Louis XIII is petitioned in turn, by the marquis and Marion, for the pardon of the combatants; and, though deaf to their supplications, yields to the importunity of his jester, who informs him that the condemned are two capital falconers. Marion hastens to the prison with the pardon, written by the king's own hand, but finds herself forestalled by Laffemas, who bears a parchment signed by the cardinal, revoking the order of mercy. The relative degree of respect paid to the two documents is strikingly shown in a brief dialogue.

"Marion (montrant un parchemin au guichetier). Ordre du roi. Le Guichetier. Madame, on n'entre pas.

Marion, Comment ?

Laffemas (présentant un papier au guichetier). Signé du cardinal. Le Guichetier. Entrez."-Act V. Scene II.

The jailer, bribed by the Marquis de Nangis, offers Saverny his liberty; but the youth, with rather scrupulous generosity, refuses to be saved alone; and both cannot be set free. The indefatigable Marion, meanwhile, by means we do not care to mention, procures permission for Didier's escape; but he refuses to avail himself of such a sacrifice, and prepares for execution with his companion. The sentence to the gibbet is commuted to that of beheading; a change which excites as much joy in the volatile Saverny, as a reprieve would have done.. The fatal hour sounds; Didier, who had hitherto spurned the wretched Marion, relents, at last, and bids her an affectionate adieu. Saverny, who had fallen into a comfortable sleep, is aroused by the guards, with another expressive and epigrammatic remark:

Saverny (se frottant les yeux). Ah! comment ont-ils pu m'ôter mon bon sommeil ? Didier. Il n'est qu'interrompu."

They are conducted forth; the cardinal crosses the stage in a red litter; the despairing Marion beseeches him for pardon, but in vain; the people rush back from the place of execution, and conscious that all hope is over, the wretched girl, in the words of the author, "tombe sur le pavé."

The best part in this piece is undoubtedly that of Saverny; a character cleverly drawn, and in relief from the rest. Gay, good-humoured, and generous, but reckless and indiscreet, he appears the same from first to last. In the prison, for example, while Didier is railing at his destiny, the light-hearted courtier observes that a swallow is flying low,--a sign of approaching rain. In spite of the grossness and exaggeration of the plot, there is much in the play that is spirited and amusing, with this peculiarity, that the inferior, or second-rate personages only are tolerable; the hero being uninteresting, and the

heroine disgusting, notwithstanding the elaborate attempts of
the author to invest her with interest. There is less of poetical
imagery in the dialogue than in Hernani; though the diction
is elevated and the versification harmonious.
The strong
affection of Didier for his Marie, before he discovered her real
name, is often well expressed. Thus in their interview in the
first act.

"Didier. You love me? Take you heed, for words like those
Should ne'er be lightly uttered. You do love me?
Know you what this love is? this which becomes
Our blood, our light of life,-which, stifled long,
Burns on, and on,
with flame that ever groweth,
That purifies the soul,-in the heart's depths
Alone, where we do hoard it, that consumes
The vain wrecks of all other passions! This,
Hopeless and boundless, which e'en happiness
Survives, deep, mournful! Say, is such the love
Of which you speak?

Marion.

Didier.

Indeed...

Oh, you know not
How thus I love you! From the day when first

I saw you, life, still joyless, did assume

A tint of gold; your glances lit the gloom.
Since, all is changed. To my adoring eyes
You shine, a being of celestial nature.

This world, where long has groaned my rebel heart,
Appears in light which doth invest the whole

With beauty:-until now, lone, homeless, stricken,

I've mourned, have suffered,-but have never loved."

It is in a different spirit that Didier apostrophises the fair one, when the knowledge of her guilt has taken from him the wish for life:

"Didier. . . . Woman! inconstant,-bitter,
Deep,-stormy,-like the waters of the sea!

Ah, to this sea, my helpless bark I gave,
While, in my firmament, a single star

But shone for me. The fickle wave I tempted,-
Was wrecked,-approach the tomb!"

