Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
Life of Schiller," that we need not dwell upon it. All the light of the
picture, the softer feelings of the hapless Carlos and Elizabeth, is so
cast, as to make more visible the awing darkness of the tyrant's
perverted mind, deadened to all virtue by a false religion, cold and
hopeless as the dungeons of his own Inquisition, and relentless as
death. Forced by the magic wand of genius into the stifling precincts of
this mind, horror-struck that we must sympathize with such a state as
possible to humanity, we rush from the contemplation of the picture, and
would gladly curtain it over in our hall of imagery forever. Yet
stigmatize not our poet as a dark master, courting the shade, and hating
the glad lights which love and hope cast upon human nature. The drama
has a holy meaning, a patriot moral, and we, above all, should reverence
him, the aristocrat by birth, by education, and by tastes, whose love of
liberty could lead him to such conclusions.
In "Saul," a bright rainbow rises, by the aid of the Sun of
Righteousness, above the commotion of the tempest. David, the faithful,
the hopeful, combining the aesthetic culture, the winged inspiration of
the poet with the noble pride of Israel's chosen warrior, contrasts
finely with the unfortunate Saul, his mind darkened and convulsed by
jealousy, vain regrets, and fear of the God he has forgotten how to
love. The other three actors shade in the picture without attracting our
attention from the two principal personages. The Hebrew spirit breathes
through the whole. The beauty of the lyric effusions is so generally
felt, that encomium is needless; we shall only observe that in them
Alfieri's style, usually so severe, becomes flexible, melodious, and
glowing; thus we may easily perceive what he might have done, had not
the simplicity of his genius disdained the foreign aid of ornament upon
its Doric proportions.
Myrrha is, however, the highest exertion of his genius. The remoteness
of time and manners, the subject, at once so hackneyed and so revolting,
these great obstacles he seizes with giant grasp, and moulds them to his
purpose. Our souls are shaken to the foundation; all every-day barriers
fall with the great convulsion of passion. We sorrow, we sicken, we die
with the miserable girl, so pure under her involuntary crime of feeling,
pursued by a malignant deity in her soul's most sacred recesses, torn
from all communion with humanity, and the virtue she was framed to
adore. The perfection of plan, the matchless skill with which every
circumstance is brought out! The agonizing rapidity with which her
misery "va camminando al fine"! No! never was higher tragic power
exhibited; never were love, terror, pity, fused into a more penetrating
draught! Myrrha is a favorite acting-play in Italy--a fact inconceivable
to an English or American mind; for (to say nothing of other objections)
we should think such excess of emotion unbearable. But in those meridian
climes they drink deep draughts of passion too frequently to taste them
as we do.
We pass to works of far inferior power, but of greater beauty. We have
selected Iphigenia and Tasso as the most finished results of their
author's mature views of art. On his plays in the Romantic style, we
shall touch in another place. If any one ask why we do not class Faust
with either, we reply, that is a work without a parallel; one of those
few originals which have their laws within themselves, and should always
be discussed singly.
The unity of plan in Iphigenia is perfect. There is one pervading idea.
The purity of Iphigenia's mind must be kept unsullied, that she may be a
fit intercessor to the gods in behalf of her polluted family. Goethe,
in his travels through Italy, saw a picture of a youthful Christian
saint--Agatha, we think; struck by the radiant purity of her expression,
he resolved his heathen priestess should not have one thought which
could revolt the saint of the true religion. This idea is wonderfully
preserved throughout a drama so classic in its coloring and manners. The
happiest development of character, an interest in the denouement which
is only so far tempered by our trust in the lovely heroine, as to permit
us to enjoy all the minuter beauties on our way, (this the breathless
interest of Alfieri's dramas hardly allows, on a fourth or fifth
reading,) exquisite descriptive touches, and expressions of sentiment,
unequalled softness and harmony of style, distinguish a drama not to be
surpassed in its own department. Torquato Tasso[17] is of inferior
general, but greater particular beauty. The two worldly, the two higher
characters, with that of Alphonso halting between, are shaded with equal
delicacy and distinctness. The inward-turning imagination of the
ill-fated bard, and the fantastic tricks it plays with life, are painted
as only a poet's soul of equal depth, of greater versatility, could have
painted them. In analysis of the passions, and eloquent descriptions of
their more hidden workings, some parts may vie with Rousseau; while
several effusions of feeling are worthy of Tasso's own lyre, with its
"breaking heartstring's tone." The conduct of the piece being in perfect
accordance with the plan, gives the satisfaction we have mentioned in
speaking of Raphael's Madonna.
Schiller's Wallenstein does not strictly belong to this class, yet we
are disposed to claim it as observing the unities of time and interest;
the latter especially is entire, notwithstanding the many actors and
side-scenes which are introduced. Numberless touches of nature arrest
our attention, bright lights are flashed across many characters, but our
interest, momently increasing, is for Wallenstein--for the perversion,
the danger, the ruin of that monarch soul, that falling son of the
morning. Even that we feel in Max, with his celestial bloom of heart, in
Thekla's sweet trustfulness, is subsidiary. This work, generally known
to the reader through Mr. Coleridge's translation, affords an imperfect
illustration of our meaning. Miss Baillie's plays on the passions hold a
middle place. Unity of purpose there is--no unity of plan or conduct.
