nants; he knew not how to be great, even in crime, nor to prize greatness; and glory and empire, even honour and fidelity to friends and soldiers, were easily sacrificed to the fascinations of a woman. Among the few illustrious and unapproached, who have represented her in all the variety and splendour of her anomalous character, her wild genius, and fiery passions; in the hopeless story of her crowning love and despair-none are to be paragoned with our Shakspeare, and next to him with Corneille. In their conception of her singular nature, her rare versatility, her soaring pride, noble sentiment, vices, and weakness— all the most perplexing contradictions-the one has drawn her full of sweetness and attraction, brilliant, enthusiastic, with a fire of soul, flashing through her resistless eyes, yet tempered with queenly graces-the young girl who rivetted the look of Pompey, whom Cæsar delighted to crown and honour; while the other, our interpreter of all natures and characters gives us a Cleopatra, the full development of all these in the splendid, ambitious queen, and in the artful, capricious, and enchanting woman. Matured in pride of beauty, skilled to rule; full of intelligence as of surpassing grace and beauty; cunning, wild, and variable, even her love of Antony appears subservient to her desire of ruling him with an absolute sway. Shakspeare's then is "the infinite variety that never stales," he preserves throughout the characteristics of the woman in subordination to those of the ruler, weak, changeful, faithless in the hour of peril, and bringing down destruction upon her lover by an ostentation of bravery and vain-glory. The "Cleopatra" of Corneille, in his " Pompée," presents a contrast in nearly all these points. She is young, generous, abounding in sensibility and noble sentiment, the intercessor for a brother who aimed at her life and throne; she would protect Pompey, and wept over his fall; though she owed every thing to Cæsar, already enthralled by her charms-aspired to become the arbitress of his destiny, and that of the proud republic prostrate at his feet. Amiable as irresistible-of elevated and right-royal mind; all of womanly grace combined with grandeur of sentiment, such as a Roman matron might be proud of-we see nothing of the fickle, wilful, cunning beauty, employing her arts to the ruin of her adorers, to secure the favour of the new victor, and by ruling him to strike at Rome and achieve unrivalled power. No doubt our great dramatist is the most true to nature as well as to historic authority; while the portrait of the grand Corneille is most agreeable to our feelings, the most ennobling, and calculated to enlist the hearts and sympathies of a select audience. Madame de Girardin has evidently studied both these splendid, but strongly contrasted models. She has at once represented Egypt's proud, diademed sovereign, and the accomplished woman; the unrivalled beauty, the enchantress of all hearts, with the fiery genius and ardent passions which plunged her into wretchedness and crime. From both the mighty masters she has attempted to draw another Cleopatra differing from either, yet retaining all such features of them in her closely studied portrait which she deemed best adapted to produce a powerful impression. Add to this blending of characteristics, strong sensation, startling incident, and sudden surprises, and a little too much straining after effect, and we behold the new "Cleopatra" of the French stage just as Mademoiselle Rachel presented her to the admiring gaze of her numerous votaries. In her manner of developing this novel combination of character, the writer has shown considerable skill and talent, as well as some original power; but in the latter respect she has committed one fault, and a grave one-she has given to her heroine too dark a hue-deepened by the contrast of the too fair and spotless Octavia : "That faultless monster which the world ne'er saw," and then weakened the interest by giving too great relief to a rival, who by her virtues ought to enlist our sympathy against "Cleopatra." With this drawback the drama is written in a spirit not unworthy an admirer and follower of Corneille. To imbibe any portion of his lofty soul and fervid eloquence, and combine it with a native vein, is no easy task. Elevation of genius and magnanimity of feeling-almost Roman -with an originality peculiarly his own, are stamped upon all his works; models of a severe and manly taste, which spite of the prolixity and false glare of the French classical school, set an example, not lost upon successors like Racine and Voltaire, and which ennobled the spirit of the modern drama. Wanting such a redeeming power, the French stage could never have attained its present celebrity; and its best writers of the romantic, the mixed, and the familiar classes, would