The dramatic works of Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, D. C. L. 11th ed.: to which are added, a few sonnets and verses

Front matter

vV J> u v

5? ^ y*

THE

Preface To Ion 3

ION : A TRAGEDY 17

DEDICATION OF THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE TO LORD DENMAN 129

THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE : A TRAGEDY . . . .131

DEDICATION OF GLENCOE TO LORD JEFFREY . . . 224

Preface To Glencoe 225

GLENCOE : A TRAGEDY 231

MINOR POEMS : —

I. EVENING SEEVICE AT READING SCHOOL .... 333

II. THE FORBURY AT READING 334

III. ON HEARING THE SHOUTS OF THE PEOPLE AT THE READING

ELECTION, 1826, AT A DISTANCE 335

IV. VIEW OP THE VALLEY OF READING FROM TILEHTJRST, AT

THE CLOSE OF THE SAME ELECTION . . . . 336

V. TO THE THAMES AT WESTMINSTER 337

VI. TO THE SAME RIVER . 338

VII. TO MR. MACREADY, ON HIS REPRESENTATION OF WERNER 339 VIII. FAME THE SYMBOL AND PROOF OF IMMORTALITY . .340

CONTENTS.

Page

IX. TO MR. MACREADY, ON THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD . . 341

X. TO CHARLES DICKENS, ON "OLIVER TWIST " . . . 342

XI. TO MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE, RETIRING FROM THE STAGE 343

XII. ON THE RECEPTION OF WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD . . 344

XIII. THE MEMORY OF THE POETS 345

XIV. ETON COLLEGE, SURVEYED AFTER LEAVING A SON AT

SCHOOL FOR THE FIRST TIME

XV. TO LORD DENMAN, RESIGNING THE OFFICE OF LORD CHIEF

JUSTICE 347

XVI. TO A LADY VISITING CHAMOUNI, FROM GENEVA . . 348

XVII. THE WESTMINSTER PLAY 349

XVIII. ON LOUGH'S STATUE OF LADY MACBETH .... 350

XIX. RECOLLECTION OF THE LATE SIR M. A. SHEE, PRESIDING FOR THE LAST TIME AT THE FESTIVAL OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY .... 351

XX. TO ROBERT BROWNING, SUGGESTED BY A SUNSET OF

UNUSUAL BEAUTY 352

ALUM BAY 353

VERSES, MEMORIAL OF A CHILD NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB 35/

appendix :■ —

ION;

A TKAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

FIRST ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 26'IH MAV, 1836.

Preface To Ion

This tragedy was first printed for private circulation in April, 1835. The following extracts from the preface with which it was then accompanied, disclose the little history of its composition, and the feeling with which it was originally committed to the press.

" The title of this Drama is borrowed from the Tragedy of Euripides, which gave the first hint of the situation in which its hero is introduced — that of a foundling youth educated in a temple, and assisting in its services ; but otherwise there is no resemblance between this imperfect sketch and that exquisite picture. It has been written, not indeed without a view to an ideal stage, which should never be absent from the mind of the humblest aspirant to dramatic composition, but without any hope of rendering it worthy to be acted. If it were regarded as a drama composed for actual representation, I am well aware that not in ' matter of form ' only, but in '■ matter of substance,' it would be found wanting. The idea of the principal character, — that of a nature essentially pure and disinterested, deriving its strength entirely from goodness and thought, not overcoming evil by the force of will, but escaping it by an insensibility to its approach, — vividly conscious of existence and its pleasures, yet ready to lay them down at the call of duty, — is scarcely capable of

