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is no mean praise; but the piece has other qualities, which make us regret

ACT I. SCENE III.

that Mr Hyde did not apply himself The Princess's Apartment, decorated_with

to a task better suited to his own powers, than that of adapting to the British stage a foreign production, which, whatever be its merits in its native language, no genius in the translator or compiler could dress up to a rank higher than that of respectable mediocrity.

But before observing farther on its merits, we must begin to give some account of the plot. We premise, however, that with the Spanish original, or the German version of it, to both which Mr Hyde with great candour acknowledges his obligations, we have nothing whatever to do. It is seldom fair criticism to make comparisons between imitations and originals in the drama, when the claim to ́originality is honestly and formally abandoned. The writer is entitled, in common justice, to have the piece which he offers for our amusement tried upon its own merits, and by a reference to its avowed purpose; and in estimating the claims of "Love's Victory" upon our favour, we shall not travel out of the comedy as it now lies

before us.

The plot may be easily told. It has the advantage of simplicity; and is, indeed, not very uncommon either in the general design or in its details. The Princess Diana, only child of the Duke of Barcelona, is in the predicament of all rich heiresses,-beset by a multitude of suitors. She has, however, very early imbibed certain "maxims which she holds as dearly as her life," but which are generally supposed, both by poets and by the world, not to be very common with her sex. One of these maxims, and that which forms the pivot of the drama, is, (we like to give a lady's sentiments in her own words,)" that she regards the choice between marriage and death with perfect indifference." And so far does she carry this sentiment into actual practice, that-again somewhat differing from the reputed propensities of her sex-she not only presents a front of awful coldness to her admirers, but even to Donna Laura and Donna Louisa, her cousins and intimates,-nay, to Donna Floretta, her maid of honour, she holds the same appearance of inflexible Platonism. The following is a specimen.

VOL. XIX.

paintings, sculpture, &c. Donnas LAURA and LOUISA, sitting at a table with books. Donna FLORETTA and the Princess DIANA.

P. Dia. Read me that pasaage again, Floretta; I like the story much.

D. Flor. (reads.)

"In vain Apollo woo'd the maid,— That peerless daughter of the stream; Daphne implored Diana's aid,

And gave the laurel deathless fame,"
P. Dia. It is admirable.

D. Flor. I think it very dull.

D. Lau. It seems to me rather affected.

P. Dia. The language, I confess, is somewhat elevated; but it befits the subject.

D. Lou. It really does sound a little pompous.

P. Dia. Granted. It is the poet's task to raise our feelings above the ordinary grovelling occupations of the common world.

D. Lou. (sighing) Well.

P. Dia. What means that exclamation?

D. Lou. It may be all very true; but I'm sure it must be very cruel, and wicked too, to hate love, or anything else, without knowing what it is.

a child as to burn yourself before you P. Dia. Then you would be so much

shunned the fire?

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D. Lou. As the pleasure of trying it.

P. Dia. (angrily) What do I hear? Is this spoken in my presence? Donna Louisa, you must make your election between these sentiments and my society.

Cold and stern beauties have been, time out of mind, privileged to inflict the hottest pains of the most feverish of passions; and Don Cesar, Don Luis, Don Gaston, (all princes, be it remembered,) and a certain Don Pedro, an old courtier and superannuated beau, are rivals for this fair prize. Don Cesar, however, being the most deeply smitten, is of course at once the most desponding and the most persevering of them all. Very early in the piece, we find him planning, at the instance of Perin, the Princess's secretary, a scheme for overcoming the pride and obstinacy of her seemingly cold and unyielding temper.

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The dialogue in which this most justifiable conspiracy is plotted may be regarded as a fair specimen of the author's powers. It is spirited and lively, and possesses a merit which they who have attended much to the five actdramas we suppose we must call them

of the last eight or ten years, will deem of no mean value-that of developing with brevity, and yet with clearness, what it is the men and women really are about, who speak, and smile, and frown, and move before us, for our amusement.

SCENE-An apartment in the Palace. Enter PERIN.

Per. There he sits with his head in his hand, like an unmated dove in the month of May. What a sigh! Heigho! We're a pair of melancholy youths,both over head and ears, and scarcely a straw to catch at. That little imp of mischief, Floretta, has taken me in her toils, and this poor Prince, I see, is bound hand, foot, and heart in the chains of the Princess Diana, who, for our comfort, forswears love as though it were a worse plague than it is. I am the only man whose presence she endures, and that only because she believes me to be a woman-hater. Heaven help her, what a mistake she makes! Yet, if she finds it out, adieu to my secretaryship-and I leave Barcelona as little troubled with equipments as when I entered it after my banishment from Naples. Is there no way to overreach a woman's whim, and bring down this intolerable pride? Ah-if I could first win her for Don Cesar, then Floretta and I-excellent thought! Here he comes, and I'll sound him directly.

