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Venez en tel état, tel horreur, tel emoy,
Que vinstes à l'accord de Jason et de moy,
Les yeus etincellans, la monstreuse criniere
Sifflante sur le dos d'une horrible maniere.
Mettez le deloyal en sy grande fureur,
Par vos serpens cheveus, que vengeant son erreur,
Luy-mesme, de ses mains, bourrellement meurdrisse,
Le filz, le Roy, sa fame, et que toujours ce vice
Becquette ses pulmons, sans qu'il puisse mourir;
Mais, par lieus incognus enragement courir,
Pauvre, banny, craintif, odieux, miserable,
Ne trouvant homme seul qui lui soit favorable, &c.

This speech would deserve the praise of tragic power as well as expression, if the thoughts were not taken, both by the author and his original, Seneca, from the Greek Medea.

JAQUES GREVIN, a physician, appears to have been the first who dramatized the death of Cæsar. There are resemblances between his play and the tragedy of Shakspeare; but only such as arose from their having drawn from the same historical sources. It is a feeble performance, written in the author's youth.-The following reflection of the chorus on the death of Cæsar, is at least pointed:

* Ah! la Nature est plus maratre
Aux hommes qu'autres animaux;
Et semble, que par travaux
Nous payons assez la raison.

It concludes with Antony's display of Cæsar's bloody mantle to the soldiers (not the people,) in order to incite them to revenge his death.

JEAN DE LA TAILLE, a lawyer, but who abandoned jurisprudence for poetry, produced several pieces. The best is his "Madness of Saul," a tragedy taken from the Bible. He drew freely and judiciously upon the sacred text. His plot is tolerably constructed; and in the character of Saul, there are, in the midst of horror and extravagance, strong traits of terror, pathos, and elevation. Saul, just recovered from a paroxysm of frenzy, in which he had made dreadful havoc upon the lives of those around him, by decapitation and torture, asks of God how he had brought the divine wrath upon his head.

Helas! toujours le vent la grand mer n'esmeust,
Toujour l'hiver ne dure et l'air toujour ne pleut;

your ghastly torches. Come clothed in horror and dismay, as when you witnessed my yielding to Jason; your eyes flashing fire, and your monstrous ringlets hissing horribly adown your backs. Inspire the traitor with such fury, that, avenger of his own guilt, he shall, with his own hands, be murderous executioner of king, wife, child-and ever let this fury convulse his lungs, without power to die; but, wandering a maniac through unknown lands, let him live the exiled victim of want, fear, wretchedness, execration-not finding one amongst the human race to look favourably upon him.

* Ah! Nature is more a stepmother to men than to other living creatures. It would seem that by our destiny to toil and suffering we dearly pay the privilege

of reason.

† Alas! the wind does not always vex the troubled sea; harsh winter doth not last always with cold and rain-every thing hath a close. Must then thy en

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Tout prend fin-faut il donc que ta longue cholere,
O grand Dieu! dessus moy sans cesse persevère?
Je suis hay de toy et des homme aussy;
J'ay cent mille soucys, nul n'a de moy souci.
Mais dy l'occasion d'une sy grand haine?
Dy la raison pour quoy j'endure telle peine?
Mais, helas! qu'ay-je fait? qu'ay-je, las! mérité
Que tu doives ainsy toujour estre irrité?

An attendant, taking advantage of the lucid moment, tells him

Saul replies:

it was because he had spared the life of Agag.
* Pour estre donc humain j'esprouve sa cholere,
Et pour estre cruel il m'est donc debonnaire?
He, sire, sire, las! faut-il donc qu'un vainqueur
Plutost que de pitie, use fier de rigueur?
Et que, sans regarder qu'une telle fortune
Est aussy bien a luy qu'a ses vaincus commune,
Egorge tant de gents? Vaut-il pas mieux avoir
Esgard a quelque honneur qu'à nostre grand pouvoir?

But to do justice to this most tragic subject was reserved for the genius of ALFIERI. JAQUES DE LA TAILLE, the brother of the abovementioned, also wrote tragedies; the most remarkable of which is "The Death of Alexander." This play abounds with two vices which are but too prevalent in Shakspeare-ringing changes upon words, and a disposition to the unnatural and gigantesque. One of the conspirators, having invited Alexander to the feast at which he is to be poisoned, says, (aside).

"Va! va! O fier tyran, ta fiere tyrannie

Sera par des gents fiers, bien fierement punie."

This sets translation at defiance.

The following speech, in which Alexander vents his agony under the effects of the poison, resembles the forcible but somewhat exaggerated speech of King John, in a similar situation, and, though still at a sober distance, the bombastic deliration of Lee's tragedy on the same subject:

† Helas! voyez que c'est qui mes poulmons empiere,
Qui englace mon sang et mes entrailles serre!
Ah! quelle peste, helas! est-ce qui, sans repos,
Me tranche tout le cœur, m'ecarbouille les os?
Sors, sors, quiconque fais dans moy ta garnison.
Viens avant, sans me prendre en telle trahison.

during wrath, oh, great God! be on me ever, without end! Oh! I am over-much hated of thee, and of men also. I have a thousand cares, and no one careth for me. But tell the cause of this thy hate-tell why I am thus made to suffer. Alas! what have I done, what guilt committed, that thou must be always thus in anger?