The author of this drama has erred in the outset, by supposing that the exhibition of intense feeling could compensate for the entire absence of moral beauty in his creations. In a few scenes we discern glimpses, though but occasional, of the pathos and power of the author of "Notre Dame," but these are buried in the exaggerated sentiment, and extravagance of the plot. His succeeding pieces we shall pass without notice, for reasons that will be most obvious to all the readers of Marie Tudor and Lucrèce Borgia; and only observe that the faults we have pointed out in the preceding plays, exist in these to a greater extent, added to the most outrageous violations of the

history, and even the manners of the countries where the scene is laid. We come to the last dramatic production of this eminent writer, which has excited much attention in Paris, and the third edition of which reached us, in a superb dress, to correspond with the other works of the author. That Angelo has been elaborated with care, and is a favourite with M. Hugo, is evident from the preface, where he states his design somewhat in detail. According to his own words, he has endeavoured here

"To present, in an action resulting entirely from the heart, two grave and serious personages,-woman in society, and woman out of society: that is, in two living types; all women,-all the woman. To exhibit these two female, who sum all in themselves, often generous, always unhappy. To defend one against tyranny, the other against contempt. To show in what trials is sustained the virtue of the one, and by what tears is washed away the stain of the other. To attribute the fault to whom it is due, that is to man, who is strong, and to social custom, which is absurd. To vanquish in these chosen hearts the resentments of the woman by the piety of the daughter, love by filial affection, hatred by devotion, passion by duty. Beside such women, to place two men: the husband and the lover, the sovereign and the proscribed, and to comprehend in them, by a thousand secondary developments, all the relations, regular and irregular, which man can sustain with woman on one side, and with society on the other. Below this group, that enjoy, possess, and suffer, sometimes bright, sometimes gloomy, not to forget the envious, that fatal witness, always present, which Providence places below all societies, all governments, all prosperities, all human passions; the eternal enemy of aught that is elevated, changing forms in different times and places, but at the bottom always the same; the spy at Venice, the eunuch at Constantinople, the pamphlétaire at Paris. To assign a place, as doth Providence, in the shade, to this unhappy, intelligent, lost being, who can only injure, gnashing his teeth at all smiles, for every door closed to his affections is open to his vengeance. In fine, above these three men, these two women, to place as a tie, as a symbol, as an intercessor, as a counsellor, God dying upon the cross. To fix this human suffering au revers du crucifix."

This, in our opinion, savours of blasphemy; but let us proceed.

"To make a drama, not altogether royal, lest the possibility of application should disappear in the grandeur of the proportions; not altogether bourgeois, lest the meanness of the personages should injure the greatness of the idea; but dignified and domestic; dignified, for the drama must be grand; domestic, because it must be true. To blend in the work, to satisfy that craving of the spirit which would feel the past in the present and the present in the past, with the eternal, human, and social element, a historical element. To paint, in consistency with the idea, not only man and woman, not only those two women, those three men, but a whole age, a whole climate, a whole civilisation, a whole people. To erect upon this foundation of thought, after the special gifts of history, a story so simple and true, so living, so breathing, so real, that to the eyes of the crowd it may hide the idea itself, as the flesh hides the bones." "Such is what the author of this drama has attempted to do."

Now, whether it be that our eyes are among those of the crowd, to whom this mystery is intended to be a thing unrevealed, as too refined for their gross conceptions, we know not; but it is certain that no flesh ever concealed the bones on the frame of any relative of Daniel Lambert more effectually than the story and the accompaniments of this piece veil, the understructure of thought, morality, and religion, which M. Hugo claims for his present production. We shall not waste time or space in endeavouring to prove his failure, in this respect, by an analysis of the characters, a failure that will be palpably apparent to every reader; it remains to show, by a brief abstract of the story, what he has made of the men and women alluded to, who are each destined to comprehend so large a portion of their species in their own persons. Of his two heroines, one, “La Tisbe,” she, we presume, who is to represent "all the woman," is an actress; the favourite mistress of Angelo Malipieri, the podesta, but deeply enamoured of Rodolph, alias Ezzelino, who passes for her brother with the tyrant, and who in his turn loves Catharina, the wife of Angelo, whom he had seen, for the first time, at a church in Venice, some seven years ago, and had sought all over Italy. The portion of the early history of Thisbe, which constitutes the foundation of the tale, is related in her opening dialogue with Angelo. She was the daughter of