Bold, fine outline--very bad coloring. Profound, beautifully-expressed
reflections on the passions--utter want of skill in showing them out; a
thorough feeling, indeed, of the elements of tragedy,--had but the
vitalizing energy been added. Her plays are failures; but since she has
given us nothing else, we cannot but rejoice in having these. 'Tis great
pity that the authoress of De Montfort and Basil should not have
attempted a narrative poem.
Coleridge and Byron are signal instances how peculiar is the kind of
talent required for the drama; one a philosopher, both men of great
genius and uncommon mastery over language, both conversant with each
side of human nature, both considering the drama in its true light as
one of the highest departments of literature, both utterly wanting in
simplicity, pathos, truth of passion and liveliness of action--in that
thrilling utterance of heart to heart, whose absence _here_, no other
excellence can atone for. Of Maturin and Knowles we do not speak,
because theirs, though very good acting plays, are not, like Mr.
Taylor's, written for the closet; of Milman, because not sufficiently
acquainted with his plays. We would here pay a tribute to our countryman
Hillhouse, whose Hadad, read at a very early age, we remember with much
delight. Probably our judgment now might be different; but a work which
could make so deep an impression on any age, must have genius. We are
sorry we have never since met it in any library or parlor, and are not
competent to speak of it more particularly.
It will be seen that Mr. Taylor has not attempted the sort of dramatic
poetry which we consider the highest, but has labored in that which the
great wizard of Avon adopted, because it lay nearest at hand to clothe
his spells withal, and consecrated it, with his world-embracing genius,
to the (in our judgment) no small detriment of his country's taste.
Having thus declared that we cannot grant him our very highest meed of
admiration, (though we will not say that he might not win it if he made
the essay,) we hasten to meet him on his own ground. "Dramatica Poesis
est veluti Historia spectabilis," is his motto, taken from Bacon, who
formed his taste on Shakspeare. We would here mention that Goethe's
earlier works, Goetz von Berlichingen and Egmont are of this
school--brilliant fragments of past days, ballads acted out, historical
scenes and personages clustered round a hero; and we have seen that his
ripened taste preferred the form of Iphigenia and Tasso.
We cannot too strongly express our approbation of the opinions
maintained in his short preface to this work. We rejoice to see a leader
coming forward who is likely to un-Hemansize and un-Cornwallize
literature. We too have been sick, we too have been intoxicated with
_words_ till we could hardly appreciate thoughts; perhaps our present
writing shows traces of this Lower-Empire taste; but we have sense
enough left to welcome the English Phocion, who would regenerate public
feeling. The candor and modest dignity with which these opinions are
offered charm us. The remarks upon Shelley, whom we have loved, and do
still love passing well, brought truth home to us in a definite shape.
With regard to the lowness of Lord Byron's standard of character, every
thing indeed has been said which could be but not as Mr. Taylor has
said it; and we opine that his refined and gentle remarks will find
their way to ears which have always been deaf to the harsh sarcasms
unseasoned by wit, which have been current on this topic.
Our author too, notwithstanding his modest caveat, has acted upon his
principles, and furnished a forcible illustration of their justice. For
dignity of sentiment, for simplicity of manner, for truth to life, never
infringing upon respect for the ideal, we look to such a critic, and we
are not disappointed.
The scene is laid in Ghent, in the fourteenth century. The Flemish
mobocracy are brought before us with a fidelity and animation surpassing
those displayed in Egmont. Their barbarism, and the dissimilar, but not
inferior barbarism of their would-be lords, the bold, bad men, the
shameless crime and brainless tumult of those days, live before us. Amid
these clashing elements moves Philip Van Artevelde, with the presence,
not of a god, but of a great man, too superior to be shaken, too wise to
be shocked by their rude jarrings. He becomes the leader of his people,
and despite pestilence, famine, and their own untutored passions, he
leads them on to victory and power.
In the second part we follow Van Artevelde from his zenith of glory to
his decline. The tarnishing influence of prosperity on his spirit, and
its clear radiance again in adversity, are managed as the noble and
well-defined conception of the character deserves.
The boy king and his courtly, intriguing counsellors are as happily
portrayed as Vauclaire and the fierce commonalty he ruled, or resisted
with rope or sword, as the case might demand.
The two loves of Van Artevelde are finely imagined, as types of the two
states of his character. Both are lovely; the one how elevated! the
other how pity-moving in her loveliness! On the interlude of Elena we
must be allowed to linger fondly, though the author's self condemn our
taste.
We are no longer partial to the machinery of portents and presentiments.
Wallenstein's were the last we liked, but Van Artevelde's make good
poetry, and have historical vouchers. They remind us of those of Fergus
Mac Ivor.
We shall extract a speech of Van Artevelde's, in which a leading idea of
the work is expressed.
Father,--
So! with the chivalry of Christendom