Your utmost spite on this blaspheming head; The Nurse endeavours to soothe her, to no purpose. The chorus once more bewail the fate of Rome. Act 5. The Nurse relates to the chorus the death of her mistress. They lament over that event, and the fate of Brutus, in a simple and pathetic song; and the Nurse concludes the play, with a poniard at her breast, in the following couplet. Mourons, sus sus mourons, sus poignard haste toy; Sus jusques au pommeau vien t'enfoncer en moy. Die, die we then. No ling'ring. Haste thee, dagger; Up to thy hilt be buried quick within me. CORNELIE. Act 1. Cicero, in a long soliloquy, deplores the servitude of Rome under Julius Cæsar, and expatiates on the mischief of ambition. The chorus sing an ode on the wickedness and evil of war.-Act 2. Cornelia bemoans the fate of her two husbands, Crassus and Pompey. Cicero endea vours to console, and to argue her out of her intention to commit suicide. A fine ode by the chorus on the perpetual revolution and changes in human affairs-Rome, once freed from her kings, has been again enslaved, and will some time be in like manner restored to liberty.-Act 3. Cornelia tells the chorus of a terrible dream, in which Pompey had appeared to her. The chorus assure her, that the spirits of the deceased cannot return, but that evil demons assume their appearance in order to fill us with vain terrors. Cicero makes another turgid soliloquy on the ambition of Cæsar. Philip (who had been the freedman of Pompey) enters, bearing, in a funeral urn, the ashes of his late master. Cornelia laments over them, and inveighs against Cæsar. Another ode by the chorus, on the mutability of fortune, concludes the Act. Act 4. A scene between Cassius and Decimus Brutus, in which the former excites the latter to vengeance against the tyrant. The chorus sing the glory of those who free their country from tyranny, the insecurity of kings, and the happiness of a low condition. Cæsar and Mark Antony; the one exulting in his conquests, the other warning him against his enemies. There are some splendid verses put into the mouth of Cæsar. O beau Tybre, et tes flots de grand' aise ronflans, L'honneur de mes combats ? ne vont, ne vont tes flots Et au pere Ocean se vanter que le Tybre Roulera plus fameux qu' Eufrate et le Tygre? (P. 139.) O beauteous Tyber! and do not thy billows A chorus of Cæsar's friends celebrate his praises, and declaim on the evils of envy.-Act 5. A messenger relates to Cornelia the defeat and death of her father Scipio, embellishing his tale with a due proportion of similes. Her grief clamorous and eloquent as usual. Au moins, ciel, permettez, permettez, a cette heure, Apres la mort des miens, que moy-mesme je meure: Poussez moy dans la tombe, ores que je ne Veufe de tout bien, recevoir plus d'ennuis; pere, Ravi mes deux maris, sujet pour me desplaire. (P. 156.) Here we have the same thought, but much less strongly expressed, as in that line which Longinus has adduced from the most pathetic scene in the most pathetic of all tragedians. Τέμω κακῶν δὴ, κοὐκέτ ̓ ἔσθ' ὅπη τεθῇ. Euripides, Hercules Furens, And Tyrwhitt, in his Glossary to Chaucer, has remarked a similar So full of sorowe am I, sothe to sayne, Cornelia concludes by resolving to live, that she may honour the remains of the dead. Mais las! si je trespasse, ains que d'avoir logé Des esprits de la bas j'iray croistre le nombre. (P. 158.) But oh! if death surprise me ere I lodge My father in his tomb, who then shall do That office for him? Shall his limbs go wand'ring My husband, but to make your tombs, and weep In pining sorrow, and bedewing still ANTOINE. Antony makes a speech not much in character, deploring his captivity to the charms of Cleopatra. The chorus sing an ode on the miseries incident to human nature: for part of which they are indebted to Euripides, and to Horace for the remainder.-Act 2. Philostratus appears, for this time only, that he may lament over the state of Egypt. The chorus in their song run over all the instances of unhappy mourners whom they can recal to memory, and say they have themselves more reason to mourn than all, but do not tell us for what cause. Cleopatra, with Eras and Charmion, her women, and Diomedes, her secretary. The Queen declares her resolution to share the fate of the conquered Antony, and will listen to no arguments for consulting her own safety. She goes into a sepulchre, there to await her doom. Diomedes remains alone, to meditate on the beauties of his royal mistress, and to lament her obstinacy. The following Ode predicts the subjection of the Nile to the Tyber, but suggests a topic of consolation to Egypt in the future destruction of Rome herself.-Act 3. Antony discovers to his friend Lucilius his fears of Cleopatra's fidelity. Lucilius endeavours to calm his apprehensions; and after much empty moralizing on his own weakness, and on the fatal effects of pleasure, Antony resolves to put an end to his life. The chorus chant an Ode, partly borrowed from the Justum et tenacem propositi virum of Horace, in which they commend the determination of Antony and Cleopatra not to survive their misfortunes. Act 4. Octavius Cæsar enters, boasting of his triumphs.. Agrippa is dissuading him from his design of exterminating his enemies, when Dercetas comes to acquaint him with the particulars of Antony's death. His death is bewailed by Casar; but Agrippa thinks only of being in time to prevent Cleopatra from destroying herself and her treasures. See the word Grace. A chorus of Cæsar's friends lament the divisions of the Roman empire, in a song which, according to custom, is in great measure translated from Horace.