b2 being rendered sufficiently striking in itself, or of being subjected to such agitations, as tragedy requires in the fortunes of its heroes. It was further necessary, in order to involve such a character in circumstances which might excite terror or grief or joy, to introduce other machinery than that of passions working naturally within, or events arising from ordinary and probable motives without ; as its own elements would not supply the contests of tragic emotion, nor would its sufferings, however accumulated, present a varied or impressive picture. Recourse has therefore been had, not only to the old Grecian notion of Destiny, apart from all moral agencies, and to a prophecy indicating its purport, in reference to the individuals involved in its chain, but to the idea of fascination, as an engine by which Fate may work its purposes on the innocent mind, and force it into terrible action most uncongenial to itself, but necessary to the issue. Either perhaps of these aids might have been permitted, if used in accordance with the entire spirit of the piece ; but the employment of loth could not be justified in a drama intended for visual presentation, in which a certain verisimilitude is essential to the faith of the spectator. Whether any groups, surrounded with the associations of the Greek Mythology, and subjected to the capricious laws of Greek superstition, could be endowed by genius itself with such present life as to awaken the sympathies of an English audience, may well be doubted ; but it cannot be questioned, that except by sustaining a stern unity of purpose, and breathing an atmosphere of Grecian sentiment over the whole, so as to render the picture national and coherent in all its traits, the effect must be unsatisfactory and unreal. Conscious of my inability to produce a work thus justified to the imagination by its own completeness and power, I have not attempted it ; but have sought, out of mere weakness, for Tate and

Preface To Ion. 5

metaphysical aid,' to ' crown withal ' the ordinary persons of a romantic play. I have, therefore, asked too much for a spectator to grant : but the case is different with the reader who does not seek the powerful excitements of the theatre, nor is bound to a continuous attention ; and who, for the sake of scattered sentiments or expressions which may please him, may, at least, by a latitude of friendly allowance, forgive the incongruities of the machinery by which the story is conducted. This drama may be described as the phantasm of a tragedy, — not a thing of substance mortised into the living rock of humanity, — and therefore incapable of exciting that interest which grows out of human feeling, or of holding that permanent place in the memory which truth only can retain.

" There are few perhaps among those who have written for the press, predominant as that majority now is over the minority of mere readers, who have not, at some season of their lives, contemplated the achievement of a tragedy. The narrow and well-defined limits by which the action of tragedy is circumscribed — the various affections which may live and wrestle, and suffer within those palpable boundaries — its appeal to the sources of grief common to humanity on the one hand, and to the most majestic shapings of the imagination on the other, softening and subduing the heart to raise and to ennoble it, — and perhaps, more than all, the vivid presentment of the forms in which the strengths and weaknesses of our nature are embodied, its calamities dignified, and its high destiny vindicated, even in the mortal struggle by which for a season it is vanquished, — may well impress every mind, reaching, however feebly, towards the creative, with a fond desire to imitate the great masters of its ' so potent art.' This desire has a powerful ally in the exuberant spirits of youth, when the mind, unchilled by the realities of life, searches for novelty in those forms of sorrow, from which it afterwards may turn for relief to the flickerings of mirth, and to brief snatches of social pleasure. Perhaps ' gorgeous tragedy ' left a deeper impression when she passed ' sweeping by' my intellectual vision, than would have been otherwise received by a mind unapt for so high a correspondence, by reason of the accident that the glimpse was stolen.

Denied by the conscientious scruples of friends an early acquaintance with plays, I had derived from Mrs. More's 'Sacred Dramas' my first sense of that peculiar enjoyment which the idea of dramatic action, however imperfectly conveyed, gives ; and, stiff and cumbrous as they now seem, I owe to their author that debt of gratitude, which others may perhaps share with me, who have first looked on the world of literature through the net-work of sincere but exclusive opinions. These gave, however, but dim limits of the greatness which was behind ; — I looked into the domain of tragedy as into a mountain region covered with mist and cloud ; — and incapable of appreciating the deep humanities of Shakspeare, ' rested and expatiated ' in the brocaded grandeurs of Dryden, Eowe, and Addison. To describe the delight with which, for the first time, I saw the curtain of Covent Garden Theatre raised for the representation of Cato, would be idle, — or how it was sustained during the noble performance which followed, when the visions of Eoman constancy and classic grace, which had haunted the mind through all its schoolboy years (then drawing to a close), seemed bodied forth in palpable form, when the poor common-places of an artificial diction flowed 'mended from the tongue' of the actor, and the thoughtful words trembling on his lips suggested at once the feeling of earthly weakness and of immortal hope, — and when the old stoic, in his rigid grandeur was reconciled to the human heart by the struggle of paternal love, and became 'passioned as ourselves,'

PREFACE TO ION.

without losing any portion of that statue-like dignity which made him the representative of a world of heroic

