from the inquisition, he contemplates, with exultation, the period when, by the death of both his supposed enemies, he shall be left to avail himself, without further impediment, of the advantage which the now established certainty of his brother's death is likely to give him in his suit to Teresa. He accordingly allures Isidore to a gloomy cavern, and there murders him. The Moor's wife discovers both the deed and its author, and, in the frenzy of her grief, excites her countrymen, the Morescoes, to revenge.

In the mean time Alvar is visited in his dungeon by Teresa, who still believing him a stranger, but interested by his manner and appearance, and feeling compassion for his fate, resolves to set him free. In the conversation that ensues, a discovery takes place, and the lovers taste for a moment the happiness of reunion. Just then Ordonio rushes in fresh from the murder of Isidore, and offers Alvar a goblet of poison. The latter calmly repels his violence. Ignorant of the murder just committed, he hopes that if Ordonio can be made to feel remorse for his intended fratricide, the knowledge that it failed in the accomplishment may yet restore him to happiness and virtue. He therefore endeavours to stimulate him to compunction, by an indignant reprobation of his depravity. Ordonio, awed by the mystery which envelopes the stranger, and subdued by the consciousness of guilt, stands unnerved and trembling before him. Alvar then discloses himself. The disclosure comes too late to the murderer of Isidore. Infuriated by despair, he madly attempts first the life of Alvar, and then his own. His arm is arrested; but at this moment the avenging widow of Isidore appears at the head of her Morescoes. Before it can be prevented, she stabs Ordonio, who dies imploring forgiveness of his brother; and the play closes with the embrace of Alvar and Valdez.

tator.

Of this plot, the faults are too obvious to require much comment. Sufficiently long and complicated to form the basis of a novel in four volumes, in its dramatic form it imposes an unseasonable task both on the comprehension and memory of the specThe effort of attention which it requires, to keep in steady view the connexion of its different parts, is painful, and far exceeds that gentle stimulation of the faculties to which those whose ambition is to amuse should cautiously confine their efforts. There is something unskilful, too, in the adoption of so intricate a fable. It is in barren subjects that the hand of the master is most visible, and the dazzling fabrics of genius are generally constructed of few and simple materials.

It may also be fairly objected to this story, that the interest excited by the brothers, though different in kind, is too equal in degree, and that it is impossible to pronounce either of them the hero of the piece. In a review of Scott's Lady of the Lake, the

want of a principal character is treated by eminent critics as a dubious fault, and the example of Milton is cited in its defence. Whatever may be the case in epic composition, it is an unequivocal defect in the drama. We cannot but think, indeed, that, in any species of writing, the interest that is divided is weakened; but in a play this is more peculiarly the case than in an epic poem, because in the former, the action is condensed into narrower limits of time and place, and the incidents are fewer. Unity of effect is therefore one of its most important objects; and it can as little bear a double hero as an episode.

We are afraid, too, that the sorcery and conjuration, on which the intrigue of this piece so much depends, will be denounced by the severe censor as below the tragic dignity. It is true that the magic is represented as deceptive merely; but it is exactly for this reason that we consider it as a paltry agent. Were we introduced to a real magician, the scene is laid in times remote enough perhaps to countenance the fiction. We do not revolt at the witches in Macbeth; but had Shakspeare thought proper to represent them as designing women successfully practising on the credulity of the usurper, the tragic terror of the piece had been in a great measure lost, and its whole effect deteriorated.

But the most serious charge which we have to make against the conduct of this play is, that much of its action is but feebly connected with the catastrophe. It is a dramatic rule, not founded in the pedantry of system, but in an obvious principle of good taste, that the several incidents of the plot should all cooperate towards the final result. This connexion may be more or less immediate, but it is clear that the more immediate it is, the more spirited and forcible will be the general effect. In this respect, the present play appears to us to be lamentably defective. From the appearance of Alvar on the stage, till the catastrophe takes place in the death of his brother, and his own reunion with Teresa, there is not one incident in which he is an actor (his very appearance not excepted) which has any direct and immediate effect in the production of that catastrophe. His return and disguise effect nothing, until Isidore points him out to Ordonio. His resolution to awaken his brother's penitence, and the scheme which he devises for that purpose, the invocation, and the picture, no further affect the final result than that they tend, in coincidence with other circumstances, to persuade Ordonio that he is betrayed, and, in that view, lead him to assassinate Isidore, which, by exciting the widow's vengeance, occasions the death of Ordonio himself. How remote and feeble a concatenation of incident is this! It serves fully to explain why the readers and spectators of " Remorse," impressed in every scene with occasional beauties of the highest order, are yet, as we have been informed, afflicted occasionally with a sensation approaching to ennui, and often yawn in the very act of admiration.