For being pitiful, then, I suffer his anger; and had I been cruel, he would be kind to me. Oh, Lord, Lord! must then a conqueror be harsh, not pitiful, and, without calling to mind that the vanquished lot might be his own, cut so many throats? Is it not better to consult our humanity than our great power?

† Alas! see, what is it that attacks my lungs, that freezes my blood, and racks my vitals? Ah! what plague is this that, ever without rest, cuts my heart all through,-burns my bones to cinder? Out! out! whoever thou beest, that within me hast garrisoned thee. Confront me, and do not take me thus, like a coward

Pourquoy assailles-tu mes membres en cachette ?
Dy-moy quy t'a donné l'entree sy secrette,
O peste! de mon corps? Dy quel rivage More,
Quelle terre pontique et quelle Circe encore
T'a produit pour dompter Alexander invincible?
Est-ce quelque couleuvre, ou quelque aspic horrible?
Las, dy-moy quy tu es! qu'à tout le moins je sache
Quy est mon ennemy, qui dedans moy se cache,
Pour me faire mourir. Certes quiconque sois
Main a main contre moy venir tu n'oserais.

The younger BAIF was natural son of LAZARE BAIF (already mentioned,) an ecclesiastic, by a Venetian lady, with whom he had an amour whilst on an embassy to that republic. This reverend ambassador of Francis the First, appears to have represented with a curious fidelity the gallantry and love-letters which distinguished that generous and, for his time, accomplished and enlightened prince. The son, like the father, chiefly applied himself to giving translaions, greatly improved, from the Greek and Roman dramatists. He is, however, chiefly remembered for two experiments tried by him upon the poetic language of his country-the introduction of blank verse, and the adoption of the dactylic and spondaic measure of the Greeks and Latins. The first project was not even noticed; the second, upon which he had set his heart, and tried to stamp his name in the title of Vers Baifins, was noticed for derision. Our own laureat's recent trial of the latter experiment upon the English language, presents an edifying coincidence.

Between 1560 and 1570, French tragedy was advanced a step by ROBERT GARNIER, who united in himself, and with distinction, the several characters of a lawyer, a judicial magistrate, a lieutenantgeneral, and a poet. He imitated the ancients with considerable taste, and derived from them a finer sense of the difference between rudeness and elegance of style, with improved skill in rendering his dialogue dramatic. Eight pieces by him have been preserved, viz. "The Death of Portia," founded on the defeat of Philippi, and the death of BRUTUS;-" The Death of Cornelia, (wife of Pompey)" founded on the tyranny of the triumvirate;-"Marc Antony ;""Hippolytus," imitated from Euripides;-" The Troas," from Seneca;-" Antigone," from Sophocles;-" Sedecias, or the Jews," taken from scripture; and " Bradamante," from the Orlando Furioso. It is difficult to select a specimen which should give a precise estimate of the talent of Garnier. His most conspicuous beauties of thought are scarcely his own, being imitated from the ancients. His finest speeches are taken from Sophocles, Euripides, Seneca, Virgil, Lucan, and his best choruses from Pindar and HoNo extract, for nearly the same reason, will give an idea of

race.

traitor. Why dost attack my limbs in ambush thus? Tell me who hath given thee this so secret entrance within me, thou plague? What Moorish shore, what pontic land, or what Circe hath produced thee, another monster, to vanquish Alexander the invincible? Is it some serpent, or horrid aspic? alas! tell me what thou art, that at least I may know who is my enemy that lurks within me to take my life. Certes, whoever thou beest, thou darest not meet me hand to hand.

his manner. It varied with the original, which he imitated for the moment, whether tragic, epic, lyric, or even pastoral. The following lines from his "Death of Portia," afford an example of that beautiful blending of the fanciful with the pathetic, which is so exquisitely touched by Shakspeare and some of his contemporaries. A messenger announces to Portia that Antony had ordered the body of BRUTUS to be embalmed, and conveyed to her by sea, for the purpose of receiving the honours of Roman burial. Portia, after reproaching the gods with injustice and cruelty, in having allowed wrong to prevail over right, and three tyrants to triumph over the virtue of Brutus, and the liberties of Rome, thus apostrophizes the sea, which bears back the body of her husband:

Vous deloyale mer, quy courbastes le dos

Sous nos vaisseaux armés, et quy dessus vos flots
Fistes voguer mon Brute, au lieu de me le rendre
Vous me rendez un corps prêt de reduire en cendre!
Vous ne l'eutes pas tel commis a vostre foy!
Vous le pristez vivant, vivant rendez-le moy!