" After this glimpse of the acted drama, I was long haunted by the idle wish to write a tragedy ; and many hours did I happily, but vainly, spend in sober contemplations of its theme. I tried to wreath several romantic and impossible stories, which I fashioned in my evening walks into acts, and began to write a scene ; but however pleased I might be with the outline of these fantasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate baldness and fustian of the blank verse, which I produced in the attempt to execute them, to proceed. At this time also just as the laborious avocations of my life were commencing, my taste and feeling, as applied to poetry, underwent an entire change consequent on my becoming acquainted with the poetry of "Wordsworth. That power which, slighted and scoffed at as it was then, has since exerted a purifying influence on the literature of this country, such as no other individual power has ever wrought ; which has not only given to the material universe ' a speech and a language ' before unheard, but has opened new sources of enjoyment even in the works of the greatest poets of past days, and imparted a new sense by which we may relish them ; — which, while on the one hand it has dissipated the sickly fascinations of gaudy phraseology, has, on the other, cast around the lowliest conditions a new and exquisite light, and traced out the links of good by which all human things are bound together, and clothed our earthly life in the solemnities which belong to its origin and its destiny — humbled the pride of my swelling conceits, and taught me to look on the mighty works of genius, not with the presumption of an imitator, but with the veneration of a child. The love of contemplative poetry, thus inspired, led me, in such leisure as I could attain, rather to ponder over the resources of the profoundest emotions, or to regard them as associated with the majestic forms of the universe, than to follow them into their violent conflicts and mournful catastrophes ; and although I never ceased to regard the acted drama as the most delightful of recreations, I sought no longer to work out a frigid imitation of writers, whom alone I could hope to copy, and whose enchantments were dissipated by more genial magic.

" But the tragic drama was about to revive amongst us, and I was not insensible to its progress. Although the tragedies of the last twelve years are not worthy to be compared with the noblest productions of the great age of our drama, they are with two or three exceptions, far superior to any which had been written in the interval. Since the last skirts of the glory of Shakspeare's age disappeared, we shall search in vain for serious plays of equal power and beauty with Virginius, William Tell, Mirandola, Rienzi, or the Merchant of London ; at least, if we except Venice Preserved for the admirable conduct of its story, and Douglas for that romantic tenderness and pathos which have been too little appreciated of late years. It happened to me to be intimately acquainted with all those who contributed to this impulse, and to take an immediate interest in their successes. I also enjoyed the friendship of the delightful artist to whom all have by turns been indebted for the realisation of their noblest conceptions, and was enabled to enjoy with more exquisite relish the home-born affection with which those were endued, and the poetical spirit breathed around them, by finding the same influences shed by Mr. Macready over the sphere of his social and domestic life. It will not be surprising, that, to one thus associated, the old wish to accomplish something in dramatic shape should recur, not accompanied by the hopes of sharing in the scenic

Preface To Ion. 9

triumphs of his friends, but bounded by the possibility of conducting a tale through dialogue to a close, and of making it subserve to the expression of some cherished thoughts. In this state of feeling, some years ago, the scheme of the drama of Ion presented itself to me ; and after brooding over it for some time, I wrote a prose outline of its successive scenes, nearly in the order and to the effect in which they are now completed, and made some progress in an opening scene of which little now remains. The attempt was soon laid aside ; for I found the composition of dramatic blank verse even more difficult now that I had present to me the ease and vividness of my friends, than when I had been contented to emulate the ponderous lines of the dramatists of Garrick's age. Still the idea of my hero occurred to me often ; I found my pleasantest thoughts gathering about him ; and rather more than two years ago I determined to make one essay more. Since that time, such seasons of leisure as I could find have been devoted to the work ; but T had so great distrust of my ability to complete it, that I did not mention my design to any one ; and I cannot charge myself with having permitted it to interfere with any professional or private duty. At the close of last year, I found four acts reduced into form. At this time, the sudden realisation of another youthful dream opened to me the prospect of additional duties, which I knew full well ought to preclude the continuance of those secret flirtations with the Muse in which I had indulged ; and therefore I resolved to make a last effort, and, by completing my drama before those duties should commence, to free myself from the bondage of those threads of fantastical interest which had woven themselves about my mind. I accordingly wrote the fifth act with far more rapidity than any of the previous passages of my play ; and, before I was called upon to share in more momentous business, I had communicated to a few friends the result of my scribblings, and bade adieu to my dramatic endeavours and hopes.