have failed in that nerve and solidity which render them so popular-a sort of dramatic storehouse for the pens of foreign playwrights, adapters, and caterers to the tastes of other nations. They ought to venerate the memory of Peter Corneille, and that noble advocacy of liberty which extended its influence to the revolutionary era, and is the soul of his chefs d'œuvre. In the reform of national taste, costume, and manners, he is to be considered no less the father of the French stage. Forms and styles might alter, but the spirit survived—and he still spoke through the works of the great men and the mighty events that followed. More an antique Roman than a Frenchman, he knew how to describe Roman magnanimity, the old simplicity of manners, and spirit of independence which, like his own, taught men to look down on kings, to despise and shun their courts. When that of the "Grand Monarque" himself, the ostentatious and falsely estimated Louis Quartoze, who could not appreciate his noble genius, or forgive his heroic virtue, shall have ceased to be spoken of, the fame of the consecrator of national honour and manly independence will continue to grow brighter with the lapse of time in the eyes of a grateful posterity.* This little tribute to the founder of the French Drama will hardly be considered irrelevant, when we venture to surmise that had he never lived and written the Loves of Cleopatra, the frequenters of the Théâtre Française, might have wanted a stage, and the present production, upon which to exercise their judgment or bestow their applause; nor should we have had the pleasure of beholding a new "Cleopatra" in full and complete costume, of pointing out some of its beauties and resemblances to its predecessors to our play-loving readers. Not the least gratification to a French audience must have been that of curiosity derived from such a source, the natural desire of drawing comparisons between the portrait drawn by the lady and that of each of her illustrious predecessors. Without wishing to derogate from the positive merit displayed in the work of Madame de Girardin-enough to support it both on the stage and in the closet-we shall attempt to extend this source of * See preface to his Life and Works, by Fontenelle. interest by selecting a few brief passages from each of the great national dramatists. Their genius has not been thrown away upon their fair disciple. Without servilely copying, she has lighted her torch at their shrine and drank inspiration from the sacred fountain of human tears, and the same sympathies from whence they drew it. It is a question, however, how far her conception of a new character and a combination of different qualities are quite compatible with a just observance either of nature or of history, and in so much as they deviate, they are felt to be artificial and conventional, in other words, betray too much elaboration in the details of colouring and the picture, in the laudable hope, doubtless, of compensating for the genius of the one, the grandeur and dignity of the other great master. The lady's "Cleopatra" then, is a full-length and laboured production, a miracle of intellect and depth of thought as well as beauty, seeking to combine the logic of Aristotle with the pleasing philosophy of Epicurus, the ambition of Alexander with the policy of Macchiavel, the fiery soul with the sensual temperament of a child of the sun,-all in strong contrast and high relief, brilliant and harmonising only like the hues of the rainbow; now all tenderness and passion, now grand and heroic, and then the very antithesis of herself, as though she possessed two distinct souls. Impelled by the one, she is described as capable of consigning lovers from her fatal arms, to sudden and ignominious death. Besides her first benefactor, Pompey, who flew to claim her aid, and fell as he touched the Lethal shore, Cæsar only quitted the enchantress, a myrtle-wreathed victim, decked out for republican vengeance (for it was asserted she was in league with the conspirators), Eastern potentates she despised as unworthy of her arts-hating and fearing Rome alone, while Mark Antony, whose star shone so steadily till he set foot within that magic circle, fled in the sight of Rome's veterans, whom he had a hundred times led to victory. In the words of his friend and old lieutenant, Ventidius :— Diom. Yes, all were vanquished, and they died most fate-stricken For Antony, Philippi was,-Pharsalia! But ere that rueful rout, skill'd in art's ambushes, She had sent aid to Brutus !