The Sun. — 1832-01-19 (London, England)

WARDE'S. He failed only in an adequate expression of that tenderness which he is supposed to feel when kneeling beside the corpse of his young wife. Mr. Mssost made a very respectable monarch, and created his one Peer with a promptitude and energy that our Whig Ministers will do well to follow. The audience seemed to be of the same opinion, for they applauded the impromptu elevation of Count St. Megrin to a Dukedom, with the utmost heartiness and abet ity. We must not omit to notice the performance of Miss TAYLOR, who as Catherine's page exhibited a comic archnesss of manner and delivery, that reminded us of Madame VESTRIS in her earlier days. There are one or two points in the play which struck us as injudicious. We particularly allude to the somewhat haeknied incident of Catherine's thrusting her hand through the staple, and the ungenerous conduct of her lover in leaving her defenceless in such a situation. To be sure, the author has furbished up an excuse for St. Mcyrin, but it is like Mr. CROKER'S Anti-Reform diatribes, a mere begging of the question. Another defect is, that some of the earlier scenes of the drama are too much spun out. The action at times halts, in order that the characters may prose. Now we like a plot that bowls on like a chariot, without let or hindrance, and whose progress we can track step by step. But these are motes in the sun-beam. Taken as a whole the play is an excellent one, and will, we doubt not, have its fair share of popularity. Having already done well, let Lord GOWER ti y and do better. He has good stuff in him ; in justice to himself, therefore, he should give his abilities fair play. But in order to do so, he must eschew all unreasonable fastidiousness, the besetting sin of modern patrician literature.; bear in mind that the applause of a circle is not the applause of a world ; and above all, that SHAKSPEARE, who was the least fastidious, was, and ever will be, the most successful of dramatists. We subjoin a specimen of the versification. The lines marked in italics, strike us as being remarkable graceful and melodious . . . Wretch! the time has been When, in this vast and lonely room, at midnight, Tempest without, and every wind of Heaven Demanding entrance at the clattering pane, With those grim portraits of my tyrant's ancestors, Where'er I moved or bent my sight, still following, Or meeting every motion with a frown— I should have blest that human footstep's sound, And rusli'd to meet it, and have almost died Of disappointment when it died. But now The hissing of the coit'd snake in my car, The raven's croak upon the murderer's gibbet, The mandrake's shriek, were music to the sound Of love's light step, and youth's elastic tread, Upon the wrought and inlaid marquetry Of yonder corridor. Yet I despair not. He will not come—he will not risk his life On that anonymous scroll's encouragement. He deem'd another's hand let fall the dowers Into that den. His words were courtier's compliments— He loves me not. 0, God, that I could think so ! (She goes to the window and opens the casement.) I yet might warn him, were the night less dark. Some sign! (She returns in ecstacy.) The portal closes ! He is saved! Saved for to-night ! The scroll has fail'd to reach him, His better angel's hand has misdirected The blind and innocent messenger of death; And means may yet be found to arm the victim Against the future vengeance of my husband. He shall not perish ! Hark ! that sound returns— That dreadful sound of footsteps on the stair! Is it my husband ? Is it some consi*ator ? It mounts—it hesitates--arrest it, Heaven ! No—it approaches ! Fly ! for mercy's sake, Seek not this fatal threshold! Hence! avoid ! I rave! Is not the portal closed behind him ? What means of flight, then ? Hell is leagued against us_ Heaven yields, and hope is fled, and prayer is powerless! [The door opens. Enter St. Megrin.]