now become almost universal. Though the tourists tell us, that they order these matters better in France, yet so it is, the tourists are stared at, but are never believed. It is certainly very pitiable, that we should be so close to the fountain of perfection, and yet never the purer by the diffusion of its streams. But though Lord B. will not probably enjoy the hidden pleasure of seeing this play damned in spite of himself, yet one way still remains of bringing it successfully to the acquaintance of people who may not be inclined to purchase the work itself, and for which, when all the poetry and all the sense shall have been carefully extracted, it will be peculiarly fitted. We say no more; but let Messrs. Dymond and Terry look to it; if they do not convert Sardanapalus' into a splendid and most incendiary Melodrame, then are they worthy to have no new Scotch novel published for the space of one whole year.

The story of this tragedy, we are informed by Lord Byron, is to be found in Diodorus Siculus; and indeed, without reference to the account of that concise chronicler, we suppose most school-boys know pretty well that Sardanapalus was the last king of the Assyrian dynasty, that he was dethroned by a revolution of the Medes, and that he was (frustra reclamante Mr. Mitford) a very luxurious man, much given to good eating and drinking, and soft lying. Et venere et cænis et pluma Sardanapali.

In order to approach the unities,' it is supposed that the whole affair of the rebellion, explodes and succeeds in one day by a sudden conspiracy; this being clearly the most probable and natural mode of overturning the government of an empire, nearly co-extensive with Asia itself, and accordingly the time, which the action takes up, may amount to about 23 hours, reckoning to 11 o'clock in the forenoon of the second day. We are thus particular, because Lord B. has laboured this point excessively, and considers it a great beauty in his performance, and we should be sorry to have any thing lost by our neglect. We might quote a great deal from this tragedy, for it contains much beautiful poetry; but we must content ourselves with what we think ought to justify our commendation alone, and then hasten on, for we have much work to come.

Sardanapalus at the end of a somewhat prolix soliloquy, which we could not perfectly understand, sends for a favorite mistress, the Ionian slave, Myrrha, who appears.

9

SARD.

"Beautiful being!

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart;

It throbbed for thee, and here thou comest; let me
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle,
Communicates between us, though unseen,

In absence, and attracts us to each other.

"There doth."

66 MYRRHA.

Myrrha is indeed an exquisite creature; she warns Sardanapalus of his imminent danger.

"Fear!-I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death? A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom?

66 SARD.

Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ?

" MYRRHA.

and shortly afterwards,

"I love,"

"Frown not upon me: you have smiled

Too often on me, not to make those frowns
Bitterer to bear than any punishment

Which they may augur.-King, I am your subject!
Master, I am your slave! Man, I have loved you !---
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness,
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs-
A slave, and hating fetters-an Ionian,
And therefore, when I love a stranger, more
Degraded by that passion than by chains!
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong
Enough to overcome all former nature,
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you?

"SARD.

"Save me, my beauty! Thou art very fair, And what I seek of thee is love-not safety.

"MYRRHA.

"The very first

Of human life must spring from woman's breast,
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him that led them.

"SARD.

"My eloquent Ionian! thou speak'st music,
The very chorus of the tragic song

I've heard thee talk of as the favorite pastime
Of thy far father-land. Nay weep not-calm thee.

"MYRRHA.

"I weep not. But I pray thee, do not speak About my fathers or their land.

"True true: constant thought

Will overflow in words unconsciously;

But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me.”

These lines are exquisitely affecting, and if Lord Byron had always or often written thus, thus naturally and purely, this age need not have bowed before the glories of any other.

We recommend the following passage as a study to sculptors and painters. Sardanapalus is speaking of Myrrha's appearance in a night-engagement.

" I paused

To look upon her, and her kindled cheek;

Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair

As it stream'd o'er her; her blue veins that rose

Along her most transparent brow; her nostril
Dilated from its symmetry; her lips

Apart; her voice that clove through all the din,
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash,
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling; her

Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born whiteness
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up
From a dead soldier's grasp; all these things made
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess

Of victory, or victory herself

Come down to hail us her's."