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old Vesuvius, as he tossed his fiery crest up to the flouted heavens-and

Per. This is exceedingly well done, Prince. I like it, and am glad to see it; for he who can repress his feelings is a free man, though in chains.

D. Čes. In chains? I don't understand. Per. Indeed! Oh, very well, I can explain. Your Highness is in love?

D. Ces. (confused.) Poh! poh! Perin, thy old habits of bantering are not yet worn out, I see.

Per. Not like our old Neapolitan love, I grant, fierce and consuming as your fiery-crested Vesuvius. No, your Highness prefers an elegant, classical, platonic coldness, the Pygmalion taste, ivory, or sheer marble!

D. Ces. Well, Perin, I know thou art my friend, and will confess my love for this haughty being-colder than marble itself. This very day, when every tongue was shouting forth my triumph,* I turned my anxious eye towards her balcony; and there she sat immovable, as though she were the statue of some goddess, surrounded by a common, busy multitude, and glancing down her proud contempt upon my deeds.

Per. Ay, there lies the poison. Bear that in mind, Prince!

D. Ces. What an enigma is this heart! Her scorn excites its tenderest emotion. Her look is ice, yet lights up flames; benumbing, freezing it with cold, and then consuming it with burning passion! Were her beauty aided by the common blandishments of woman, I could look on it unmoved, but that repulsive majesty is irresistible.

Per. All which means-sinking the poetry that the same thing which nei

ther makes a man warm nor cold while he can get it, being put out of his reach, turns him to frost and fire. Pray, calm yourself; it certainly is not altogether so particularly agreeable to be in love with a statue; but the matter may be mended. She calls all this philosophy-I call it fiddle-de-dee.

D. Ces. Take care how you speak of

her.

Per. The fact is, Prince-between us -she's not quite right somewhere or other. A mere picture puts up her devil, if it but represent a happy swain prostrate before his Chloe. In her apartments you find nothing but Daphnes flying from Apollo,-Anaxarates transformed to stone, and Arethusas flowing about in every possible variety of stream, as if murmuring at their unhappy fate.

*At a tilting match.

D. Ces. Then, in the name of Love, what hope is there for me?

Per. If you attack her with the right weapons, there is the certainty that nature will put philosophy hors de combat, and leave you in possession of the citadel. I am but a skimmer of surfaces, and little burdened with the learning of your books. Yet a man who walks about with his eyes open, may be philosopher enough to see how the world goes. (Asuming a mock serious air.) And I do opine, advance, and maintain, that what is against nature is unnatural. It cannot hold, because, twist it and turn it as you will-morally, physically, mathematically—it tumbles to pieces. Upon this incontrovertible position I build my sys

tem. The Princess Diana is a proud woman. All women naturally expect admiration; withhold the tribute, and you mortify her pride; without pride she is a simple woman; and for a simple woman, it is natural to fall in love.-There, sir, you have it-premises, inference, and conclusion.-What think you of Professor Perin?

D. Ces. A truce to jesting, friend, and tell me what I am to understand by this?

Per. Simply, that if you adopt my advice, I stake my head upon schooling her pride, and showing her philosophy in its

true ridiculous colours.

D. Ces. Explain yourself.

Per. Remember, Prince, what won your love. Not Diana's beauty, but her pride.

D. Ces. I begin to see the light.

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P. Dia. Well, then, if I perforce must enter this arena, unworthy as I am to plead a cause so noble, I do it fearlessly, because I know its greatness is superior to detraction. I hold that the brief space of life should be devoted to the care of those immortal powers, which give to man the sovereignty in nature. In love, man abdicates his

Per. When she receives you coldly throne, and is as mere an animal as any

meet her with indifference. If she look scornful-throw her back a glance of pity, - coupled with a compassionate shrug of the shoulders, or a French twist of the mouth. The greater pride will subdue the lesser, and you have the dame as tractable as a newly-whipped child.

D. Ces. 'Twere easily resolved-but then-I love!

Per. The greater the merit and the pleasure of the conquest. Arm yourself with confidence, depend upon my aid, and you can't fail of success. But remember, we must appear to have no understanding

with each other, or we are both ruined; for both our fortunes are at stake. Be wise be resolute-but, above all-be cold.

