Ne'er to atchieve the conquest of thy country; Nor to thy Argos have a safe return; But fall, unnatʼral! by a brother's hand, And slay thy brother-murd'rer! Such my curse ;. And Mars, the parent of your deadly feuds! All this is exactly a history of the subsequent calamities of this wretched family, only adorned with poetical language: Polynices returned, and he and his brother Eteocles were both slain in single combat. Shakspeare in his inimitable curse was not confined by any circumstances of history, but was left to the free exercise of his judgment; and his judgment has chosen that particular species of execration, which was of all others most appropriate, most natural, and most bitter :— "Hear Nature, hear! Dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if Dry up in her the organs of increase; To have a thankless child."-Act II. Sc. IV, The whole of this thrilling curse hinges, we see, on one great and pregnant idea, and that idea the very one which would most readily occur to the indignant feelings of an insulted father,May she be cursed in her children * ! The justness of this idea * Otway, who was not inferior to Shakspeare himself as a poet of feeling, or rather, who appears to have surpassed even Shakspeare in submitting himself entirely and unreservedly to his feelings,-has, in the curse of Priuli, made the offended father transfer to his son-in-law the misery he had himself suffered : "May all your joys in her prove false, like mine :” But perhaps he has marred the excellence of the original idea by afterwards too much generalizing it :- "A sterile fortune, and a barren bed, Attend you both; continual discord make Venice Preserved, A II. Sc. I. is above all praise, and is a subject of admiration only; and the poetical spirit which fills up all the component parts, and puts life into every line, is deserving of equal applause. Had Sophocles been equally left to his judgment, it is not improbable that he would have chosen the same points of execration which Shakspeare has chosen; because they were dictated by nature and feeling; and nature and feeling speak the same thing to all great poets. Immediately after the departure of Polynices, Edipus perceives, from some heavenly intimations, that the hour of his dissolution is at hand. The terrible scene which precedes his departure, the thunders and lightnings, the alarm of the by-standers, and the composed dignity of Edipus himself,-are represented with a masterly spirit. Inferior poets would have laboured a description of these things; but Sophocles represents: he brings before our eyes the exact effects which such awful prodigies would produce upon the beholders, and paints them with the most lively feeling. Upon the arrival of Theseus, he leaves the stage with him and his daughters, and conducted by a divine prescience, leads the way to that particular spot which was destined for his grave. We see him no more; but all the mysterious circumstances of his death are shortly after related by a messenger to the Chorus. The Greck tragedians appear to have been injudi. ciously fond of introducing all their noble descriptions by the mouth of that obnoxious intruder into the Dramatis Personæ, a messenger; and if the thing must be done by description, it matters little, in general, who is the spokesman. But description is not the proper instrument of tragedy; and in the present drama it is introduced in a manner singularly bungling and unfortunate: for, in the first place, why should the Chorus (consisting of some aged Athenians) be complimented with so particular an account of the transactions? Secondly,-Edipus is accompanied a part of the way by his daughters, then he stops and takes an affectionate parting from them,-then proceeds farther with Theseus, and dies. And all this is related in the description, not represented dramatically; after which description, the daughters return to the stage, and conclude the play by their lamentations. And thirdly, between the departure of Edipus and the appearance of the messenger, the Chorus has but twenty-four lines to perform, and it is very improbable that in that time all which the messenger relates could have occurred. Now, all this clumsiness might have been very easily avoided, if the old King had parted from his daughters on the stage ;and surely such an interview would have been, of all others, the most proper for a scenic exhibition: then their lamentations might have occupied the time on the stage till the return of The seus; seus; and it would have been much more natural, that in answer to their urgent enquiries about their father, Theseus should have given the same beautiful description which now forms exclusively the character of the messenger. By this contrivance, an unnecessary character would have been excluded; and the play might have closed in a manner more similar to the abrupt ending of King Lear. It is not often that Sophocles is to be reproached with want of art; but in this instance he seems to be censurable. That consolation which (Edipus has received during all his wanderings from the presence of his daughters, is imparted to Lear, near the conclusion of his life, by his restoration to the injured, the amiable Cordelia. By the conduct of Sophocles, the tenderness of the tragedy is more equably preserved, without either any violence of joy or distraction of grief; and this was desirable in a Grecian drama. Shakspeare launches out into both extremes, confident in his own powers, and not doubting that they are equal to all possible contingencies. After all the sublimities of mad. ness, and all the gloominess of despair, he returns with a complacent ease to the softness of filial affection,-to the delicate tenderness of the meeting between the penitent father and the forgiving daughter. The behaviour of Lear, on first awaking from his sleep, is beautifully interesting : "You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave : Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears "I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward; and, to deal plainly, 1 fear. I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks, I should know you, and know this man; What place this is; and all the skill I have, To be my child' Cordelia. Cord. And so I am,-I am.”