+

Although this poem instantly refers us to Antony and Cleopatra, and Salemenes in particular is so undisguisedly an old Roman, as somewhat to violate the integrity of what may be called the moral costume of the Drama, yet we make no charge of plagiarism, and can easily believe that some such strong contrast was necessary, and anachronisms of this description are so numerous in all writers as to defy the attacks of criticism. Besides, Sardanapalus is purely ideal in its conception: the characters are not individualized, and the dialogue is properly poetical. It is a morality, or peradventure an immorality, in which voluptuousness, female passion, and military virtue, under the vizards of Sardanapalus, Myrrha and Salemenes rant and love and chide according to the rules in that case made and provided. To that power which brings the feigned emotions of feigned characters home to our bosoms; which in the vivid existence we give to a fiction, makes us forget our own; which suggests answers which we could have made, and describes actions which we could have acted-to this power Lord Byron is a stranger. Scornful sarcasm, and voluptuous pathos he understands; his temper and habits have taught him them, and they are quite sufficient for his purpose. We believe he will never shine to more advantage, or do less mischief, than in writing such plays as Sardanapalus; his erudition will open to him a large field from which he may cull divers flowers, wherewith to weave such chaplets as he delights to hang on the door-posts of the temples of religion and purity; and if we may be allowed to speak from our school-boy recollections, we would recommend to his consideration the peculiar capabilities of Cambyses and Salmoneus. Lord Byron with his talents might say a great deal in their favour, and certainly his subject would not present more or greater obstacles to the liberal development of his opinions, than the book of Genesis. Let him make the Persian more wise or more mad than he was; or the Greek more devout or blasphemous. For to such trifling and paradox we might continue indifferent; but we entreat Lord Byron, we ask it as a favour at his hands, we adjure him solemnly, by and in the name of whatever yet remains respectable in his eyes; not of Christianity, but of natural piety; not of marriage, but of natural purity; not of the Levitical degrees, but of natural and instinctive innocence, to add no more cantos to Don Juan! Let him content himself; the powers of his pen are known and felt; their effects are even now visible; he has done that which we defy him, "not in any one given year," but during the remainder of his mortal existence, to efface." The evil

that men do, does indeed live after them," in another sense than the poet's; and when Lord Byron shall long have ceased to be in this world, there will be thousands who may have cause to rue the day, that ever he was born.

We have but little room for The Two Foscari,' and its comparative importance requires but little. It is exactly so much better than Marino Faliero,' as it is shorter, and as the Doge in his play, does less indulge, than the Doge in that play, in those outrageous and most puerile declamations, which disgusted even a London audience. Lord Byron would do wisely to keep to his Diodorus Siculus; he may transfer the recklessness of Antony, the sternness of Brutus, or the histrionic emotions of Statira or Monimia; but the domestic energy of Othello, the household miseries of Lear, are beyond his grasp. We are glad they are so; they at least will be preserved from perversion and contamination.

It is amusing to see how far party feeling can carry this professed aristocrat, who, in a precious appendix to the last mentioned play, coquets through half a page with no less professed a democrat about the property of a phrase. It seems, that in Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent' work upon Italy, the portentous epithet of Ocean Rome,' as applied to Venice, is to be found; and the same occurs in the Two Foscari! Is it possible? What may follow upon this ominous conjunction of Venus and Saturn? But Lord Byron is ready to take his corporal oath, and he vouches Mr. Murray to the truth of it, that his tragedy was written and sent to England some time (he should have specified the precise time in a matter of this importance) before he had seen Lady Morgan's work, which we are particularly informed, he only received on the 16th of August.' Come forth, O ye Wartons and Stevenses of this and the next generation; Come from your verse or prose! Write it down, now while you may, that Lord Byron, upon his own testimony, did not steal two words from Lady Morgan! Credite posteri!

But this valuable Appendix does not conclu.de as it begun, mulier formosa superne, Desinet in piscem. There are four pages upon Mr. Southey, which are really without example in modern literature. Seriously, we feel half ashamed to take advantage of Lord Byron's utter abandonment, of his self command; he has slipped in a desperate lunge, and his life is in our bands; he has rallied and rushed in, but been beaten off the ground, and we have him on the ropes. We throw up our hands, as the fashion prescribes; but we may be allowed to ask seriously, what reason Lord Byron has for being so excessively enraged against Mr. Southey, and how the