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should suppose that the success of one is incompatible with the reputation of the other. The first drama which M. Victor Hugo brought on the stage (for he had written Cromwell,' a clever but cold performance, some years before) was · Hernani ;'* and as it has been already translated, it would be useless to enter here into any lengthened criticism upon its merits. Among M. V. Hugo's plays, however, Hernani' stands alone. No other of his dramas has the same tenderness, the same gentleness, the same grace, the same nature; for 'Hernani' was written by

*The play turns on the love of Dona Sol, a young Spanish lady, for Hernani, first known to her as a bandit, but who afterwards proves to be a grandee of Spain. Dona Sol, however, is also beloved by her uncle, Don Gomez de Silva, whom she was originally engaged to marry. Don Gomez saves Hernani, in the early part of his career, from the vengeance of Charles V., and Hernani promises the old Spanish noble to give him the life he has saved whenever he shall ask for it. Towards the end of the play, Charles pardons Hernani, on discovering his birth, and gives him Dona Sol in marriage. It is on the wedding-night of the young couple that the old uncle comes and claims Hernani's promise. This last scene is the best part of the play, and it concludes by Hernani and his bride both taking the poison that Don Gomez brings—the lovers die in each other's arms. Charles the Fifth's character, particularly in his wild and early days, is painted with a very masterly hand.

VOL. II.

N

M. Hugo before he laid down for himself the extraordinary rules which I shall presently have to speak of.

In 'Hernani,' then, you find the characters of Spain truly Spanish in 'Hernani' you find the old Spaniard, jealous and vindictive, and the

young Spanish noble, high-minded, adventurous, and romantic; and the Spanish maiden, ardent, fond, with all the love and all the enthusiasm which the warm sun of her country begets, and which the dark convent and the keen-eyed duenna have been invented to check.

Better go seek to rob the fiercest tigress
Of her fond young-than rob me of my love.
Know you the Dona Sol, and what she is?
Long time, in pity for thy sicklied age
And sixty years—I was all tenderness—
All innocence, the soft and timid maiden.
But see you now this eye? it weeps with rage;
And see you not this poniard, foolish old man!
Nor fear the steel, when menaced by the eye?—
Don Ruy, beware! I am thy blood, my uncle!
Ay, list thee well!-were I thy only daughter,
'Twere ill with thee, wert thou to harm my husband.
And yet, forgive me!

Pity me! Pardon me! See, I am at your feet!
Pity, alas! my lord! I'm but a feeble woman—

I'm weak, my force miscarries in my soul.
I feel my feebleness, I fall before you-
I beg your pity!—and you know, my Lord-

You know, we Spanish women have a grief

That measures not its wording.

Such is the heroine of the piece-such is the passion which she feels a passion for the chosen of her heart-for her husband whom she marries when a noble — but whom she loved, whom she selected, whom she would have followed, when a bandit. With such a heroine, and with such a passion, we can sympathise.

But I will preface what I shall have to say of M. V. Hugo, and the observations I shall subsequently venture to submit on the present state of the French Drama, by translating certain parts of one of the most popular and recent pieces that this author has brought upon the stage.

CHAPTER I.

LUCRECE- BORGIA.

LUCRÈCE BORGIA' is in only three Acts. It begins at Venice. You are at Venice-it is Venice's gay time, and you see her carnival, her masked revels-and there-on the terrace of the Barbarigo palace, are some young nobles -and at the bottom of this terrace flows the canal de la Zueca, on which, through the ' darkness visible' of a Venetian night, you see pass the gondola, and the masquerade, and the musicians.

Twenty years have gone by since the death of Jean Borgia. The young nobles speak of that awful assassination, and of the body plunged into the Tiber, and perceived by a boatman, involuntary witness of the crimeand Comte de Belverana, supposed to be a Spanish seigneur, joins in the conversation, and

seems indeed, to the surprise of the Venetians, better acquainted than any of them with the history of Italy. One young cavalier alone is inattentive, and even sleeps, while the rest pass their conjectures on the fate of the young boy, son of Lucrèce Borgia, by Jean Borgia-the Jean Borgia, who had perished in the manner described-victim, as it was said, of the wrath and jealousy of his brother and his rival, Cæsar.

At last the Comte de Belverana is left alone upon the stage with the young man who is still sleeping, and whose indifference to the conversation that had been going on has already been accounted for by his companions, on the ground that, ignorant alike of his father and mother, he could not feel an interest in those family stories which then agitated Italy, and had more or less affected every one of themselves.

A masked lady enters and addresses the Spaniard by the name of Gubetta.' He reminds her of his disguise, and warns her also to be cautious.

"If they do not know me," says the lady, "caution is of little consequence-if they do, it is they who have cause to fear." It is easy to see that Gubetta, or Comte Belverana, is an Italian

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