ART. VII.-Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice; a Tragedy, in five acts. By Lord BYRON.

2. The Prophecy of Dante; a Poem. By Lord BYRON.

3. Letter to **** ******, on the Rev. W. L. Bowles' Strictures on the Life and Writings of Pope. By the Right Hon. Lord BYRON.

AFTER having been long announced and eagerly expected, the tragedy of Lord Byron has at length appeared. Rumours of two cantos of Don Juan, a poem on Parga, and an Italian tragedy, have been alternately spread; and have certainly succeeded in keeping the noble author and his intended work in the mind of the reading public.

Marino Faliero, doge of Venice, an aged gentleman, was married to a youthful wife, whose fame was slandered by Michael Steno, a Patrician; the particulars of which we do not learn in the play, the doge having silenced his nephew, when he, like a straight forward person, was about to read it. The offender being sentenced by "the forty" to one month's arrest, the lenient penalty is considered by the doge an added insult; and while he is venting his anger in loud words, Israel Bertuccio, the patron of a galley, is announced, and after some hesitation admitted. The doge of Venice listens to the confession, or rather confidential communication of this traitor, as he acknowledges himself-promises to meet his accomplices, and when he does join them, pledges himself to aid in assassinating all the nobility (except himself,) and to destroy the government of which he is the chief. He does not, however, make this determination without much doubt, and more conversation; and even when he is resolved, his words savour so much of repentance that Bertuccio's mistrustfulness might be pardoned. But the doge proceeds to assure him, that in expressing these horrors, and repeating the many ties which bind him to his intended victims, he very naturally becomes more hardened in his resolution. As honest Bertuccio is satisfied with this logic, it would be unbecoming in us not to acquiesce. In the interval between his interview with the conspirator and the meeting of the band, the doge has a long and fatherly conversation with his wife, in which he civilly monopolizes the privilege of her sex, that of talking all the while. In this scene, the doge, with the forgetfulness of seventy, repeats to his consort many circumstances which she must have known before, but which, for the sake of the reader, (pit and boxes not being intended,) she kindly received as rare news, and dutifully listens to her husband's praises of his own magnanimity. Taking leave of the duchess, the doge proceeds to the church appointed by Bertuccio. Here, in the middle of

the night, he makes a long speech, and calls upon the spirits of his ancestors to appear as witnesses of his pure motives. His ancestors, however, do not obey the summons; and he is joined by Bertuccio, with whom he goes to meet the conspirators, who are not a little flurried by his appearance. Then enters Lord Lioni, just returned from a revel, who leans from the window, talks about the stars, and remarks that the moon-light sea is more silent than the noisy feast he has left; and at length prepares for sleep, when Bertram, one of the conspirators, and foster brother to Lioni, enters, and discovers all. In consequence of Bertram's treachery, the doge is interrupted in the midst of a long soliloquy, by an uncivil sort of a person, called Signor of the Night, (Qu. a watchman,) who arrests him for high treason. The signal for tolling St. Mark's bell is given too late, the conspirators are secured, and Faliero is condemned to die. His duchess is admitted to the presence of the Giunto, where she says much, but to no purpose; and after an hour's converse with her, the doge is lead to death, while his wife, of course, falls into a swoon. The doge dies, but as he dies he talks: though his guards assure him that nobody can hear him but the council of ten, he delivers a speech to time and eternity, of three pages in length, which he closes with the oft repeated direction of Sir Thomas More to his executioner, "Strike but once."

The truth seems to be. that Lord Byron cannot write good tragedies there are, doubtless, some fine passages in Faliero, but it is not fine passages alone that make a good tragedy.

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"'Tis not enough, when swarming faults are writ,

That here and there are scattered sparks of wit."

A regular plot, diversity of character, and skilful grouping, are required of a dramatic writer, even though he shelter himself under the plea that his play is not intended for representation; this plea, though backed by the Lord Chancellor's injunction, has not saved Faliero from the disgrace of a representation in England. We say disgrace, because, as the author must have foreseen, it did not succeed. Indeed, this tragedy does not awaken a single feeling in the breast of the reader, but regret that the author should have permitted its publication. Mr. Hazlitt, a gentleman who has given lectures at the Surrey Institution, and who occasionally contributes to the Edinburgh Review, has said that Moore should not have published Lalla Rookh-not even for three thousand pounds. Without pretending to measure fame by the calculations of the leger, we think that thrice that sum should have been refused for Marino Faliero. The plot has neither interest nor novelty-the characters are few, feeble, and artificial. The furious and wordy rage of an old man; the cold and common place character of his wife; the conspirators, like all the traitors who have plotted in tale

or tragedy; the younger Faliero, who, with his uncle, says more than he does; a dissipated patrician; the council of ten, with Benintende the chief: these furnish the characters. Nor is there any peculiar beauty in the style, or force in the sentiments, to compensate for the inanity of the dramatis personæ.

Some fine thoughts on Venice, which the author has expressed in felicitous rhyme, he has transferred into blank verse, and interpolated, at length, in this tragedy; and here they stand, inappropiate, with all their merit. The following passage is pleasing from its pensive tone, though it has scarce dignity enough for the doge of Venice. It reminds us of some fine lines by the same pen, which begin, "No more-no more-Oh! never more my heart."

Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing;
But never more-oh! never, never more,
O'er the few days or hours which yet await
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall
Sweet quiet shed her sunset! Never more
Those summer shadows rising from the past
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life,

Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches,
Shall sooth me to my moment of long rest.
I had but little more to ask, or hope,

Save the regards due to the blood and sweat,
And the soul's labour through which I had toil'd
To make my country honour'd. As her servant-
Her servant, though her chief-I would have gone
Down to my fathers with a name serene

And pure as theirs; but this has been denied me-
Would I had died at Zara !'

This expression is also happy:

'Joy's recollection is no longer joy,

While sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.'

We dislike that microscopic criticism which searches for minute errors, and magnifies slight blemishes; but a writer like Lord Byron should not shrink from such an examination; and it may not be amiss to select one page of his tragedy, and assume the labour which ought to have been the author's. We open at random. The doge is lulling his rage, by planning schemes of revenge; when Bertuccio is announced.

'Doge. Sir, you may advance-what would you?
Israel Bertuccio. Redress.

Israel Bertuccio. Of God and of the Doge.

Doge. Alas! my friend, you seek it of the twain

Of least respect and interest in Venice.

You must address the council.

Israel Bertuccio.

"Twere in vain;

For he who injured me is one of them.

Doge. There's blood upon thy face-how came it there? Israel Bertuccio. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed for Venice, But the first shed by a Venetian hand;

He is called so;

Nay, more, a noble one-at least, in Venice:

But since he hath forgotten that I am one,

And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn-
'Tis said the worm will.'

The remark, that God and the Doge have least respect in Venice, is so hackneyed, indeed worn out, that we are surprised the author should have given it a place. When the doge says "there's blood upon thy face," we hoped to hear Bertuccio follow up the quotation with, "'tis Banquo's then." Setting aside any thought of plagiarism, (for it is no sin to steal from Shakspeare,) the expression is not good; it does not sound well from Macbeth-it is ludicrous from Faliero. The question "Doth he live?" is very well: Bertuccio's answer is too smart; and this attempt at the laconic and pithy is the greatest fault of the piece. Bertuccio's half uttered threats sound like empty bravado as to his allusion respecting the turning of the worm when trodden on, why the proverb is somewhat musty.' In the progress of the conversation, the doge discovers that Bertuccio has served under his command, and instantly dubs him "comrade." After all this, the doge suddenly asks, "Are you much hurt?" to which his comrade replies, very much in the style of a foolish game for misses called conversation cards,' "Irreparably-in my self esteem." This is certainly very genteel, lady-like, kind of writing. Lord Byron has lessened the dignity of his work, by the introduction of sentiments noble in themselves, but rendered trite by frequent repetition: Such as, Cæsar's wife must not even be suspected, the reply of the doge to the person who accused him of trembling, is with age then," and the allusion to the last of the Romans. The prophecy of the doge, before his execution, is the most ener

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getic passage in the work: but after allowing that it has many isolated beauties, we must pronounce Marino Faliero a failure. It wants interest, vigour, and matter, as a tragedy; grace, tenderness, and polish, as a poem : and it does not surprise us, that the author of Faliero should underrate the merits of Shakspeare. Lord Byron does not possess sufficient knowledge of human character, or the power of delineating its nicely varied shades, ever to obtain dramatic fame. If, indeed, to paint deep love in man, enduring affection in woman-to exhibit the transports of revenge, the agonies of grief, or the bitterness of hate, be merit, that merit is all Lord Byron's-but it is all. Thank heaven, there are feelings less fierce, but as deep as those he loves to revel in: men are not all revengeful, all hating. Even in the heart where these passions dwell, there are better emotions, different hopes and fears, other joys and pains. And it is in portraying the clashing of these varied feelings, the struggle of opposing passions, the hesitation between vice and virtue and the worst sometimes hesitate-that the skill of an author consists. To compare our modern dramatic writers with Shakspeare, is exposing them to a severe ordeal; and they shrink from the test. The German critic, Schlegel, has finely observed, (we quote from memory,) that the ancient drama resembles sculpture, bold and impressive, but cold in its majesty, and only an outline-the modern, he compares to painting, less solemn and stately, but richer in detail, with the aid of colouring. If we may extend the simile, we would say, that our modern plays are to those of Shakspeare, what an etched landscape is to the finished work of a great master. The characters in Lord Byron's works are gloomy personages, whom he furnishes with one or two thumping vices, relieved perhaps by a little virtue, and then sends them wandering through the world, behaving very much in the spirit of the homely saw, "I care for nobody, nobody cares," &c. His poems are all deficient in interest of plot: it is in the happiness of his verse, and his expression of deep passion, that his chief excellence consists. He seldom condescends to notice the pure and mild enjoyments of our nature; his spirit seems unhealthy, and his views of life are feverish and diseased. We recollect but two pleasing pictures of affection in his works; the angelic endearments of Medora, the sweetest of his heroines, and the playful, innocent caresses of Zulieka, in the Bride of Abydos.

Since the appearance of Marino Faliero; Lord Byron has published a new poem, called the Prophecy of Dante. The author remarks in the preface, that it was suggested to him, that having composed something on the subject of Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's exile. He also observes"The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am