D. Ces. How is it possible to conceal the feelings which absorb my every thought! Yet, if it must be so-gigantic as the effort is-it shall be made.

Per. Bravo! rely upon my support in time of need. But see where the Duke and your friends approach. We must not be marked together, and your disguise must be worn even to them. Now,

in the wide creation. Search history, consult the wisdom of all time, and show me where the benefits of love are written down. What dragged Semiramis from her proud glory? What has unlaurelled many a hero's brow? Nay, what destroyed the city of the hundred towers? This vanity which you call love; this creature of your fancies, who, being himself a child, is made a god by childthe abasement of the weak, the downfall ren! This pestilence, which has ever been of the strong, the degradation of my sex, the instrument of craft and tyranny in yours! And yet you wonder that I cast

it from me with aversion. Look at the other picture, where the star of mind rises above the waste of time, and sheds its light upon the wanderer's path, at once the guide and glory of humanity. No! what Plato fondly dreamed shall be affected in my realms. Woman shall be as noble and as free as man,

We need hardly observe, that this bravery does not continue long. Don Cesar plays his part most adroitly, notwithstanding one or two (of course

unavoidable) falterings, by which he is nearly betrayed; and before the close of the second act the Platonist finds that she is but an ordinary mortal. Pride gives birth to partiality, or perhaps we should rather say developes, when wounded, a partiality which, while it was flattered, like a petted child affecting aversion for his toy, it was able to conceal. Diana has already acquainted Perin, the plotting secretary before mentioned, not with her love indeed, but with her rage and disappointment. Through him and her female associates she had managed to become Don Cesar's partner in a masquerade, given by her father on the eventful day of this contest between the softest and the sternest of the passions. She now engages the secretary to draw away Don Cesar (who is ungallant enough to desert his partner at her own imperious mandate) from the rest of the party to a bower in the garden, where she tries the effect of her musical talents, both vocal and instrumental,-in vain. Her lover is schooled by Perin, and exhibits the most stoical insensibility to the strains of the syren. This whole scene is worked up with great skill. The loud rhapsodies of Don Cesar upon the superiority of inanimate to animated nature, uttered while he gazes upon the flowers and scenery around him, wholly regardless of the presence or the music of his mistress, are some of the few instances in which declamation may be not out of place in comedy, and are amusingly contrasted with the pathetic efforts of Diana to arrest his attention, and her anxiety, now growing every moment less angry and more painful, at witnessing his apparent neglect.

In the Fourth Act, her distresses accumulate. We are not sure if the author's highest powers are not exerted in the manner in which he makes his machinery here work upon the feelings of his heroine. The contrivance is simple, but it displays a thorough knowledge of human nature. Don Cesar's two former rivals, Don Luis and Don Gaston, tired of their ineffectual vows at so cold a shrine, had abandoned their devotions to the Princess, and paired off, the former with Donna Laura, the latter with Donna Louisa. Perin, who, we should say, is most ably supported throughout by Donna Floretta, the loving, laughing, good-natured maid of honour, (at

tached, as may be supposed, to the secretary,) contrives to bring the two couples just mentioned to a place where they can be seen by Diana exchanging their vows of new-born love. Music lends its soft enchantments to this scene of fondness; and the presence of Don Cesar, standing apart, and appearing utterly insensible to every tender emotion, inflames the heart of the tortured Princess, from which Platonism has now almost wholly melted away. She is at once mocked by the sight of happiness which she cannot share, and by the cold and averted looks of the man with whom she would now give the world to share it. That love is a most catching disorder, prudent mothers know from still surer sources than poetry; and our author has here illustrated, with considerable power, one of the most pervading principles of our nature, prone as it is in all things to sympathy and imitation.

The Princess now tries the last, and usually the most successful resource of woman's art-jealousy. But Don Cesar, through the indefatigable Perin, is apprized of her design, and foils it by repaying her in kind. She assures him, that at that very hour she has selected Don Luis for a husband. Don Cesar replies, that, by some strange conjunction of the stars, he, at identically the same hour, had chosen Donna Laura for his bride; and the Fourth Act closes with the despair of the discomfited Princess, and the sure and triumphant anticipations of her lover.

