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ART. II. The Duke of Mercia, an Historical Drama; the Lamentation of Ireland; and other Poems. Aubrey De Vere Hunt, Bart.

Hurst & Co. 1823.

By Sir

Svo. 292 pp.

10s. 6d.

THE merits and defects of the "Duke of Mercia" are in kind, so similar to those of Sir Aubrey's former publication, that hating as we do, to repeat ourselves, we might have been content simply to announce its appearance, and, after a few characteristic extracts, to leave it to the ample recommendation of its own poetry. But praise is a pleasant task, admonition a proud one; and we think we discover in this volume, ground for a good deal of both.

Before we proceed, however, to animadvert on the Duke of Mercia, and the shorter pieces which accompany it, we will premise a few observations on a question of no small critical interest:-the legitimacy of that species of Drama, which, resigning all pretensions to the stage, is supposed to be liberated from the customary obligations of scenic composition, and to be, in its own right, to use the words of old Polonius, a poem unlimited.”

Let not the reader be alarmed. We are not going to talk of Unities, of the noeud and the denoument, or any thing else which the French, and frenchified English, have put forth under the honoured name of Aristotle. Neither shall we condemn what is, or may be, good in itself, for mere dissimilarity to what it is not, and is not meant to be. We shall not enquire whether this Drama is that of the Greeks, or of Shakspeare, or of Racine and Corneille, but whether it is, or is not, a happy cast of Poetry.

Now the dramatic form, has not, we conceive, such an irresistible charm, that it may be advantageously imposed upon language, sentiments, and incidents, not essentially dramatic. On the contrary, it involves too many difficulties too many deficiences, to dispense with its own propriety, its peculiar power and privilege. Many beauties it must sacrifice, or purchase at the expense of all consistency and verisimilitude. If therefore, it can be truly said of any dramatic

production, that it has merit as poetry, but none as a play, it may be concluded, that it is the worse for being a play at all. Many beauties must have been omitted, or wanting fitness, lose their lustre. An expectation is excited which is not gratified. A certain number of persons are introduced, as it seems, to spout successive portions of a poem, the continuity and harmony of which are probably impaired by their intervention. To preserve the likeness of dialogue, if any such attempt is made, both sense and sound are perplexed, and jolted, and hampered with undignified superfluities, and uncomfortable transitions. The tale itself, if not unfolded with somewhat of real dramatic skill, must be hurried or embarrassed, rendered obscure or tiresome, or needlessly improbable, by being conveyed in dialogue. Events and characters will often be created, for no purpose but to make others intelligible; to perform what in plain narrative, might have been more adroitly executed in a single distich. Facts must be recounted to persons who could not be ignorant of them, for the information of the reader. Secrets must be betrayed, letters dropped and broken open, and villains, close as the grave, become suddenly communicative, or the whole will remain a riddle.

It may be objected, that the best tragedies partake more or less of these defects:-granted. A drama cannot pretend to all the beauties of epic or romantic poetry. But it has beauties of its own; it has its own indigenous power, the power and beauty of no other composition. But if these be absent, if they be not constantly and characteristically present, its defects will nevertheless inhere in its form and constitution, without the atonement of a peculiar merit. Much and delightful excellence it may have, without a single scene that justifies the choice of a dramatic construction, still the question remains, Why should this pretend to be Drama? Is it the better or the worse, for assuming a character which it supports so imperfectly?

We decline the invidious task of verifying these observations by particular instances. In fact the species of writing to which we allude, is so modern, that it would be difficult to substantiate our opinions without passing sentence upon living writers, not at present upon trial. Let us rather endeavour to explain our idea of the truly dramatic and its requisites, and once for all disclaim the intention to detract from the real merits of such as have not considered or attained them.

First then of the construction and shape of a drama: it may, perhaps, be conceived, that if the unities of time and place be rejected, nothing but the circumstance of dialogue or

narration, and the convenience of a less or greater magnitude, remains to distinguish the drama and the Epopoeia. Each is required to be a whole, composed of independent parts; to have a beginning, middle, and end; a single point of paramount interest, in which all subordinate interests shall finally converge, is indispensible to both; and neither can be pronounced perfect in its kind, unless every incident, and every passion, like the members and humours of an organized body, grow as it were, from one producing power, and minister to one omnipresent spirit. The connection of the parts, the succession of events, the origination of sentiments, thoughts, and feelings, should be, not arbitrary, accidental, or palpably ex consulto, but natural, necessary, logical, and as it were, vital; yet, withal, each should possess, if possible, a beauty of its own, in addition to that which it derives from its harmonious composition with the whole. Nothing should be admitted, from which the return or transition is harsh or painful, or which involves the necessity of a new beginning, a fresh spring of emotion, or which, in regard to the main interest, has no effect but diversion or delay. Nothing in short that suspends or infringes that ever varying continuity, which goes so far to constitute the beautiful, in sight, and sound, and thought, and feeling.

ones.