-Act 5. Cleopatra, in the monument with her children, their tutor Euphron, and her women Charmion and Eras, utters her last lamentation over the dead body of Antony. (The remainder of this Article will be given in our next Number.) JANUS WEATHERBOUND; OR, THE WEATHERCOCK STEADFAST FOR LACK OF OIL. A GRAVE EPISTLE. Ear-cracking Fleet-street o'er, And the resounding shore,* A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament s Clothed in dismal green, The parting Janus + is with sighing sent. DEAR PROPRIETORS! (for convenience sake let ne condense ye) Dear Proprietor !-(one I have ever found ye, both heart and hand.) I address this letter to you rather than to the Editor, as something hearty, cordial;—a tangibility;-one that hath eyes, ears, and nerves, even as a Contributor ;-liable to the same sicknesses, mental and bodily;-possess ing human sympathies and dimensions. I know all this. As to the Editor, I am doubtful. He is with out form-I can't make up my mind to believe in such a nominis umbra. Were any one to describe the colour of his coat and breeches, I should look on such description as an absurd fiction, or, at best, as an allegory, - a shadowy fable for the clarifying solution of some new Palaphatus de incredibilibus. My soul entertaineth no affection for him:-how can it?Doth the farmer love the unseen wind which overturneth his barns, his granaries?-devastates his orchards?-He cuts me out three pages (a monstrous cantle! three painful pages! three elaborated pages!-print !!—); He turneth the edges of my keenest razors (rather least blunt, good Janus!) awry, so that they lose the name of action;-he obliterates a climax!!-In short, I never saw him in my life; and therefore, I suppose, hate him abominably. You have now one of my reasons for choosing you for my patient.-Secondly-Remarks on the MAGAZINE and its CONTRIBUTORS seem to dedicate Shore pro Strand. Milton, slightly altered. themselves peculiarly to the Pro prietor and Patron of the said Mag. and Contribs. (what a Procrustean pen!) and thirdly-I cannot suffer this opportunity (the last I shall ever have in the LONDON) to pass away, without thanking you publicly, but most truly, for the encouragement my jejune papers have received from your unvarying good-nature. Here permit me to digress for a few lines on a subject on which "all men are fluent, few agreeable, self." Many of your readers, as I know, have been, and are surprised at the presumption which tendered, at the weakness (that was the word) which admitted the tawdry articles signed J. W. and C. V. V. From the latter count I can exculpate you, by reminding them of silly readers' sympathy for silly writers: a tub for the whale -a farce for the galleries.--That is despatched. I must plead now to the first charge-not guilty. As a boy I was placed frequently in literary society; a giddy, flighty disposition prevented me from receiving thence any advantage. The little attention I gave to any thing was directed to Painting, or rather to an admiration of it;-but, ever to be wiled away by new and flashy gauds, I postponed the pencil to the sword; and the noisy audacity of Military conversation, united to the fragrant fumes of whisky punch (ten tumblers every evening-without acid!) obscured my recollections of Michel Agnolo as in a dun fog. After a † Janus, Hibernicè, pro Genius. while, several, apparently trifling, chances determined me against this mode of killing Time and humans. I was idle on the town-my blessed Art touched her renegade; by her pure and high influences the noisome mists were purged;-my feelings, parched, hot, and tarnished, were renovated with a cool fresh bloom,childly, simple,-beautiful to the simple-hearted. The writings of Wordsworth did much towards calming the confusing whirl necessarily incident to sudden mutations. I wept over them tears of happiness and gratitude-yet my natural impatience, and I may term it fierceness, was not altogether thereby subdued-rather condensed and guided against more fit objects-meanness sordid worldliness, hardness, and real vulgarity in whatsoever rank it grew; at least, in such degree as I was capable of distinguishing them. But this serene state was broken, like a vessel of clay, by acute diseasesucceeded by a relaxation of the muscles and nerves, which depressed me low As through the abysses of a joyless heart The heaviest plummet of despair could go, hypochondriasis ! ever shuddering on the horrible abyss of mere insanity. But two excellent secondary agents, a kind and skilful Physician, and a most delicately affectionate and unwearied (though young and fragile) Nurse, brought me at length out of those dead black waters nearly exhausted with so sore a struggle. Steady pursuit was debarred me, and varied amusement deemed essential to my complete revivification. At this time, the LONDON MAGAZINE was on the stocks-and its late lamented Editor, taking notice of my enthusiasm for Art, and pitying my estate, requested me to put down on paper some of the expression of feeling whereto I was from time to time excited by the mighty works of Michel, Raffaello, Correggio, and Rembrandt. With some modifications as to plan, I cheerfully prepared to obey him; not that I had any hope of carrying such attempt beyond two pages MS.