power, and at last degenerates into contempt. This was actually the case at Athens, so that their Πολυθρυλλέτη ἀρετή, as it was called, became contemptible even among the most stupid of their neighbouring nations; and towards the latter end of their government they grew ashamed of it themselves. But, to do the writer ample justice, we will lay one scene against all his defects, and we are convinced that this alone will turn the balance in his favour. Works of genius are not to be judged from the faults to be met. with in them, but by the beauties in which they abound. Zamti, the Chinese high-priest, is informed, that his own son is going to be offered up as the orphan-heir of China; after a short conflict, his duty gains a complete victory over paternal affection: he is willing his son should die, in order to secure his king; but the difficulty remains to persuade his wife, Mandane, to forego a mother's fondness, and conspire also in the deceit. "Scene.-MANDANE, ZAMTI. Mandane. And can it then be true? Is human nature exil'd from my breast? Zamti. Lov'd Mandane, Fix not your scorpions here-a bearded shaft Already drinks my spirits up. Mandane. I've seen The trusty Morat-Oh! I've heard it all. He would have shunn'd my steps; but what can 'scape The eye of tenderness like mine? Zamti. By heav'n! I cannot speak to thee. Mandane. Think'st thou those tears, Those false, those cruel tears, will choke the voice Of a fond mother's love, now stung to madness? Oh! I will rend the air with lamentations; Root up this hair, and beat this throbbing breast; Turn all connubial joy to bitterness, To fell despair, to anguish, and remorse, Zamti. Thou ever faithful woman, Oh! leave me to my woes. Mandane. Give me my child, Thou worse than Tartar, give me back my son; And let me strain him to my heart. Zamti. Heaven knows How dear my boy is here. But our first duty I was a subject ere I was a father. Mandane. You were a savage, bred in Scythian wilds, And humanizing pity never reach'd Your heart. Was it for this-oh! thou unkind one, Was it for this-oh, thou inhuman father, You woo'd me to your nuptial bed? So long And made this breast your pillow? Cruel, say, Are these your vows? Are these your fond endearments? Nay, look upon me. If this wasted form, These faded eyes, have turn'd your heart against me, With grief for you I wither'd in my bloom. Zamti. Why wilt thou pierce my heart? Have I then bore thee in these matron arms, To see thee bleed? Thus dost thou then return? This could your mother hope, when first she sent Ah! could I think thy early love of fame Mandane. Barbarian! no-(She rises hastily.) Zamti. I tremble rather at a breach of oaths. In this life-blood. Betray the righteous cause Mandane. Our kings !-our kings! What are the scepter'd rulers of the world?— 'Tis human policy sets up their claim. Mine is a mother's cause-mine is the cause Of husband, wife, and child;-those tenderest ties ! Zamti. Then go, Mandane, thou once faithful woman, Those virtuous lessons which I oft have taught thee, In fond credulity, while on each word You hung enamour'd. Go, to Timurkan, Be thou spectatress Of murder'd majesty. Embrace your son, To brighten slavery, and beam their fires Mandane. And is it thus, Thus is Mandane known? My soul disdains Still am I true to fame. Come, lead me hence, Where I may lay down life to save Zaphimri ; But save my Hamet too. Then, then you'll find A heart beats here, as warm and great as thine. Zamti. Then make with me one strong, one glorious effort, And rank with those who, from the first of time, In fame's eternal archives stand rever'd, For conquering all the dearest ties of nature, To serve the general weal. Mandane. That savage virtue Loses with me its horrid charms. I've sworn To save my king. But should a mother turn A dire assassin-oh! I cannot bear The piercing thought. Distraction-quick distraction Barbarians, hold! Ah! see, he dies!-he dies! [She faints into Zamti's arms. Zamti. Where is Arsace ? Fond maternal love Shakes her weak frame-(Enter Arsace). Quickly, Arsace, help Such as inflames the patriot's breast, and lifts Th' imprison'd mind to that sublime of virtue, Which in a single hour it works to millions, And leaves the legacy to after-times. [Exit, leading off Mandane Even in so short a specimen the reader sees a strength of thought, a propriety of diction, and a perfect acquaintance with the stage. The whole is thus in action, filled with incident, and embellished with a justness of sentiment, not to be found even in M. Voltaire. The French poet, for instance, seems to speak without detestation of self-murder, and instances the neighbouring Japanese,(1) who find in it a refuge from all their sorrows : our poet more justly bounds it as an usurpation of Zamti. The dread prerogative Of life and death, and measure out the thread Who dares not to encounter pain and peril Be that the practice of the gloomy north. Mandane. Must we then wait a haughty tyrant's rod, The vassals of his will?-no-let us rather (1) ["L'homme était-il donc né pour tant de dépendance, L'Orphelin de la Chine, acte v. sc. 5.] MURPHY'S ORPHAN OF CHINA. Zamti. Distress too exquisite !-Ye holy pow'rs, No more can breathe at large;-'tis with the groans Of our dear country when we dare to die. Mandane. Then here at once direct the friendly steel. Thy husband's love! thus with uplifted blade Can I approach that bosom-bliss, where oft With other looks than those-oh! my Mandane I've hush'd my cares within thy shelt'ring arms? Mandane. Alas! the loves that hover'd o'er our pillows And the pale fates surround us Then lay me down in honourable rest; Come, as thou art, all hero, to my arms, And free a virtuous wife. Zamti. It must be so Now then, prepare thee-my arm flags and droops, Conscious of thee in ev'ry trembling nerve. [Dashes down the dagger. This is finely conceived, and exquisitely executed. Subjoined to the play we find a letter, addressed from the author to Voltaire, which we think might have been better suppressed; for though it is written with fire and spirit, and contains many judicious observations, it may subject Mr. Murphy to the censure of having made but an indifferent return to a man, whose sentiments and plan he has, in a great measure, thought proper to adopt. It may be indeed considered as a just retribution on a Frenchman, who had served Shakspeare in the same manner; that is, adopted all his beauties, and then reviled him for his faults. Voltaire is entitled to particular regard from our countryman, notwithstanding the petulance with which he has treated them on some occasions; for he was certainly the first who opened the eyes of Europe to the excellences of English poetry. |