. No new tragedy had been for a considerable time produced upon the boards of a theatre invested with this indolent prerogative. The actors, who are themselves the managers, in order to get rid of the irksomeness of learning new parts, rejected every drama that was submitted to them for representation. We have understood that many plays of distinguished merit have been committed to oblivion, by the committee of the Théatre Français, without even an investigation of their pretensions to publicity. A new theatre, however, was allowed by the government to be opened in the month of September 1819, in which the regular drama continues to be performed with success; and in order to attract the public from Talma and Duchesnois, the principal performers who had embarked in this somewhat adventurous speculation-Joanny and Victor-determined to produce a new tragedy. The "Vêpres Siciliennes" was selected for this purpose, and its representation was attended with great, and, what is still more important, well-merited success. The Author almost immediately became an object of research and admiration in the best Parisian circles, and received from the munificence of the King, who is an unaffected patron of genius, a considerable pension. We think that it might be readily adapted to the English stage, and shall lay before our readers an analysis of the plot, with extracts of the passages most deserving of notice, accompanied with a translation, from which but a faint impression can be collected of the power of the original, which is remarkable for its fire. The tragedy opens with a meeting between Salviati and Procida, who are both engaged in a conspiracy to overthrow the authority of the French. Procida is the great promoter of this perilous undertaking, and arrives at the dawn of day in the hall of his own palace. The commencement is striking and characteristic, and in conformity with the rule prescribed by Horace, to precipitate the spectator into the very vortex of the subject. Salviati. Is Procida return'd? There will be joy Your hand, my friend! Procida. Salviati. Procida. Salviati. Towers of Palermo, I salute you. By 1 charge you, What, should I fear, who stand In my own palace? In your enemy's. Salviati then proceeds to apprise Procida, who has just returned from Italy, where he has been propagating the conspiracy for the destruction of the invaders, that a young Frenchman, whose name is Montfort, is at the head of the government, and occupies the palace belonging to Procida. The latter informs his fellow-conspirator of the success of his undertaking in visiting Italy, and opens with these fine verses in answer to Salviati's question Salviati. Hath God been with your exile? God it was Of an infuriate jealousy I love My country, and swear she shall be free; Friends, fortune-all. Full many a day I pass'd In traversing our cities' solitudes; And, shamed, but with a fierce, and passionate, Procida proceeds to relate how extensively the conspiracy has been spread; and asks whether the inhabitants of Palermo are ready to cooperate. He is informed that his own return was awaited to strike a terrific blow; but that his son (Lorédan) has not, in consequence of his friendship for Montfort, been apprised of their determination. Procida is indignant at hearing that any sympathy should exist between a Frenchman and his son; and at the moment that he expresses his irritation, Lorédan, who has been summoned to meet his father, by a previous intimation of his coming, approaches. Salviati retires; Procida receives him coldly. Lorédan justifies his friendship for Montfort by detailing his virtues and fascinating accomplishments; but at the same time intimates his jealousy of the Frenchman, who, unaware of the attachment of Loredan for Amelia, and that she has been secretly plighted to Lorédan, has confessed his passion to his rival. Amelia is of the royal blood of Sicily, and was pledged to Lorédan by her brother upon the day on which the latter perished upon the scaffold. This common passion for Amelia is the foundation upon which the author has built many incidents of his play. Procida rejects, as impossible, the idea that she could be attached to a person who had been instrumental in the murder of her brother, and asks— Amelia enters, and Procida solemnly adjures her to renew her promise of marriage to his son: she consents, and Procida retires from the hall. Amelia and Lorédan remain together; and, in a passionate scene, the impetuous character of Lorédan is developed. He tells her that he is well acquainted with the attachment of Montfort, and requires of her to inform the latter that she is pledged to another, and to give her hand to himself without delay. She hesitates-a light breaks in at once upon Lorédan, and he rushes from her sight with denunciations of revenge. The first act terminates here; and it will be perceived that the audience are put in possession of the circumstances, characters, and passions of the several persons involved in the chief events of the play, without any of those tedious narrations which so often encumber the opening of a tragedy, and with which it is in general extremely difficult to dispense. High objects of interest are held out to curiosity: the terrible catastrophe (the massacre of the whole of the French inhabitants) is darkly hinted; the speck is observed gradually swelling into a cloud, and spreading its gloom in its advance. The mind of the spectator is prepared for great and disastrous incident. The second act opens with a scene between Montfort (the gay and generous governor of Palermo, the friend of Lorédan, and the lover of his intended wife) and Gaston, an old and severe warrior, who warns him of the existence of the dangers by which he is surrounded. The licentiousness of the French troops, and more especially of the noblemen in his suite, has, he alleges, excited the popular indignation. He conjures him to guard against the consequences of misrule, and to snatch from music, poetry, and pleasure, some interval of caution, in which provision may be made against the impending evils. Montfort hears him with incredulity. Amelia enters, and Gaston departs at her approach she reveals to Montfort the impossibility of their union, |