—Act IV. Sc. VII. The subsequent events of the play who does not know? Of its beauties who is ignorant?-The concluding scene, in which Lear enters with Cordelia dead in his arms, is such a masterpiece of pathetic exhibition, as the whole drama, ancient and modern, cannot produce any thing to equal: no picture of imitative sorrow can be more perfect, more pure, more overwhelming than this; and if I am compelled to pass it over almost in silence, it is not that it has been already sufficiently praised, but that no praise can ever be equal to its merits,-If Tate's alteration had only only omitted this scene, the tragedy would still have "lost half its beauty." But here a word or two on the catastrophe of the two dramas. Sophocles, in consistency with the "faith of chronicles," and likewise with the rules afterwards established by Aristotle, has represented Edipus as dying in a foreign country, without any restoration to his throne: Shakspeare, in contempt of the "faith of chronicles," has exhibited Lear as making the same unhappy end, and his daughter Cordelia," the young, the beautiful, the harmless, and the pious" Cordelia,—is hanged in prison!This catastrophe, as every one knows, was afterwards changed by Nahum Tate, a man who-It is only to be lamented that he was the friend, instead of the enemy, of Dryden :-Dryden alone could have done him justice. This man, having unfortunately more influence in the theatre than taste and the memory of Shakspeare, altered entirely Shakspeare's beautiful original, burlesqued its pathos, destroyed its simplicity, and degraded its every excellence:-above all, he restored the old monarch to his throne, and his daughter to life; and then (what more can I add ?) they "all live very happy after :" and this drama of Tate's is actually in existence to this day as one of the acting plays of our Theatres Royal! On this sickening subject nothing new can be said: Addison, who was an excellent critic, maintained the superiority of Shakspeare over Tate; and Dr. Johnson, who was a nervous critic, from that cause alone (as he indirectly acknowledges) preferred Tate's alteration! It is now, I believe, generally agreed among men of taste (and from this number theatrical managers are of course excluded), that Tate deserved nothing but infamy for his attempt to improve Shakspeare; that Shakspeare is of himself a very good writer; and that the paltry consideration of poetical justice, which is established on grounds very unphilosophical, ought not to be brought in competition with the tenderness, the sublimity, and the various beauties of the original tragedy of King Lear. It is more than probable that Sophocles, had he been guided by his own judgment, and not by the event of history, in the choice of his catastrophe, would have chosen exactly that which he has now exhibited. And this catastrophe makes his Edipus more worthy of a comparison with the Lear of Shakspeare. The death of Edipus is of a more composed kind than that of Lear, and is more calculated to fill us with awe, than to melt us into tears but, though far inferior to the same event in Shakspeare, it is yet introduced with a solemnity and conducted with a judicious art, which well deserve to be admired. Upon Upon the whole,-the Edipus of Sophocles, with all its excellence, is not that striking character which can exalt the Gre cian drama to a level with the more various, more lively, and more intricate sketch of character peculiar to modern,-and, I might almost add, to English tragedy. It partakes too much of the frigid monotony of the Grecian cast: its pathos is powerful, and its sublimity is noble: but it has not sufficient life to make it worthy to be placed on an equality with the Lear of Shakspeare. This is saying little, however, in its dispraise: for with the Lear of Shakspeare, what character, even of his own, can stand a comparison? Much as opinions may vary on the relative merit of his dramas, I think there is no detached character in his writings which displays so vividly as this the hand and mind of a master; which exhibits so great a variety of excellence, and such amazing powers of delineation; so intimate a knowledge of the human heart, with such exact skill in tracing the progress and the effects of its more violent and more delicate passions. It is in the management of this character more especially that he fills up that grand idea of a perfect poet, which we delight to image to our. selves, but despair of seeing realized : "Vatem egregium, cui non sit publica vena, Qui nihil expositum soleat deducere, nec qui Communi feriat carmen triviale monetâ, Hunc, qualem nequeo monstrare, et sentio tantùm.” Juvenal, Sat. VII. v. 53-6. "The bard of every age and clime, Of genius fruitful, and of soul sublime, But gold, to matchless parity refin'd, And stamp'd with all the godhead in his mind ; He whom I feel, but want the power to paint *."-Gifford. This is Shakspeare. S. "Nequeo monstrare,"-" want the power to paint."-Charles Dryden' has it," He whom I fancy, but can ne'er express:" and this may be the meaning. The commentators are not so unanimous on the subject as the translators; and, but for good authority, I should have understood it, "I cannot point out." This is the most obvious signification of monstrare (monstror digito prætereuntium); and certainly, Juvenal had no contemporary whom be could quote as an instance of a true poet. ART. |