After thus cursorily stating some of our objections to the plot and action of the play, we hasten to justify the encomiums which we nevertheless have thought fit to bestow on it, by extracting some of the passages which have pleased us most.

Much of the first scene in which Teresa is introduced appears to us to be written with extraordinary energy.

"Ter. I hold Ordonio dear: he is your son

And Alvar's brother.

Val.

Love him for himself,

Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

Ter. I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez But Heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain

Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

Val. Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves;
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee,

I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
Thy dying father comes upon my soul,

With that same look with which he gave thee to me;
I held thee in my arms, a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother, with a mute entreaty,
Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah, not for this,
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,
And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
The victim of a useless constancy:

I must not see thee wretched.

Ter.

These are woes
Ill bartered for the garishness of joy!
If it be wretched with an untired eye

To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;
Or, in the sultry hour, beneath some rock,
My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea-breeze,
To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again
All past hours of delight! If it be wretched
To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there;
To go through each minutest circumstance
Of the blest meeting; and to frame adventures
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;
(As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid,
Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain clift
Hung with her lute, and play'd the self-same tune
He used to play, and listened to the shadow
Herself had made)-if this be wretchedness,
And if indeed it be a wretched thing
To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
That I had died, died just ere his return!
Then see him listening to my constancy,
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft

Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;
Or haply in some more fantastic mood,
To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers
Build up a bower where he and I might dwell,
And there to wait his coming! O my sire!
My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness
That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
If in a most assured reality

He should return, and see a brother's infant
Smile at him from

my arms?

Oh what a thought! (Clasping her forehead.)

Val. A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought. The very week he promised his return

Ter. (abruptly) Was it not then a busy joy? to see him
After those three years' travels! we had no fears,

The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter,
Almost endear'd his absence! Yet the gladness,
The tumult of our joy! What then, if now-

Val. O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,
Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!
Yes, I am old-I have no pleasant dreams,
Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest-

I

Ter. (with great tenderness) My father!

Val. The sober truth is all too much for me!

see no sail which brings not to my mind

The home-bound bark in which my son was captur'd

By the Algerine-to perish with his captors!

Ter. Oh no! he did not!

Val. Captur'd in sight of land!

From you hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tow'r,

We might have seen

Ter.

His capture, not his death.

Val. Alas! how aptly thou forgett'st a tale

Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! My brave Ordonio
Saw both the pirate and his prize go down,

In the same storm that baffled his own valour,

And thus twice snatch'd a brother from his hopes:

Gallant Ordonio! (pauses, then tenderly,) Oh beloved Teresa, Wouldst thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,

And most delight his spirit, go thou, make

His brother happy, make his aged father

Sink to the grave in joy.

Ter.

For mercy's sake

Press me no more. I have no power to love him.

His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,
Chill me like dew damps of the unwholesome night:
My love, a timorous and tender flower,

Closes beneath his touch.

Val.

You wrong him, maiden!

You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well

To character by such unkindly phrases
The stir and workings of that love for you
Which he has toil'd to smother. "Twas not well,
Nor is it grateful in you, to forget

His wounds and perilous voyages, and how
With an heroic fearlessness of danger

He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.

It was not well. You have moved me even to tears;
Ter. Oh, pardon me, my father! pardon me!
It was a foolish and ungrateful speech:

A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried
Beyond myself, if I but hear of one

Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not
Born in one day, like twins of the same parent?
Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!
A six years' absence is a heavy thing,
Yet still the hope survives-

Val. (Looking forwards) Hush! 'tis Monviedro!
Ter. The inquisitor, on some new scent of blood!"

Act i. Sc. 2.

We have already noticed the inequalities of composition with which this work abounds. The preceding extract exemplifies the remark. The lines marked in italics are not only prosaic, but they are vulgar, both in the conception and the expression. Yet it will be allowed, that in parts of this scene there is merit to which no parallel could easily be found in any other modern drama.

The next passage we shall copy is part of the first scene of the second act, in which Ordonio unsuccessfully proposes to Isidore the scheme of personating a wizard. Irritated by his refusal, the former taunts him with his past guilt and the inconsistency of his present scruples. To this Isidore replies,

"Isid.

My lord-my lord

I can bear much-yes, very much from you!
But there's a point, where sufferance is meanness.
I am no villain-never killed for hire-

O aye-your gratitude!

'Twas a well-sounding word-what have you done with it?

Isid. Who proffers his past favours for my virtue

Ord. (With bitter scorn) Virtue

Isid. Tries to o'erreach me-is a very sharper,

And should not speak of gratitude. My lord,

I knew not 'twas your brother!

Ord. (Alarmed) And who told you?

Isid. He himself told me.

Ord.

Ha! you talk'd with him?

And these, the two Morescoes who were with you?

Isid, Both fell in a night brawl at Malaga.