O folle que je suy! O folle d'estimer
Que loyaute se trouve en la parjure mer!

The plot of his "Hippolytus" is, in some scenes, managed with more force than by Euripides or Racine. Phædra, in the fourth act, no longer able to control the fervour of her passion, throws her arms round the neck of Hippolytus. The young prince, fired with indignation, draws his sword to kill her. The unhappy queen bares her bosom to the stroke; the sword drops from his hand, and she retires, overwhelmed with shame. Theseus in the mean time arrives, and insists, by menaces, upon knowing from the nurse, the cause of the confusion and terror which he finds in his house.. Phædra hears what is passing, and dreading lest the nurse should disclose the truth, rushes in with the sword dropped by Hippolytus, and presents it to Theseus, as that which the violator of her person had left behind him in his flight, having drawn it against her life. Theseus receives the sword, recognises it for that of his own son, and claims from Neptune the pledged fulfilment of his fatal prayer. Phædra survives, and learns the dreadful death of the Prince; weeps over his mangled body, vindicates his innocence, and confesses her own shame, in language full of pathos and re

morse:

† Hippolyte! Hippolyte! helas! je romps le cours
Par une ardente amour de vos pudiques jours!

• Thou traitor sea, that didst bend thy vassal back beneath our armed ships, and didst upon thy waves proudly bear my Brutus; instead of restoring him to me, you bring me a corpse ready for the tomb. It was not thus you received him committed to your faith. You received him living-living give him back

to me.

Oh! fool that I am. oft-perjured sea.

Oh! fool to think that any faith or pity existeth in the

Hippolytus! Hippolytus! I break the thread of thy pure life, by my burning passion. Forgive me, and do not, oh thou beloved, bear indignant within

Pardonnez-moy, ma vie, et sous la sepulture
N'enfermez indigné ceste, implacable injure.
Je suis vostre homicide, Hippolyte ! je suis
Celle quy vous enferme aux infernales nuits;
Mais de mon sang lascif je vay purger l'offence
Que j'ay commise a tort contre vostre innocence.

*

Mon cœur que tremble-tu? quelle şoudaine horreur,
Quelle horreur frissonante alentist ta fureur?
Quelle affreuse Megere a mes yeux se presente?
Quels serpens encordés, quelle torche flambante,
Quelle rive escumeuse et quel fleuve grondant,
Quelle rouge fournaise horriblement ardent?
Ah! ce sont les enfers, ce les sont, ils m'attendent,
Et pour me recevoir leurs cavernes ils fendent.
Adieu! soleil luisant, luisant soleil adieu!
Adieu! triste Thesée! adieu funebre lieu!

Il est temps de mourir: sus, que mon sang ondoye
Sur ce corps trespassé, &c. &c.

In his tragedy of " Cornelia," the widow of Pompey relates the following dream, diffusely, but eloquently, imitated from the apparition of Hector in the Æneid:

* Deja la nuit muette, ayant faict long sejour,
Tournoit plus loin du soir que de l'aube du jour.

Quand d'un petit sommeil (s'il faut ainsy nommer
Un estourdissement quy nous vient assommer)
Coule dedans mes yeux inusités au somme,
Las et chargés des pleurs du deuil quy me consomme.
Et voicy que je vois prés de mon lict moiteux
Le funebre Pompé, d'un visage piteux,

Pâle, et tout descharné, non tel qu'il souloit estre
En triomphe porté parmi le peuple maistre,
Et que dedans un throsne il voyoit à ses pieds
Les Roys de gros cordeaux contre le dos liés.

Il estoit triste, affreux, les yeux creux, et la face,
La barbe, et les cheveux oints de sang et de crasse.

the tomb, implacable revenge for this my crime. I have murdered thee, Hippolytus! It is I who shut thee captive in the dungeon of infernal night. But my own unchaste blood shall wash out my crime against thy innocence. My heart, why tremblest thou? What sudden shuddering horror congeals thy rage? What horrid fury appears before my eyes? What coiled serpent, what flaming torch, what foaming wave, what roaring current, what red furnace blazing horribly! Ah! it is Hell, it is, it is, Hell that opens to receive me in its caverns. Adieu, thou shining sun, bright sun adieu; farewell, sad Theseusthis mournful spot farewell. It is time to die. Come! let my blood flow upon this dear mangled corse, &c. &c.

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* Already silent night, having made a tedious stay, had passed the midway between evening and morning When a light sleep (if I may so call the numbness of thought which overcomes us) flows on my eyes unused to repose-wearied and surcharged with tears for the sorrow which consumes me. And behold I see by my moistened pillow, the buried Pompey, his visage piteous, sad, pale, and disfigured; ah! not such as he was wont to be, when carried in triumph amidst the sovereign people, or when, seated on a throne, he beheld at his feet kings manacled with clumsy cords. He looked mournful, frightful,

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