-Antony swears it, And publicly will force her to reply The surer to confound her. Antony see her! The criminal is saved-the judge condemn'd. Act I., Scene L. The conqueror little dreamed of his own weakness in daring to cope with an heroine like that drawn by Madame de Girardin. That fascinating power-the most characteristic of all her qualities-is brought into fuller display by the introduction of a handsome Greek, a slave to Cleopatra in both senses of the word. He becomes madly enamoured of his too charming sovereign; he falls at her feet, she smiles, and he is doomed. This underplot, or rather episode, is narrated in the first act, and adopted as the agent to excite Antony's jealousy, detach him from Cleopatra, and lead him to accept the terms offered by Octavius with the hand of his sister. It supplies, indeed, the chief incidents in the play. The queen's secretary becomes possessed of the secret, and thus reveals it to Ventidius. Diom. Her wondrous charm has something sure, divine, Our purpos'd plots-we see her-and we tremble, Her thought is as a world, her heart an abyss ; Braving, with reckless soul, both court and people. Act I. We must interrupt the dialogue a moment, however, to remark the false taste and the bathos incurred by straining for effect, in the two or three concluding lines; and to observe, that this is a very different portrait to that of the sensitive and generous queen drawn by Corneille, to the all variable, wild, but loving Cleopatra of the bard of Avon. She is here made, in earnest, what Antony calls her in jest, the true Serpent of the Nile," nor does she once forfeit the character, till we are almost induced to believe she must be aiming at the perdition of Antony, to inveigle Augustus himself, and so satiate her hatred of Rome by plunging her into fresh anarchy and war. To return to the Greek slave, a more important personage than the clown of Shakspeare, who brings Cleopatra the basket of figs and aspics, but who discharges the same ungentle office when she falls into the hands of Octavius. Diomede, already leagued with her enemies, thus continues : Diom. What you presume to check a soul like hers? Ven. A young Greek! slave! as mad as he was handsome, Smil'd, and that smile gave him both love and death. That tutors criminal amours to silence, Lest royal pride should suffer diminution. Shame, not remorse, is dreaded, and the bold heart Is still held free from censure. Diom. A man, at least. What, a slave? I hear a step. Let us retire! (They withdraw into Diomede's apartment.) Charmian and Iras, Cleopatra's maids of honour, now appear with a bowl of poison. The Greek receives it with the grandeur of a hero; Socrates was not more brave and calm, though he appears to care little for the consolations of philosophy. He invokes the implacable goddess of the shades with as much unconcern as if he were going to sing a bacchanalian song. He then drinks and falls; but Diomede is at hand, sends the women away, and with the help of an antidote and a doctor, resuscitates him. He is far from grateful, however, being restored to life only to witness the fall of his adored mistress, and to fill the mournful office of rescu ing her by death from being led in triumph at the chariot-wheels of the world's master, the imperial Augustus. Cleopatra at length appears surrounded by her splendid court; the grand priest of Hermes, who reads from the sacred volume an exposition of the Egyptian divinities-philosophers, poets, architects, sages, and musicians. Her versatile genius and ambition to command are thus brought into display, doubtless intended to impress the minds of the audience at the outset with admiration and respect. She addresses them on the objects of their several pursuits, shows her familiar knowledge of them, and when all prostrate themselves before her she raises them, and nobly says, I like not this! wisdom and science ought not To form its judgment: Egypt owes her rank, The first, to you. Thought makes man great with us.- A Sage. That grand reproach honours thee! proves thy genius! Act II., Scene I. The progress of the piece is well sustained, likewise, by some noble lines expressive of her anxiety for the safe return of Antony. Her description of Egypt takes its mournful colouring from the excess of her feelings, and her regrets for the absence of him she loves: Cleo. Could I but see him! slow, slow wears the hour, And what fierce heat stifles the breathless air; Keeps his red-eye, fix'd, open, ever on us, Till thought itself shrinks at the dazzling glory. And most to queens!-boast not her monuments- Life's toil at best but to embalm the dead. The dust alive with death-the air with perfumes Still madly struggling with eternity. Vain show of vanished ages, horrible art! Your triumphs and the land which gave you birth Alike are hateful; even its beauties shock. Mysterious river, whose far source in vain Three thousand years of science would explore- Not the sun's gift, nor that of happy stars, Act II., Scene II. The next passage is a description of Cleopatra on the Cydnus,-one of the richest gems of our Avon bard. We shall give both, and it will be |