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tity, poor woman, was her only virtue, is brought on the stage with an Italian musician for her lover, in the character of Mary Queen of Scots, with whom it is impossible to believe that M. Hugo really confounded her.*

Monsieur Dumas is not quite so prodigal of these defects. The drama of Henry III.' is almost perfect in its keeping with the times of that Prince's Court. The gallantry, the frivolity, the confusion, the superstition of that epoch, all find a place there. The character of Henry III., crafty, courageous, weak, enervated, effeminate, sunk in vice, pleasure, and devotion-the character of Catherine de Medicis, reading, perchance believing,

is a fine scene, where London is shown joyful and illuminated on account of the execution, which the two ladies are both watching with intense anxiety from the Tower. Fabiani is beheaded, and Gilbert saved.

The follies of this play—the queen's solemn interview with Jack Ketch, the mysterious promenadings of a Spanish ambassador, the luxurious loves of poor chaste Marie Tudor herself-all these it is impossible to say anything of here, and it would be difficult in volumes to say enough of their grotesque and original absurdity.

"Rien n'y contredit l'histoire, bien que beaucoup de choses y soyent ajoutées; rien n'y est violenté par les incommodités de la représentation, ni par l'unité de jour, ni par celle de lieu." In what Corneille said of Cinna, M. V. Hugo may find a lesson.

the stars-but not trusting to them-man in her ambition-woman in her ways-daring everything, and daring nothing openly—meeting the rebellious plans of the Duc de Guise by a counterplot against his marriage-bed-advising her son to put down the League, by declaring himself its head-these two characters of Henry and his mother are as perfect historical portraits, as the melancholy, interesting, and high and stern-minded St. Mégrin is a perfect imaginative picture.

Set 'Henry III.' by the side of 'Lucrèce Borgia-there is no one part in 'Henry III.'* to be compared with the last act—the supper in the Negroni Palace—in 'Lucrèce Borgia.' There is

* Henry III. has been so well translated, and is so well known in Catherine of Cleves, that I only refer to it. The plot consists in the fact I have alluded to. Catherine de Medicis, in order to occupy the Duc de Guise, foments a passion between the Duchesse and one of Henry's favourites, St. Mégrin. The Duc discovers the intrigue, intraps St. Mégrin, and has him slain. The whole play turns, as I have said in an early part of this work, on the Duchesse's lost pocket-handkerchief— which occasioned the lines I then quoted:

"Messieurs et Mesdames-cette pièce est morale;
Elle prouve aujourd'hui, sans faire de scandale,
Que chez un amant, lorsqu'on va le soir,
On peut oublier tout-excepté son mouchoir.”

no one part in 'Henry III.' in which such splendid and gay and dark images are so massed together—where such terror and such luxury, such gaiety and such horror, are thrust in vivid contrast at once upon you. But the play of M. Dumas, though it does not strike you as the product of so powerful a talent as that of M. Hugo, satisfies you better as the work of a more natural talent. Its action seems to you more easily animated, more unaffectedly developed. does not startle you so much at different passages, but it keeps your attention more continually alive it does not agitate you at times so terribly during the performance, but it leaves a more full and complete impression upon your mind when the curtain drops.

It

Between 'Henry III.' and the other pieces of M. A. Dumas there appears to me, however, no comparison. There is in that piece a grace, a dignity, a truth, which one seeks in vain, as it appears to me, in the subsequent productions which crowded audiences have declared equally successful.

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Antony' is the play, perhaps, in which the public have seen most to admire. The plot is simple, the action rapid, the divisions decided -each act contains an event, and each event develops the character and tends to the ca

tastrophe of the piece. Autony is an illegitimate child, brought up by charity, and who never knew his parents. He is rich, however, and in love with Adèle (a young lady of good fortune and family), to whom he does not venture to propose on account of the mystery of his birth*-a mystery with which the young lady, and Antony's acquaintance in general, it would seem, are strangely unacquainted. Adèle, attached to Antony, but piqued and offended at his conduct-for he had left her suddenly, at the moment when she supposed him likely to claim her hand-marries a Col. d'Hervey. It is three years after this marriage, I think, that the play begins.

Antony then returns, and requests, as a friend, an interview with Adèle, which she determines to avoid, and, getting into her carriage, leaves her sister to receive the visiter. The horses, however, run away with her, and, by one of those old and convenient accidents which authors have not yet dispensed with, Antony stops them, saves her life, gets injured in the

* One of the absurdities of this play, as a picture of French manners, is the extraordinary disgrace which the author has attached to illegitimacy in a capital where more than one illegitimate child is born to every two legitimate ones.

chivalrous enterprise, and is carried by the physician's order to Madame d'Hervey's house. Here he soon finds an opportunity to tell his misfortune, his despair, the passion he feels,* and the reasons why he did not declare it sooner —and Adèle, after hearing all this, thinks it safer to make the best of her way after her husband, who is at Frankfort.

She starts, her journey is nearly over, when she arrives at a little inn, where she is obliged to stop, on account of another convenient accident—a want of post-horses. Here the following scene will explain what takes place.

SCENE VII.

HOSTESS, ADele.

HOSTESS (from without).

'Coming! coming!'-(entering.)-Was it Madame who called?

Adele.

I wish to go. Are the horses returned?

HOSTESS.

They were hardly gone when Madame arrived, and I don't expect them before two or three hours. Would Madame repose herself?

Where?

ADELE.

HOSTESS.

In this cabinet there's a bed.

* This is the second Act.

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