"A poor widow, who sang songs in the public places at Brescia. I went with her. The people threw us money; it was thus I began. My mother's place, habitually, was at the foot of the statue of Gatta Melata. One day it appeared that in the verses she sang, without comprehending them, there were some lines offensive to the signory of Venice, which excited the mirth of the followers of an ambassador that stood around us. A senator passed; he looked, listened, and said to the grand captain that followed him, 'To the gallows with this woman! In the state of Venice, that is soon done. My mother was seized on the spot. She said nothing; of what use was it? embraced me, while a big tear dropped on my forehead, took her crucifix, and suffered herself to be bound. I see it yet,-that crucifix! It was of polished copper; my name, Thisbe, was rudely carved at the bottom, with the point of a stíletto. I was then sixteen years of age: I saw the guards bind my mother, without being able to speak, to cry, or weep; motionless, cold, stunned, as in a dream. The crowd also was silent. But there was with the senator, a young girl, whom he held by the hand, doubtless his daughter, who became suddenly agitated. A beautiful young girl, my lord. Poor child! she cast herself at the senator's feet, and wept so much, with tears so beseeching, and with eyes so lovely, that she obtained my mother's pardon. Yes, my lord. When my mother was released, she took her crucifix-my mother-and gave it to the beautiful child, with these words: 'Madame, keep this crucifix; it will bring you good. Since that time, my mother is dead,-sainted woman! for me, I have become rich, and I would find this child, this angel, who saved her. Who knows! she is a woman now, and consequently unhappy. She

has need of me, perhaps, in her turn. To him who shall find the woman I seek I will give ten thousand sequins of gold.

Angelo. Ten thousand sequins of gold! but what will you give to the woman herself, when you find her?

Thisbe. My life! if she will.

Angelo. But how will you recognise her?
Thisbe. By my mother's crucifix."

We shall not question the historic probability of this romantic story, knowing the secrecy ever preserved by the Venetian government, in the arrest and punishment of their victims; it is sufficiently vraisemblant for the purposes of the drama. In the mean time, the personage indicated as an abstraction of envy, whom Victor Hugo, in imitation of Providence, places in his Eden to blight its joys, Homodei, a spy of the Council of Ten, who has slept, or pretended to sleep, through the first three scenes, awakes in the fourth to give Rodolph a minute relation of the events of his (Rodolph's) life, not forgetting the affair of the unknown lady, all which knowledge he had obtained by some inscrutable means, not explained to the reader. The young man very naturally expresses surprise at finding so many of his secrets in the possession of another; but is comforted by the assurance that his mysterious companion will help him to a sight of the fair lady whom he has so long despaired of finding. A place of rendezvous is appointed for the next night; Rodolph leaves him, and Homodei meets Thisbe, excites her jealousy of her lover, and offers to conduct her where she can have ocular demonstration of his perfidy. For this purpose, she is to obtain from Angelo the key of a. private passage in his house. The evening comes; Rodolph is led by his false friend to the presence of Catharina; afterwards, Thisbe is introduced; in their terror at the sound of footsteps approaching, the lover has nothing left to do but retreat into the lady's oratory, whence there is no other means of egress, than through the apartment he quits. Thisbe enters, charges her terrified rival with the fact that a man is concealed in her chamber, loads her with reproaches and menaces, and calls upon her husband. Just as Catharina, in an agony of fear, flies to her crucifix to pray for protection, it arrests Thisbe's attention, and she makes the discovery that her hated rival is no other than the young girl who had once saved her mother's life. A complete revolution hereby takes place in her feelings; and when Angelo arrives, she averts his suspicions from his wife, by informing him that she had visited the palace at that late hour, to warn him of a projected attempt upon his life, on the following day. The guilt of Catharina is however revealed to her husband the next day through Homodei, by means of an intercepted letter, and she is condemned to