nor in the acting was any great exertion made to approximate to the reality of the scene, beyond a small and well-defined limit. Neither the authors, players, nor writers for the stage, had, in those distant days, ever directed their minds to that great and creative source of effect, which is brought about by the positions, mutual situations, or interesting relations, in which the persons of the drama are placed on the stage; and where, in one glance, the spectator beholds, as it were, much more that affects him than could be possibly derived from language. The actors of former times, in fact, were altogether restrained by habit in the execution of their parts, and were consequently unable to give that force to the character represented by them, which is only supplied by a temporary impression that he is in earnest when he is performing. Such a state of things as we now describe, was accompanied by this consequence, that the writers were obliged to seek out some other striking feature of attraction for the audience. Fine speeches, eloquent passages, occasionally long didactic and sentimental periods, to which the better feelings of the spectators were certain to respond, were habitually put into the mouths of the actors, and had their influence accordingly. Hence, we believe, it will be found true, that, up to a late era, say the middle of Garrick's career, the theatre-going people of this country were generally pleased, when pleased at all, infinitely more by the author than the actor. If we look to any those veteran tragedies which still maintain their popularity, including even Shakspeare, Otway, Young, &c., we shall find how little the situations, the groupings, the incidental meetings, of the dramatis persona, have to do with the general effect; and it is for this reason that we can, in almost all instances, read such tragedies very nearly with as much pleasure as we can see them on the stage.

of

The modern stage-the tragic stage, we particularly allude to— presents, in our opinion, a manifest revolution in this respect. The power of the painter's art, as applicable to the scenic one, has been now fully appreciated, and is daily more and more coming into practical operation. We find that the tragedies which have been produced during the last ten or twelve years, are based on a design of catching the audience more by some of the critical circumstances of the hero, who demands their sympathy, than by any impassioned burst, or any eloquently expressed sentiments, which may be set down for him in his part. The spirit of this change is particularly developed in the beautiful tragedies from the pen of Mr. Sheil, and the proof of it is, that the dramatic power of that author never could and never can be duly appreciated until it is seen tested by a representation on the stage. A dramatic author, therefore, who has studied the mere effect of grouping and position, and all the details of that new and peculiar art, whose object is what is called "stage effect"-such a person, if he carry the most obvious principles, thus found out by him, into effect, will necessarily devote his

whole efforts to that point which is most likely to take a hold of his audience. But, then, is it not perfectly clear that the effect, which is thus worked out by the ingenuity of placing and grouping the characters, can never be communicated outside a theatre; and that, therefore, it will not be apparent to him who is simply a reader of the tragedy. If we contemplate, with exactness, the construction and execution of Mr. Knowles's dramatic works, we shall at once be convinced how uniformly he has adopted the principle of Mr. Sheil and his Virginius, his Hunchback, and certainly his Wife of Mantua, all constitute an irresistible demonstration that such was the case.

Seeing, then, how little modern dramatic authors are encouraged to indulge the taste for sentiment and strict poetry, which in the days of Pizarro's triumph so extensively prevailed over the public mind,-seeing, moreover, how much more powerful are the motives urging those authors to trust to the tried advantages of stage effect, shall we not be prepared at once to understand how it is that the reading of a tragedy may afford a very considerable minimum indeed of that gratification which may be derived from seeing it acted? To these reflections we have been led by one or two criticisms on Mr. Knowles's play in some of the fry of periodicals, which the influenza, we believe, has carried amongst us in its train. The writers of these strictures do not appear to remember that the drama was made to be played in the first place, and as that was its primary purpose, so was it necessary to the accomplishment of that end, that all the necessary conditions required by it should be obeyed. To his auditor, then, as was most natural and proper, Mr. Knowles has paid undivided attention, by preparing such a treat as play-goers, now a-days, but little dream of meeting with; and he has, consequently, abandoned what might prove readily acceptable to his reader, but which would still be at variance with his more important object. We offer, moreover, the analysis of the tragedy before us, as an illustration of the theory which we have now ventured to describe, and it is with this intention that we now proceed to its groundwork.

The play has received a neutral_title, being of the hybrid character, at least in its catastrophe; for though the hero and heroine get off in a very satisfactory manner to themselves, there is an unhappy drawback in the circumstance of the death of an unfortunate gentleman, whose worth only became known just before his poetical execution by the author. The play is spread out into the time-honoured number of five acts, and it is set off, as usual, with a prologue and epilogue, in the latter of which we recognise our venerable friend, the well-known Elia. The plot may be easily explained in consequence of its simplicity, and the absence of every thing like complication or episode, which could by possibility divide, and therefore weaken, the interest of the piece. Leonardo Gonzaga is the son of the Duke of Mantua, for the time being.

