of lively power, have no effect, except to break up the interest, and Byron’s are of the same class; they have no present life, no action, no slight natural touches, no delicate lines, as of one who paints his portrait from the fact; their interest is poetic, nature apprehended in her spirit; philosophic, actions traced back to their causes; but not dramatic, nature reproduced in actual presence. This, as a form for the closet, is a very good one, and well fitted to the genius of our time. Whenever the writers of such fail, it is because they have the stage in view, instead of considering the dramatis personæ merely as names for classes of thoughts. Somewhere betwixt these and the mere acting plays stand such as Maturin’s Bertram, Talfourd’s Ion, and (now before me) Longfellow’s Spanish Student. Bertram is a good acting play, that is, it gives a good opportunity to one actor, and its painting, though coarse, is effective. Ion, also, can be acted, though its principal merit is in the nobleness of design, and in details it is too elaborate for the scene. Still it does move and melt, and it is honorable to us that a piece constructed on so high a motive, whose tragedy is so much nobler than the customary forms of passion, can act on audiences long unfamiliar with such religion. The Spanish Student might also be acted, though with no great effect, for there is little movement in the piece, or development of character; its chief merit is in the graceful expression of single thoughts or fancies; as here,
| All the means of action |
| The shapeless masses, the materials, |
| Lie every where about us. What we need |
| Is the celestial fire to change the flint |
| Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. |
| That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits |
| At evening in his smoky cot, and draws |
| With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. |
| The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, |
| And begs a shelter from the inclement night. |
