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Homer, his success would have been greater; by doing so he would have rendered a greater service to the world, than it was possible for him to confer on it-except by confining himself to original composition.

ART. II.-Fazio, a Tragedy. By H. H. MILMAN, B. A. Fellow of Brazen-nose College. Parker, Oxford, and Murray, London. 1815. pp. 103.

THE

HE tragic muse has, for many years, laid upon the shrine of Fame so few offerings from which the coy goddess has not turned away with disdain; and so small has been the number of those that have not either from their own ponderousness, sunk and been trodden out of sight by the rapid throng of pantomimic feet; or from their lightness been scattered by the lie or scandal of the hour; that we hail with unfeigned pleasure this very spirited and original performance. We do not praise by analogy and characterise by similitude. We do not content ourselves with saying, that the author of Fazio displays the nerve of Massinger, the tenderness of Beaumont and Fletcher, the passion of Otway, and the condensation of thought which marks Ben Jonson; and we do not rest upon the stilts of comparison the vigorous frame which stands alone in lofty repose, waiting the award of Time and the commendations of Posterity. Like the infernal Mercury, we but seldom enjoy the privilege of wafting to Immortality a spirit gifted for eternity; on the contrary we usually see the Lethean stream quietly ingulph many of those whom we receive into our critical bark; and with feelings of pity, mingled with apprehension, we look on the afflicted bards, catching now at the straws of Fashion-now at the brittle reed of patronage-now at the sullen rock of opinion which will not be entreated; and at last, after losing every hold, sinking into the oblivious flood which closes over them in silence.

The tragic muse has long vanished from our shores, while she has been led through the storied galleries of history and the wild bowers of invention, by the severe and soul-compelling Alfieri, or hurried through the romantic paths of fiction, by the empassioned bards of Germany. Called by a female voice in the accents of De Montfort, she came indeed, in all the splendour of decoration, all the pathos of feeling and all the imposing dignity of thought; but, in a garb so cumbrous and antiquated, and surrounded by circumstances of such repulsive horror, that the

wondrous stranger was but coldly greeted, and her visit succeeded by-Remorse.-Instead of "gorgeous tragedy with sweeping pall" we have had ballets, and pantomimes, and melodrames, and scenas; but fine feelings expressed in fine poetry, sentiments lofty yet not exaggerated, situations natural yet not trivial; the grand dramatic agents love, hope, fear, ambition, pity, and remorse, wielded with force and dignity, and touched with delicacy and precision; we have long ceased to expect in new performances; and we suspect, that while not a few among us have really lost their perception and relish of superior genius in this walk, their wishes have contentedly sunk to the level of their accustomed gratifications. Something like this apprehension, we conjecture, may have been the motive which influenced a friend of the author's to advise him not to offer this play to the stage; but we will admit Mr. Milman to speak for himself in his advertisement.

"The following attempt at reviving our old national drama with greater simplicity of plot, was written with some view to the stage. Circumstances and an opinion of considerable weight induced me to prefer the less perilous ordeal of the press: as in the one case, if its merits are small or moderate, the quiet sleep of oblivion will be infinitely less grating to an author's feelings, than a noisy and tumultuous execution in a public theatre; if, on the other hand, public opinion be in its favour, its subsequent appearance on the stage would be at least under favourable auspices. I am aware, that there is a prejudice at the theatre against plays which have first appeared in print; but whence it originates, I am at a loss to conceive. It being impossible, on the present scale of our theatres, for more than a certain proportion of those present to see or hear sufficiently distinctly to form a judgment on a drama, which is independent of show and hurry; it would surely be an advantage that a previous familiarity with the language and incidents should enable the audience to catch those lighter and fainter touches of character, of passion, and of poetry, on which dramatic excellence so mainly depends. I put entirely out of the question those who go to a play from mere desire of novelty, whose opinions either way would be of very slight value.

"The Play is founded on a story, which was quoted in the Annual Register for 1795, from the Varieties of Literature;' but great liberties have been taken with it."

The character who gives his name to the play, is a young man of quick perceptions and generous feelings; but without firmness of principle to resist temptation, whether it present itself in the shape of love or of ambition. He is married to a woman of strong affections, who loves him with an ardent and exclusive devotion, which renders her a very dramatic character. The opening of the first act shows Fazio engaged in researches into the art of transmuting the imperfect metals into gold, an

