ART. VI.-The Dramatic Works of R. H. HORNE. THERE is something painfully ludicrous in the vivacity with which a young poet commences his career by writing a tragedy. It seems now to be the approved first step in the "Gradus ad Parnassum." Boys who are hardly trusted alone in a pastrycook's shop, rush into the temple of Apollo, and play with his golden locks with as much impudence as though it were a wig on the head of a Lord Chancellor Brougham. The natural result of this little playful flirtation is a five-act tragedy. Everybody writes tragedy "now-a-days." The bow of Ulysses is bent and broken at Beulah Spa, and the fat contributor to "Punch" is the broken-hearted Ajax, who drowned himself in the Surrey Canal because he speculated on swimming, when his bulk and brain were of a specific gravity infinitely heavier than "Philip van Artevelde," which has been pronounced by an eminent chemist as being nine times heavier than lead. We ought to add, by way of commentary, that the said chemist is almost as great a wag as Mr. Wordsworth himself, whose well-known jokes set Rydal in a roar! We crave the pardon of our gentle readers, but for the soul of us we cannot be serious over a tragedy written by one of these sucklings of the virgin Muses. We hear the lisp in all their numbers, which are counted on their nurses' fingers, and in every verse we see their amusing efforts to write straight on a pencil line. We hope our readers will not conclude that we underrate the dramatic art. It is, there can be no doubt, the very highest effort of the poetical mind, and we only wish, for the sake of common sense, that authors approached it more reverently. There may, however, be an excess of veneration, verging upon superstition, and from this sin we cannot hold Mr. Horne absolved. He seems too sensible of the presence of the muse, and attends service in her temple with a laudable perseverance. It is fortunate for Mr. Horne that his first dramatic attempt was of so high a character as "The Death of Marlowe," for in this short, simple, and passionate poem is more dramatic power than in all the tragedies of the popular "strutters and fretters." This one-act tragedy is indeed a gem without a flaw, a perfect diamond of the purest water, composed of the simplest elements, but mingled and expressed in the spirit of the Elizabethan dramatists. It has a completeness and orbicularity in which it is not exceeded by any of Mr. Proctor's dramatic scenes. It is equally fitted for the closet and the stage, there being in it no superfluous words, no theatrical trick; but while strictly and sternly dramatic, it is full of genuine, effective matter, which only requires appropriate acting to bring out and illustrate. Marlowe, as our readers are aware, died in a tavern brawl; and it is this little incident, repulsive in itself, which Mr. Horne has sublimated, by poetic influence, into an attractive vision of exceeding beauty. He represents, with a poet's feelings, his poethero, clothing with the brightness of his own spirit all that it has commerce with, however mean or even base. The courtesan, in his contemplation, is as chaste as a vestal, and she in her turn, operated upon by the energies of his faith, is willing to become what he believes her. There is in this a fine and subtile dealing with the heart and moral nature, which it is only given to the true poet to conceive. The execution is, as we have said, perfect. It does not, however, follow that the writer of successful detached scenes or acts must necessarily succeed in the fiveact tragedy. Mr. Proctor's "Mirandola" is a melancholy proof of this. We are saved the necessity of asserting that Mr. Horne has succeeded in the five-act drama-for the leading actor's friend and protegé, the learned Serjeant Talfourd, declares without reservation, that "Cosmo de' Medici" needs only good actors to be all-effective in representation. For ourselves, we have the highest opinion of the tragedy, as a lofty and noble effort of dramatic genius. Undoubtedly, as the author himself perceives, it would require to be "hewn down to a considerable extent," yet there is nothing in its construction to preclude it from stage representation. But upon this point it is expedient to make several remarks which may be useful. Not only is there an actual stage, and an ideal stage, for which a drama may be constructed, but there is also a kind of "tertium quid" stage, which may be partially one and partially the other, but neither exclusively. The first is the stage for which Mr. Knowles writes, the second is the stage for which Mr. Taylor is said to write, and for which Mr. George Darley does; the third is the stage for which Mr. Horne writes. With, perhaps, one exception, among the unacted dramatists, Mr. Horne is the best constructor of a play, absolutely considered; relatively, however, his dramas need partial (not much) recasting to fit them for the wholly actual stage. Perhaps, also, this need would be less than it is, if our audiences understood the dramatic art