The lady ends, most maidenly, by fainting in her lover's arms.
A higher flight is elsewhere taken. _Isabella_ urges _Castaldo_ to murder
_Martinuzzi_, in a sentence that has a powerful effect upon the feelings,
for it makes us shudder as we copy it--it will cause even _our_ readers to
tremble when they see it. The idea of using _blasphemy_ as an instrument
for shocking the minds of an audience, is as original as it is worthy of
the _sort_ of genius Mr. Stephens possesses. Alluding to a poniard,
_Isabella_ says:--
"Sheath it where _God_ and nature prompt your hand!"
That is to say, in the breast of a cardinal!!
The vulgar, who set up the common-place standards of nature, probability,
moral propriety, and respect for such sacred names as they are careful
never to utter, except with reverence, will perhaps condemn Mr. Stephens
(the aforesaid "Editor of the Church of England Quarterly Review," and
author of other religious works) with unmitigated severity. They must not
be too hasty. Mr. Stephens is a genius, and cannot, therefore, be held
accountable for the _meaning_ of his ravings, be they even blasphemous;
more than that he is a Syncretic genius, and his associates, by the
designation they have chosen, by the terms of their agreement, are bound
to cry each other up--to defend one another from the virulent attacks of
common sense and plain reason. They are sworn to _stick_ together, like
the bundle of rods in Æsop's fable.
[Illustration: SYNCRETISM.]
Mr. Stephens, their chief, the god of their idolatry, is, consequently,
more mad, or, according to their creed, a greater genius, than the rest;
and evidently writes passages he would shudder to pen, if he knew the
meaning of them. Upon paper, therefore, the Syncretics are not accountable
beings; and when condemned to the severest penalties of critical law, must
be reprieved on the plea of literary insanity.
It may be said that we have descended to mere detail to illustrate Mr.
Stephens' peculiar genius--that we ought to treat of the grand design, or
plot of the _Hungarian Daughter_; but we must confess, with the deepest
humility, that our abilities are unequal to the task. The fable soars far
beyond the utmost flights of our poor conjectures, of our limited
comprehension. We know that at the end there are--one case of poisoning,
one ditto of stabbing with intent, &c., and one ditto of sudden death.
Hence we conclude that the play is a tragedy; but one which "cannot be
intended for an acting play" (_preliminary preface_, p.1,)--of course _as_
a tragedy; yet so universal is the author's genius, that an adaptation of
the _Hungarian Daughter_, as a broad comedy, has been produced at the
"Dramatic Authors' Theatre," having been received with roars of laughter!
The books before us have been expensively got up. In the _Hungarian
Daughter_, "rivers of type flow through meadows of margin," to the length
of nearly three hundred pages. Mr. Stephens is truly a most spirited
printer and publisher of his own works.
But the lavish outlay he must have incurred to obtain such a number of
favourable notices--so many columns of superlative praise--shows him to
be, in every sense--like the prince of puffers, George Robins--"utterly
regardless of expense." The works third and fourth upon our list,
doubtless cost, for the _copyright_ alone, in ready money, a fortune. It
is astonishing what pecuniary sacrifices genius will make, when it
purloins the trumpet of Fame to _puff_ itself into temporary notoriety.
* * * * *