-but it was a new thing. It struck me as something ridiculous, that I, who had never authorized a line, save in Orderly and Guard Reports (and letters for money These high and gusty relishes of life S- -'s conduct, in some measure, justified this my opinion— he said, with Bottom, "Let him roar again, let him roar again!" And truly again (to the dictation of the above-named fairy-led weaver) did I aggravate my pen more gently than a sucking dove. Fortune once more flung over me the reflex warmth of her golden wings, and not above one third was abolished-Deo gratias.(That third was the best part for all that; I looked at it in my rough copy the other day-quite a curry, credit me! though not exactly conformable to Pegge's "Forme of Curie.") But why this tale of Oaks, as Hesiod or Homer says I forget which, if I ever knew-suffice it that I continued to sentimentalize until Scoming aware that his friendly purpose had taken its full effect on my mind and body, began to rap me on the head, as one sees a cat deal with an elderly kitten which retaineth its lacteal propensities over due season. Then came a blank. be Afterwards, shortly before his painful end at a wretched inn, on a squalid bed-Poor fellow!-at this moment I feel, fresh as yesterday, round my neck the heart-breaking, feeble, kindly clasp of his fever-wasted arm-his faint whisper of entire trust in my friendship (though but short) - the voice dropping back a gain the look-one stronger clasp! May the peace which rested over his last moments remain with him for ever! That I steadfastly confide in such consummation, this recurrence to his name will prove; were it not for that, I could not have uttered an allusion. I must finish my involuntarily interrupted sentence. Afterwards there was some talk of a regular re-engagement, with an increase of five guineas per sheet; on what account I could never exactly discover-(not that I tried much, to be sure-it was too gracilely pleasant for the harsh touch of scrutiny.) Elia, the whimsical, the pregnant, the "abundant jokegiving" Elia, and our Mr. Drama, the real, old, original Mr. Drama! -par nobile fratrum, spoke flatteringly of Janus-shall I breathe it? -as of one not absolutely inefficient; not the worst of Periodical scribblers. You, Padrone mio! know best how I was found on your establishment; whether my importunities for admission overmatched your rejective faculties. Proclaim then aloud, now at this my literary decease, that my reputation is unsmirched, unblemished, by any hateful scrambling after the loaves and fishes:-answer for me. Have I been forward with MSS? Have I ever displayed an unseemly alacrity with my quill? Have I ever been ready and forthcoming when first called on? The kernel of the above peroration lies, I take it, in the affirmation, that not a single sentence has been by me volunteered from the commencement of the LONDON MAGAZINE to its present robust and healthy growth. This digression has pulled out half an ell longer than I intended; and the only thing is to get it out of your head as fast as you can. Come! take a pinch of snuff and a sneeze "Heshsh hoo!"-God bless you!Now, what do you think of Miss F. Kelly? Not seen her? indeed! I was sorry to see Charles Kemble, (how dare any one write him down "Kemble," without the baptismal prefix, while his great brother lives!) I was really sorry to see Charles Kemble on the same boards. He carries the gentleman in every motion. He is not a bit like Romeothe young, the sentimental Romeo, for all that. The Italian Lovers were by Shakspeare steeped in poetry, the highest, the most absolute poetry, till it became infused through their substance, past re-separationhe has compelled and amalgamated together spirit and matter into a quicksilver too slippery and subtle for the mere corporeal hands of any given actor or actress. The deep-sentient Charles Lamb hath protested against the competency of theatrical means to give an outward and visible representation of Lear. I think, for Romeo and Juliet, that "sweet hymn in praise of love! that harmonious miracle!" he might have done as much. † All traces of the digression are now quite obliterated, I'll venture to say, judging from myself at least-the fact is, I've forgotten whither this letter tended-I must turn to the first leaf-um-thirdly-um-um-0!"Remarks on the Mag. and its Contribs." Very good-so then, without further preamble-thus rush I, like Homer, Tasso, Ossian, or, to speak concisely, like all authentic epic poets of this terraqueous globe, iv μedias pns, which bit of Hebrew means, gentle-no, not gentle, strictly Copy of an affidavit sworn before the late Lord Mayor: "I, TP, Printer's Devil to the LONDON MAGAZINE, voluntarily make oath, that Mr. Janus Weathercock has never been forward with his MSS.' and that he was never ready and forthcoming when first called on; but, on the contrary, that I have called on him at least six times for every article." + If the reader adores Shakspeare (not the family one, nor the acted one,) he will be pleased with the elaborate and poetical critique on Romeo and Juliet, translated from Aug. Schlegel, in Ollier's Miscellany, No. I. |