When of a proper age, he appears to have yielded to the natural impulse of an inquisitive mind, and to have engaged in what the Mantuans might have been pleased to denominate the grand tour,namely, crossing the Alps, and seeing the countries of Germany, Switzerland, and France. He was ten years from home; but all we know of his pilgrimage is, that whilst travelling in Switzerland, he was rescued from the pressure of an avalanche by the father of a young lady in the neighbourhood of the place where the accident occurred; that to the mansion of this gentleman he was finally conducted, and that the said daughter watched him in his agony, and fell in love with him, he returning the compliment with considerable interest, which certainly, under the circumstances, was the least he could do. He parted from her, and the first time they again met was in Mantua. We proceed to tell how each came thither at the critical moment. The young lady thus smitten, knowing her lover to be a native of Mantua, persuaded her father, on some pretence or another, to accompany her to that place. Here she was placed under accusation for having refused to carry into effect a covenant entered into on her part by her guardian, who seemed resolved to stand upon his right to give her away, not only in virtue of the existing law, but on the plea that it was for her own interest. It was just before the day of trial that Leonardo Gonzaga returned to Mantua, and the first glimpse we obtain of him is in company with a gentleman named Lorenzo. It seems that the young lady above mentioned, Mariana, had been forced by her guardian to go to the church, that there she solemnly refused to marry the man tendered to her as a husband, and that, finally, in her extremity, she sought the protection of the curate, who was about to perform the ceremony of marriage. But the influence of the bachelor was all powerful in Mantua, and no lawyer of ability could be had for love or money on the part of the maiden, for they had been all bought up by her adversary. The consequence was, that the curate was obliged to send to Rome for his nephew, Lorenzo, a lawyer of repute, whose journey was, however, delayed by banditti. He arrived in good time, and was very seasonably met by Leonardo, who owed considerable obligations to the visitor on a previous occasion, and who was determined to avail himself of this opportunity to repay them with hospitality. He finds that Lorenzo is come on purpose to be the advocate of the persecuted young lady, and without suspecting any thing, offers to accompany him to her residence, to receive, from her own lips, the materials of her defence. We shall give the scene which followed, as it is one of the finest in the piece. Lorenzo, the advocate, after some preliminary discourse, comes at once to the practical matter, by asking the lady if she ever made any promise to the Count, who happened to be the prosecuting party in this cause. We shall commence the extract with her reply:

And yet you speak-if blushes speak, as men
Declare they do. Come, come, I know you love.
Give me to know the story of your love!

That, thereupon, I found my proper plea
To shew your opposition not a thing

Of fantasy, caprice, or forwardness,

But that for which all hearers shall commend you,
Proves it the joint result of heart and reason,
Each other's act approving.

You met?

Was't in Mantua

Mariana.-No, Signor; in my native land.

Lorenzo.-And that is

Mariana.-Switzerland.

Lorenzo. His country too?

Mariana. No, Signor, he belonged to Mantua.
Lorenzo. That's right—you are collected and direct
In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion
Was such a thing, as by its neighbourhood

Made piety and virtue twice as rich

As e'er they were before. How grew it? Come,
Thou know'st thy heart-look calmly into it,

And see how innocent a thing it is

Which thou dost fear to shew. I wait your answer.
How grew your passion?

Mariana.-As my stature grew,

Which rose without my noting it, until
They said I was a woman. I kept watch

Beside what seem'd his death-bed.

An avalanche my father rescued him,

The sole survivor of a company

From beneath

Who wandered through our mountains. A long time

His life was doubtful, Signor, and he called

For help, whence help alone could come, which I,

Morning and night, invok'd along with him.

So first our souls did mingle!

Lorenzo. I perceive:-you mingled souls until you mingled hearts? You lov'd at last.-Was't not the sequel, maid?

Mariana.-I lov'd indeed! If I but nurs'd a flower

Which to the ground the rain and wind had beaten,
That flow'r of all our garden was my pride:-
What then was he to me, for whom I thought
To make a shroud, when, tending on him still
With hope, that, baffled still, did still keep up,
I saw at last the ruddy dawn of health

Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form,

And glow-and glow-till forth at last it burst.
Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day!
Lorenzo.-You loved, and he did love?
Mariana.-To say he did,

Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouch'd,
What many an action testified-and yet-
What wanted confirmation of his tongue.
But if he loved-it brought him not content!
'Twas now abstraction-now a start-anon
A pacing to and fro-anon, a stillness,
As nought remain'd of life, save life itself,
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct!
Then all again was action! Disinclin'd
To converse, save he held it with himself;
Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing,
And ever and anon invoking Honour,

As some high contest there was pending, 'twixt
Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed.
Lorenzo. This spoke impediment: or he was bound
By promise to another; or had friends

Whom it behoved him to consult, and doubted;
Or 'twixt you lay disparity too wide
For love itself to leap.

Mariana.-I saw a struggle,

But knew not what it was.-I wondered still,
That what to me was all content, to him
Was all disturbance; but my turn did come.
At length he talked of leaving us; at length,
He fixed the parting day-but kept it not-
O how my heart did bound!-Then first I knew
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank
When next he fixed to go; and sank it then
To bound no more! He went.

Lorenzo. To follow him,

You came to Mantua?

Mariana.-What could I do ?—

Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood,
Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him,-
Could I remain behind? My father found
My heart was not at home; he loved his child,
And asked me, one day, whither we should go
I said, "to Mantua." I follow'd him
To Mantua to breathe the air he breath'd,
To walk upon the ground he walked upon,

To look upon the things he look'd upon,

?

To look, perchance, on him!-perchance to hear him,
To touch him! never to be known to him,

Till he was told, I lived and died his love.

Lorenzo. I pray you, Signor, how do you get on?
I see you play the woman well as I,

VOL. II. (1833) No. II.