136 LONDON-SHAKESPEARE MACBETH. This unexpected sentiment of humanity and momentary feeling of tenderness crossing the murderess's mind, like a flash of lightning in the darkness of the storm, is expressed without pomp of language, and rests for its effect on the simple energy of the contrast: A sunny island in a stormy main; Macbeth himself, a prey to the terrors of guilt, thinks he heard a voice cry," Sleep no more!" Towards the end of the play, when the castle is surrounded, and all the delusive dreams of ambition have vanished, leaving only remorse and despair, Lady Macbeth comes out of her apartment, walking in her sleep, pale and dishevelled, and seems to be intent on rubbing out some stains she has on her hands. It is blood she thinks she sees, and tries in vain to efface ;-her discourse, incoherent, interrupted, indicates the agitation of a tortured mind. "Out, damned spot! out, I say!-one; two; why then 'tis time to do't;-Hell is murky!-Fie my Lord, fie! a soldier, and afear'd? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?-Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?" Then a little while after she says again, "Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,-Oh! Oh! Oh!" Such scenes as these, of which there are many in this play, afford the greatest scope to the talent of the actor. Mrs Siddons and Mr Kemble did them full justice; restoring to the conceptions of the poet what the insufficiency of language has LONDON SHAKESPEARE-MACBETH. 137 made them lose, and clothing with a new body the shade of his genius. The death of Lady Macbeth, announced by the cries of her women, introduces some very beautiful passages, which are translated in the French journal, but would be superfluous here. I yielded with great diffidence, to a desire of conveying into the French language something of the beauties of Shakespeare, but I felt too plainly the difference of the two languages, and yet that is the least difficulty. For the thoughts, the turn of mind, of two nations so near and so much alike in many respects, differ still more than their respective languages; and, by a singular contradiction, while liveliness and reason form the respective bases of their supposed characters, the poetry of the former is as conspicuous for regularity and imperturbable decorum, as that of the latter is for exuberance, licence, and eccentricity. An inordinate fear of ridicule is the passion of a cultivated age, and rules in France with more force than anywhere else, not the less incurred, however, in many respects, for being so sedulously avoided. "On est honteux des affections fortes devant les ames légères; l'enthousiasme en tout genre est ridicule pour qui ne l'éprouve pas; la poésie, le dévouement, l'amour, la religion, ont la même origine. Hors le soin de son existence tout peut être illusion, ou peut être supposé tel."-Mad. de Stael. "Il y a souvent dans les choses où tout paroit ridicule au vulgaire, un coin de grandeur, qui ne le fait apercevoir qu'aux hommes de génie."-Voltaire. It appears impossible that the French and the English should ever agree on the comparative me 138 LONDON-FRENCH AND ENGLISH TRAGEDIES. rits of their tragedies. Their standards of excellence are too different. The period of poetical inspiration seems to have come too soon for the one, and too late for the other. The uniform and rigorous decorum, -the pomp and servility of the court of Louis XIV. checked the flights of Corneille and of Racine; the rudeness and bad taste of the age of Queen Elizabeth obscured the genius of Shakespeare. It had been happier if the French poets had appeared a century earlier, and the English bard a century later; before taste was over-refined, and when it had ceased to be barbarous ; when genius, in the innocence of early youth, knew not shame; and, yielding to its first delirium, said all it felt, and felt nothing that it could not say;-habitually simple and ingenuous,-often lofty and impassioned, sentimental or profound, -but by starts only, and unequally, as in nature. The French tragedy has none of these inequalities; the English too many of them, and too strong. The one is uniformly declamatory, and magnificently monotonous, the other too often absurd, low, and disgusting. Those whom the prejudices of education, and long habits, have reconciled to either of these defects, are the more incapable of tolerating the contrary ones; and it would be in vain to try to bring them to the same opinion. If, however, the two nations receive similar impressions from their respective tragedies, dissimilar as they are; if the same effect is produced by different means, they may be allowed to feel and enjoy in their own way. The human heart is accessible by more than one avenue. "Quand une lecture vous élève l'esprit" says La Bruyere, "et qu'elle vous inspire des sentimens nobles et courageux, ne cherchez pas une autre règle LONDON-SIR FRANCIS BURDEtt. 139 pour juger de l'ouvrage,-il est bon, et de main de maître.' Criticism on objects of taste is, after all, little more conducive to a higher relish of their beauty than dissection is to a higher relish of the beauty of the person. I do not know whether the ignorance of every language, every literature, or every poetry, but one, is not necessary to preserve in all its energy the relish of that one, and to prevent any part of the happy delusion from being dissi. pated. As the amor patriæ, in its full force, exists only for those who never travelled, there is generally some pleasure lost by being too wise. There is, in the play of Henry the Eighth, something about imprisonment in the Tower, and about the guards. The public caught the allusion to Sir F. Burdett's situation, and there was a good deal of clapping and hissing. The former had the advantage; but I cannot tell whether it was for or against Sir Francis. I had the honour of dining, a few days ago, with a lady, a great oppositionist, and even a reformist, who admires, of course, Sir Francis, and has paid him a visit in the Tower, One of the guests, a dignitary of the established church, and anti-reformer par metier, out of patience with all this tenderness for Sir Francis, attacked him violently and his talents, as well as political principles and motives. He said, among other things, that Sir Francis had been his pupil at college, and a great dunce; that, however, after he was grown up and married, he had bethought himself of his own ignorance, and taken the desperate resolution of returning to school, or at least resuming his studies. He took for that purpose a preceptor, a Frenchman of some literary reputation, to whom he allowed L. 500 sterling a-year, 140 LONDON THE TOWER-ST Paul's. as a remuneration for all the political philosophy he acquired under him, and of which he has since made such a splendid display. He owned, however, that the patriot was mild and benevolent,—a generous landlord, and good master. As an orator, Sir Francis is acknowledged to have considerable talents. As a statesman, his zeal is certainly more conspicuous than his prudence or judgment. By aiming at too much, he will do nothing; and, wast ing his means in skirmishes, he will never achieve a great victory. We have been frustrated in an attempt we made to see the Tower,-a deputation of the livery of London having, unfortunately for us, taken the same day to present an address to the suffering patriot. The concourse of people was prodigious; and, far from being able to penetrate, we thought ourselves fortunate in extricating ourselves from the crowd without accident. This Tower appears a confused heap of roofs and chimnies, surrounded with a wall and a ditch, broad, deep, and full of water. We shall choose a better time for another visit. Returning, we stopped at St Paul's. My admiration of this magnificent temple is not yet diminished.* Its interior is thought naked and unfinished. I was nevertheless struck with its greatness, which loses little by the want of minute ornaments. Naval trophies hang down from the inside of the dome. I do not know whether these * St Paul's, built by Sir C. Wren, was finished 1710, was 35 years in building, and cost L. 736,752 sterling. It is 500 feet long, 250 wide; the summit of the dome is 340 high; its external diameter 145 feet. St Peter's of Rome was 135 years building; it is 729 feet long, 364 wide, and 437 feet high to the summit of the cross. |