employment from which his wife (Bianca) endeavours to dissuade him, both by bewailing the loss of his society from his application to occult studies, and by representing the inefficacy of boundless riches to confer happiness proportionate to the cares they bring and the danger of using them unworthily. After a scene, not of "dull, conjugal endearment," but of animated and affectionate debate, Bianca retires, and the ambitious aspirations of her husband are interrupted by a cry of murder from without his house. He opens the door to give succour, and an old man, his neighbour, named Bartolo, a sordid and notorious miser of great wealth, staggers in, mortally wounded. He refuses the aid of surgeons, or of confessors, and dies with “his ducats" on his lips, alone with Fazio. Suddenly, (and the workings of his mind are very finely depicted) Fazio conceives the idea of concealing the body of the deceased; of rifling his house; and of constituting himself the heir of one who had left no kindred, by seizing property which would otherwise devolve to the state. The fraud is consummated; the second act shows us the rich Fazio, in his palace, attended by a tribe of parasites and flatterers; a professor of compliments, the Gracioso of the piece, not unlike the eating parasites of the Latin comedies; a comptroller of the fashions; a new, and we do not think a very successful character (a kind of Florentine Coates); and an improvisatore, into whose part is introduced a very pretty poetical chronicle of Italy, which the author calls a song. Fazio lends, but does not give himself to adulation, and fatally proves more accessible to love than flattery, when assailed by the mingled taunts and blandishments of a lady of pleasure whom he had formerly loved, and by whom he had been repulsed with scorn. We are told of Aldabella that she is completely beautiful, we see that she is completely wicked. She has all the duplicity and cold-hearted malice of a Milwood, without her extenuating plea of previous seduction and needy circumstances to urge her to rapacity. We do not think her fascinations are represented as commensurate to their effect upon a fond and beloved husband; a beautiful actress might make the character dangerously attractive, but in the closet it is revolting. She succeeds in rekindling the passion of the unhappy victim of her arts, and Fazio, enticed to her palace, is there deceived by a false story of her intending to give up the world for his sake, and to seclude herself in a nunnery. In the midst of the ravings of his distempered fancy, at the dread of losing her, whom for two years he had forgotten in the arms of a young and beautiful wife, the Syren Aldabella invites him to supper, and they retire together.

The third act shows Bianca distracted with jealousy, grief, and apprehension, at the absence of her husband throughout the night; a servant brings the unwelcome tidings that Fazio had spent the night feasting at the palace of the Lady Aldabella. Bianca grows frantic from wounded tenderness and pride, and though she does not actually strike or "hale the man up and down" as our great bard makes Cleopatra do, to the person who brings the news of the marriage of Mark Antony, she certainly utters extravagancies, which, though highly dramatic, do something derogate from the feminine interest of her character. We must, however, take age and climate into our consideration, before we venture to condemn the fury and intensity of her feelings and their expression as beyond nature; we hope they go beyond English nature, but an Italian woman makes but one step from love to hatred and from hatred to revenge. This last step is fatally taken by Bianca,-she denounces her husband to the judges of Florence as the murderer of Bartolo!--Nothing can exceed the thrilling effect of the scene of the unhappy man's trial and condemnation. Upon evidence apparently strong, although false, he is adjudged to die on the following day. In all the agony of remorse, Bianca seeks to retract, but cannot withdraw her accusation. Fazio forgives and treats her with the utmost magnanimity, and his character rises under this tremendous blow. He is led to confinement, attended by his penitent and self-accusing wife! The fourth act discovers this unhappy pair in prison, the husband resigned to his fate and dwelling with fond remembrance on former scenes of tenderness and joy; and the wretched Bianca torn with all the agonies of remorse. She rushes out into the city in search of some one possessing influence to plead for mercy with the Duke,-she encounters the three parasites who herd together, having in the piece no other business than to talk. Her reception from the man of compliment and the man of fashion may be imagined, but the poet shows some sympathy and repairs to the cell of anguish to give what comfort he can.

Aldabella manifests not the smallest concern for the ruin she has made, nor any compassion for the agonies of Bianca, who implores the rival whom she hates to exert her powerful influence to save the husband who has wronged her. Aidabella turns from the wretched wife of her victim to prepare to feast "the lords of Florence.'-Bianca flings away in frantic indignation; and determined not to survive her husband, like another Medea, meditates the murder of her children, rather than leave them an inheritance of shame, and exposed to the

scorn of a hard-hearted world. From this crime, however, the natural feelings of maternity preserve her, and after wandering about the city in the delirium of grief throughout the night, she returns to the prison, to take the last farewell of her devoted husband. They meet-they part. There never was so affecting a parting; and Bianca rushes to the palace of Aldabella, where the lords and judges of Florence are assembled, to clear the fame of her husband for her children's sake. The guests tell her she is mad, she denies the charge in a reply as eloquent, as heart-withering as the grief of Constance. She proves by her confession, and by a statement of the arts used by Aldabella to ensnare her husband, his innocence of the murder for which he suffered; and having claimed for her children the protection of the Duke, her heart breaks under the weight of sorrow and remorse, and the piece concludes with her death.

Such is the story of the tragedy of Fazio. Of the talent of the author, some specimen may be afforded by the following

extracts.

"SCENE II-The Street near Fazio's door.

"Enter Fazio with a sack (containing the plunder of Burtolo): he rests it.
“My steps were ever to this door as though
They trod on beds of perfume and of down.
The winged birds were not by half so light,
When through the lazy twilight air they wheel

Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks,
The heavy earth doth cling around my feet.
I move as every separate limb were gyved

With its particular weight of manacle.
The moonlight that was wont to seem so soft,
So balmy to the slow respired breath,
Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me.
The marble pillars, that soared stately up,
As though to prop the azure vault of heaven,
Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight.
The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak,
Forbidding echoes, aye with human voices.
Unbodied arms pluck at me as I pass,
And socketless pale eyes look glaring on me.
But I have past them: and methinks this weight
Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine ov.
Howbeit, thank God. 'tis safe! Thank God for what?
That a poor honest man's grown a rich villain."--p. 15.

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Take heed; we are passionate-our milk of love

Doth turn to wormwood, and that's bitter drinking.
The fondest are most phrenetic: where the fire
Burneth intensest, there the inmate pale

Doth dread the broad and beaconing conflagration.
If that ye cast us to the winds, the winds

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