The most remarkable scene in this play is the scene in which the painter Bazardo comes to Hieronimo, whose son has been murdered. This scene is the one best known of any in this play. I shall, however, make a few extracts from it, premising that it is supposed that Ben Jonson, who, it appears, used to act the part of Hieronimo, introduced this scene into the play from his own pen. The following is exceedingly beautiful : "ISABELLA. Is not this the place, and this the very tree Where my Horatio died, where he was murdered? "HIERONIMO. Was, do not say what This was the tree, I set it of a kernel; Would I be sprinkling it with fountain water: At last it grew, and grew, and bore, and bore; Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son, It bore thy fruit and mine." The following is a powerful piece of writing: Hieronimo is giving the painter instructions to draw him at the time when he discovered his son murdered. "HIERONIMO. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me through alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my nightcap. Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve. And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tottering, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down And looking upon him by the advantages of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio. There you may show a passion-there you may show a passion. Crying the house is a-fire-the house is a-fire. In a trance and so forth." Every one who reads this passage must be struck with the extreme force and power of the writing. In fact, I do not know where to find any passage equal to it in these respects. I have in vain sought in Lear for a passage of equal strength. And I know not where we can find anything to be compared with it. It certainly does not resemble the writing of Kyd, but I do not think it bears any very plain marks of Ben Jonson about it. Whoever wrote it, wrote a passage of wonderful beauty; but I think it must be acknowledged that the discovery of the real author is a matter of very slight importance. Here is another forcible piece of writing, but this is certainly Kyd's: "BAYULTO. I am a grieved man, and not a ghost, That came for justice for my murdered son. "HIERONIMO. Aye, now I know thee, now thou nam'st thy son: Thou art the lively image of my grief, Within thy face my sorrows I may see: Thy eyes are gummed with tears, thy cheeks are wan; Thy forehead troubled, and thy muttering lips Murmur sad words abruptly broken off; By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes, And all this sorrow sueth for thy son: Come in, old man, thou shalt to Isabel; Three parts in one, but all of discords framed ; For with a cord Horatio was slain." This is indeed a splendid passage, and in short all through this play we have continually passages of this kind. The next that I shall direct attention to is in the fifth Act, and is spoken by Isabella. To make this passage quite clear to the reader, it should be known that while she speaks this, she is in the orchard or garden in which Horatio, her son, was murdered. "ISABELLA. Tell me no more: O monstrous homicides! Since neither piety nor pity moves The king to justice or compassion; I will revenge myself upon this place, Where thus they murdered my beloved son. (She cuts down the Arbour.) Down with these branches, and these loathsome boughs Of this unfortunate and fatal pine; Down with them, Isabella, rend them up, And burn the roots from whence the rest is sprung. I will not leave a root, a stalk, a tree, A bough, or branch, a blossom, or a leaf, No, not an herb within this garden plot, An eastern wind, commixed with noisome airs, There, murdered, died the son of Isabel." Although this passage is very fine, the reader will perceive the same blemish which too often characterises the finer parts of Shakspere's works, namely, an useless quibble introduced for no purpose whatever but to play upon the word. It will be sufficient to mention one of these in Shakspere-" Too much of water hadst thou, poor Ophelia." I think this is the besetting sin of old writers. One more passage, and I have done with this play. Hieronimo, for the purpose of revenging his son, constructs a play, and by arranging the parts according to his design, succeeds in stabbing Lorenzo. The king, however, at the end of the play, asks what follows for Hieronimo. "HIERONIMO. Marry this follows for Hieronimo.— Here break we off our sundry languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue. Haply you think (but bootless are your thoughts,) That this is fabulously counterfeit, And that we do as all tragedians do, To die to-day, (for fashioning our scene, I see your looks urge instance of those words- (He shows his dead Son.) But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss, All fled, failed, died; yea, all decayed with this." From forth these wounds came breath that gave new life, that made the fatal marks." This, it must be confessed, is infinitely above all modern dramatic writing; but there can be but one feeling, that of regret, when we find language like this attached to a plot that out-melodrames all melo-drames, and is most improbable. Horatio is murdered;-Andrea is soon transformed to a ghost, in which character we see him through five acts at intervals ;- Hieronimo goes mad;-Isabella "runs lunatic," and stabs herself;-Belimperia stabs first Balthazar, and then herself;-Hieronimo stabs Lorenzo-bites out his tongue-stabs the duke and himself with a pen-knife-and the Tragedy concludes with the entrance of the ghost of Andrea, and Revenge, who express themselves extremely well satisfied with the catastrophe. It is really lamentable to find such magnificent writing as we have throughout this play attached to a plot so truly ridiculous. However, let us remember that this was not the fault of the author, but of the age in which he lived. C. H. H. THE YELLOW LEAF. EVEN as the sear leaf on the tree in its blossom, so stands among the rustling concourse of his fellow-men the Miser, tainted with his yellow gold. No longer can he taste the dews of heaven, no longer can he draw in life from the warm sunlight; the very breeze that sporteth gaily through the boughs, singing of joy to all creation else, murmurs his requiem. For in its gladsome course the golden store is shaken, and thereat grieving, doth the sear leaf fall. But then when its death-hour hath come, then payeth it to sovereign nature that just tribute-debt of good which at one time, be it in their life or death, all things that are, have been created but to pay. And the yellow leaf nourisheth in its death the roots of the fair plant that in their life its fellows have maintained. ΗΑΙ. WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD. "Not lost, but gone before." -Oh, weep not for the dead! Then weep not for the dead! -Oh, mourn not for the dead! Is it not better,-far better to know That the snares which are spread for man's footsteps below Are spread vainly for them? that dark sorrow and pain Can vex them no more? that the wearisome chain, And poureth the fulness of joy in his lay, So they bask in the beams which effulgently shine Which the seraphs upraise to the Godhead divine, With hearts never weary, and eyes never dim With such tears as on earth they shed? Then mourn not for the dead! H. G. ADAMS. |