Yet, even from the comparatively small space, to which the dramatist is confined, arise several obligations, positive and negative, from which the narrative poet is free. Naturalists have observed, that the functions of life, are for the most part, more fervent and unremitting in small bodies than in large Poets would do well in this point, to take a hint from nature. A far more rapid pulse of interest is required to sustain the life of tragedy, than would be needful, or even salutary, to Epopoeia. It is too short a race to be won by tardy husbanding of strength. What in a larger space might be profitable repose, would here be restless and ruinous delay. Tragedy also, from its contracted dimensions, demands a more intimate and visible relation of parts, and a more immediate bearing upon the conclusion. The Epic is like a spacious building, the whole whereof, can only be seen under the blending influence of distance; when each portion is contemplated, we rather believe, or at most understand, than actually perceive, its connection with the whole. But Tragedy is like a group. in painting, which is beheld at a glance, wherein the fitness or superfluity of the minutest details, strike the practised eye, as soon as the picture can be seen at all.

Again, the very circumstance of dialogue, constitutes a specific fitness in drama, different from that of any mode of

narrative poetry. It has been, indeed, a custom, almost a rule, with epic poets, to dramatise as much as possible, to make their heroes relate a considerable portion of their own tale. Yet they have, for the most part, (we think wisely) refrained from imparting any colour of style, which might distinguish the narration of the poet, from that of the character; for uniformity of style, is an important constituent of epic unity. But the colloquial method, the rapid exchange of cha racteristic expression, which distinguishes a conversation from a succession of harangues, descriptions, or stories, is proper to that poetry which professes to imitate the very form and pressure of life as closely as is consistent with the final cause of all poetry; the ennobling of the human being, through the medium of imaginative pleasure. In striet propriety, therefore, whatever is derived from the pure poetic enthusiasm, must be blended and substantiated by a pervading human interest, a relation to some buman cause or purpose, before it can become justly dramatic; and, if not, it were much better delivered directly by the poet, who, as such, is entangled in no interest, but that of ideal truth and beauty.

But we are transgressing on the second part of our enquiry, to which we will now proceed, namely, the required distinction of substance, between the drama and every other poem; first however premising, that every dramatic composition, though constructed without any design of actual representation, is always conceived to be acted, if not upon the stage, yet before the eye of visual imagination. It cannot deal in the splendid generalities of epic, it cannot invest itself with that indefinite glory, which is allowed to involve the conceptions of a poet, when he professedly presents them in the mirror of his own mind. Much may be told, with grace and dignity, which could not be shown without disgust or ridicule. A fine thought, may, if embodied, make a poor image; and the action of a drama, must be presented in defined images, or it misses its proper nature.

Fully to explain our conception of dramatic, as distinguished on the one hand, from mere human, and on the other, from ideal or purely poetic passions, would require a dissertation far exceeding our limits. A few hints may suffice. Every intelligent reader of poetry must have experienced, that the affections, whether of pain or pleasure, pity, terror, love, abhorrence, admiration, or contempt, wherewith he is stirred in the contemplation of any event, character, or object, as an ideal possibility, the growth of the free mind, are different from those which would arise from a realization of the same possibility. He will therefore conclude, that there is such a thing

as poetic sensibility, and poetic emotion, of a nature and purpose diverse from the emotions of real life; yet bearing a cer tain relation and analogy to them, and approximating or receding in proportion as the idea is invested with more or less of the associated circumstances of reality. Now we hold, that tragedy is that educt of the imaginative power, in which the ideal makes its nearest approach to the real; and that the specific passion of drama stands, as it were, equi-distant from the ethereal enthusiasm of mere poetry, and the turbid excitement of mere human transactions and sympathies. Wherever, therefore, the truly dramatic passion prevails, the dramatic form, with its hurried interests, its varied manners, and its palpable presentation, is to be preferred to every other; but where that is absent or not predominant, we see no just reason for such preference. We shall leave it to the reader's discernment, how far these speculations bear upon Sir Aubrey and the Duke of Mercia; a performance, which certainly seems to possess more poetic than dramatic excellence; yet by no means void of either.

The Duke of Mercia, who gives name to this historical drama is Edric Streon, the guilty favourite of Ethelred the Unready, the supposed adviser of the massacre of St Brice, the betrayer and suspected murderer of Edmund Ironside. The track of history is by no means closely followed, nor does there appear so much as an attempt to preserve the costume of the age, the manners, sentiments, or superstitions of Dane or Saxon. There are, however, few glaring anachronisms; few anticipations of character or allusion, which may not be justified by the obscurity of the period, and the paramount duty of a tragic poet, to present men, rather as we feel they always must be, than as we are informed that they sometimes chanced to be. We are, indeed, a little surprized, to find the language of Danes and Saxons so deeply imbued with Greek and Roman Paganism. We do conceive, that something more of their real religion, as heathens, and as Christians, might have been introduced with advantage.

The first scenes are denominated introductory. They are supposed to commence soon after the cruel slaughter of the resident Danes, in which Gunilda, the daughter of Sweyn, was sacrificed to the short-sighted policy of Edric. Sweyn, Canute, and attendant Danish nobles, appear as newly landed to avenge their countrymen and their princess. Their conversation is a great deal too flowery, sentimental, and descriptive. A poet is not bound to disgust us with the actual manners and expressions of barbarians, because historians tell us that his personages were such; but some consistency is surely