better. They are so lacking in that patience for which German ones are celebrated, that they are not willing to wait while some psychological or poetical development is proceeding, which would prepare them for the better enjoyment of the more active portions of the play. Hence they permit not that repose in the conduct which is essential to every work of complete art. In consequence of this, every part of a drama designed to conduce only to ideal perfection is remorselessly cut away by stage adaptors. Shakspeare, even, has been subjected to that process. How, then, shall the modern dramatist be permitted to escape? Hope of better days, however, may be conceived from the evident fact, that the system has come to an end, and that some new one must be ventured before a theatre can now be opened for the representation of the legitimate drama. All things must become new, touching both drama and stage, and with the spread of education, and by means of well-written articles in periodicals on the principles of the drama, a proper taste may gradually be generated in the popular mind, so that they may at length be led to relish the right thing in the drama, as they have already in Wordsworth's and Tennyson's poetry. The present difficulties are due to a period of transition which, happily, cannot have a much longer existence. But we must not forget "Cosmo de' Medici." This work is evidently written for the literary and æsthetic mind, and implies in the reader a previous knowledge of letters and art. Librarians, sculptors, and painters are among its persons, and the dialogue is, accordingly, slightly tinctured with their proper technics. This, however, nowise interferes with the intelligibility of the text, the style of which is of transparent beauty. For this the opening scene is remarkable; never was previous story of a play more gracefully told. We have to wait until the third scene of the second act for another instance of good conception. Were the play properly "hewn down," (and we have already done this in our own minds,) this library scene would be an instance of as fine repose as was ever executed. The quarrel of the brothers in the forest is written with force and nerve; and the communication of the elder's death to the bereft father, managed with skill and power. Take the following passage : : Cosmo. Repeat thine horrid news: or, if't may be, But by a timely aid may yet be saved! Dalmasso. Would I were mad, or wild with wine, or dreaming! But 'tis too true! Cosmo. How should he die! what dastards Stood by to see the forest boar's fierce tusks Dal. 'T was no fierce boar that did it Nor wolf Cosmo. Aha! Death's face grows darker! What then did it? Dal. We know not: in the forest's depths we found him. His wild steed bounding past us helped the search. His blood had still some warmth-but he was dead. Cosmo. Art sure? Dal. Most sure; one huntsman only with me, We could not thence remove hin. Cosmo. Lies he there E'en now? Dal. He does: the huntsman seated close, With face as white; near him this broken point, As of a sword blade Cosmo. Whose is it? Dal. I know not; But by his side we found his own. Cosmo. Unsheathed? Dal. Unsheathed and stained, as though he had fought. He hath been foully murdered, and 'twas drawn To cheat stern retribution. Where's Garcia ? Who has done it ? Dal. The Princes parted from us when the chace As it did seem. Cosmo. Oh! I will find the truth, Were't from the very stones! My passionate grief Now, mark me fixedly : (After a pause.) When that the banquet does confuse all thoughts With fit attendants, whom thou well canst trust, VOL. VI.-NO. II. A A Bring thou my son's dead body, with all care, Of mine own private chamber! Go at once; By thee be breathed, or those that shall attend thee; Dal. Your Highness' orders shall- Dal. I do, my liege. Cosmo. Go then at once, I pray you. What's all this coil of state-ambitious hopes, Wars, well-worn honours, policies, designs, [Exit DALMASSO. Ponderings, and weighings, aching, sleepless nights, To work out good results!—thus in a moment At something that's behind! I will know all, Though half should crush me! Slaughtered son! thy blood And must know somewhat of his death, or loss! Why not? I fear to answer to myself. The scene with which the fourth act opens, between Garcia and Passato, is beautiful; the rest of the act inferior. In the fifth, as ought to be the case, the action rises; we doubt, however, the propriety of its including two catastrophes; whatever re-arrangement and substitution a change in this respect would require in the last two acts, could easily be made. There is noble material in them, which would make up successfully in any form. "Gregory VII." would prove much more cumbrous in acting than Cosmo," and has, besides, some objections on the score of costume, which it might be difficult to remedy. Like the author's first play, too, it requires previous knowledge on the part of the spectator, in order to enter thoroughly into its spirit. He must have reflected somewhat profoundly on the |