In the beginning of the Fifth Act, we find the meshes completely drawn around the devoted victim of Love and Pride; and no little art is displayed in making her, in the midst of comic incident and lively dialogue, an object of compassionate-we had almost said, of deep interest. Don Luis and his intended bride join in the plot against her. The former comes, as if just apprized by Don Cesar of his good fortune, to pour out at her feet his gratitude for her having made him the happy object of her choice, and leaves her without giving her time for explanation. Donna Laura comes to ask from her friend and cousin an approval of her own union with Don Cesar. The poor Platonist is here completely subdued, and her feelings gush their way in the following passionate expressions, which well sustain the highest

tone of serious comedy, without at all passing beyond its legitimate range. Enter D. LAURA, and D. FLORETTA.

D. Lau. Dear cousin, I am come to throw myself upon your friendship. Don Cesar has just offered me his hand, and is gone to ask your father's sanction to our nuptials. My uncle's will is mine, but I should be still happier with Diana's approval.

[P. DIANA turns aside to hide her

emotion.

Cousin, do you not hear me?

P. Dia. Yes, Laura, I will unbosom all my feelings, and throw myself upon your love. Alas! our hearts are like the restless winds that shift from point to point as the eye glances, yet have no visible cause of motion. I will confess to you that Cesar's pride has irritated me beyond endurance. I have despised all whose passions I have ever moved, and he, the only man that ever moved my heart, dares to despise me. I am insulted, wronged, dishonoured; and I claim that friendship at your hands, Laura, which you came to seek at mine. You shall avenge me. Let him endure the scorn which has tormented me. Repay his arrogance; and let him find a heart as flinty as his own. My dear, dear Laura, let him suffer, writhe, consume with agony;-then mock his tears, deride his thousand and accumulating woes.

D. Lau. Mercy! Cousin,-what counsel would you give me? If ingratitude be criminal in him, it cannot be a virtue in me. No; if he loves me sincerely, I

shall return the sentiment.

P. Dia. Love him! And wilt thou dare to love him?

D. Lau. Heavens, what do I hear? D. Flo. (Aside to LAURA.) Don't be frightened.

P. Dia. Don Cesar thine, whilst I am dying for his love? Never! His very pride enchants me; and in the depth of that abasement which he caused, I still adore

him. (Starting and turning from them.) What's this? Have I forgot my honour and my fame? No,-thou perverse heart -bleed! bleed! But let me save Diana's fame untainted. (To LAURA.) Laura, you see I'm ill,-delirious. My tongue had lost the guidance of my reason. Believe not what it spoke so falsely, but hear me, dearest Laura. Give him your hand -I am content. You will be happyvery-very happy—and I can rejoice in that. Go, then, and bless him with thy constant love. Go-enjoy that bliss, and leave me to a life of wretchedness and shame.—(LAURA is going.) Yet stay! O - Heaven, it is impossible, I cannot bear the thought. The flame bursts forth and

wraps me in destruction. I sink-I die -the victim of my pride.

[Sinks into LAURA's arms.'

All the author's springs are now wound up, and in the next scene the grand feat is achieved. Diana is ushered in by her father, attended by the various parties whose destinies are to be decided at the same time with hers; and she atones for all her sins against the sensibilities of womanhood, by a voluntary surrender to Don Cesar.

We have said enough, we think, to communicate to those who have not yet seen this drama, the very favourable impression which we have ourselves received from its perusal. The plot is certainly well managed. The principal action is not suspended for a moment. The distresses of the heroine increase from act to act; and the contrivances employed by her to relieve, and by her adversaries to enhance them, become more and more important for their purposes, and are attended with greater and greater success on the one side, and disappointment_on the other, until the piece concludes. The dialogue, on the whole, possesses much dramatic power; and although some flowery Spanish conceits are scattered through it, reminding us occasionally that at least its seeds are exotic, it is, for the most part, sparkling, lively, and well sustained.

We wish we could stop here, but we cannot help deprecating, for the sake of the remaining part of this comedy, and the reputation of its author, the intrusion of two most intolerable bores, in the persons of a conceited old man, who does nothing but talk the silliest fustian, and of a most talkative servant of his, who yet scarcely says or does anything but make piteous complaints of incessant hunger. They have literally no more to do with the plot, than have the witches of Macbeth with the distresses of Hamlet. They seem introduced for no other purpose than to raise a laugh among certain parts of the audience by the most common of all the tricks of broad low farce-the rapacious appetite of a starved servant -and by what is still less sufferable to a lover of genuine English Comedy, a most absurd caricature of one of its most brilliant creations-Lord Ogleby. It is the constant fate of extravagancies `of this kind, that, unnatural as they are of themselves, they derive additional improbability from the circumstances with which they are blended ;

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