"But it may well be asked, Why, with the sense I have confessed of the feebleness of this poetical sketch, 1 venture to intrude it on my friends 1 My chief reason is, that I am anxious to cast from my own mind the associations which have hung about it during the composition of the poem, and which, while it remained in manuscript susceptible of alteration, I could not certainly -hope for ; and, further, to preclude the charge (if it should ever be brought to light hereafter,) that it had occupied leisure which henceforth must be devoted to other studies. I have also a desire to gratify myself by presenting it to my friends, especially to those who are removed to a distance ; because, although as a drama it is unworthy the attention of the world, yet, as containing thoughts which have passed through my own mind, it may be acceptable to those whose conversation I can no longer enjoy. It would be a sufficient reason to myself for printing it, that I shall be able thus to remind Sir Edward Eyan, now, most honourably to himself, and happily for India, Chief Justice of Bengal, and his excellent colleague, Sir Benjamin Malkin, of the delightful hours we have spent together on the Oxford circuit, when life was younger with us, and when some of the topics they will find just touched on in these verses were the themes of our graver walks between Ross and Monmouth, or in the deep winding valleys indenting the table-land above Church Stretton, or haply by moonlight in the Churchyard of Ross.* I take leave to mention these, as far away ; but there are others of my fellow-labourers at home, whose

* Since this reference to the friends of my early professional life was written, Sir Edward Eyan has returned to his country to enjoy the just reward of his labours in the East with the dignity of a Privy Councillor, and the satisfaction of accepting with the honour attendant duties, which his judicial ability and experience peculiarly fit him to discharge. The

Preface To Ion. 11

sympathy and whose conversation have cheered my professional life, who I believe will receive it cordially ; and among them I hope my sometime Sessions-leader, who has committed a similar offence, though with more extenuating circumstances, by investing with so much dignity of passion and richness of language the story of the Countess of Essex, will not disdain it."

With these views Ion was sent to the press, and presented to many of my friends. The favour with which it was received by some, whose approbation was most valuable, would have induced me at once to publish it, if I had not been withheld by the suggestion of Mr.Macready, that it would be effective in representation, and by the belief that any interest which might be excited by such an attempt would be lessened by its previous sale. The prospect, that, at least for one evening, the dull tracery of thought, silently and laboriously woven, might burst into light at the torch of sympathy and become palpable to the senses and the affections of a multitude, was too delightful to be resigned, and was ultimately realised by the friend who had opened it. His consent to produce the drama on the night of his benefit secured it against painful repulse ; and, although I had still no expectation that even he could endue it with sufficient interest to render it attractive on ordinary occasions, I looked forward to its single representation in the belief that it would be tolerated by an audience disposed to be gratified, and that the impression it might leave, however faint, would be genial and pure. Many of those who had expressed the most favourable opinions of the piece as a composition Were even less sanguine than myself as to the probable

other, Sir Benjamin Malkin, has heen taken from this world in the prime of life, and in the fulness of his powers, — leaving with us the recollection of an intellect as masculine and as refined — of judgment and feeling as discriminating and just — and of social qualities as warm and as equable, as have ever passed, by the mysterious dispensation of Providence, from vigorous exercise into a memory and an example.

event of the evening, and apprehended that it would terminate in their mortification and my own. They did not perceive the possibility of infusing such life into the character of its youthful hero, as would bring the whole fable within the sphere of human sympathies ; reconcile the audience to its machinery ; and render that which seemed only consistent in its dreaminess, at once entire and real. Such was, however, unquestionably the effect of Mr. Macready's performance on that evening, which I believe, — in the judgment of many who cannot be influenced, like the author, by personal regard or individual gratitude, — was one of the most remarkable triumphs of art which have graced the stage within living memory. Although other of his performances were abstractedly greater, none I believe equalled this as an effort of art, estimated with reference to the nature of the materials which he animated, to difficulties which he subdued, and to the preconceptions which he charmed away. By the graces of beautiful elocution, he beguiled the audience to receive the drama as belonging to a range of associations which are no longer linked with the living world, but which retain an undying interest of a gentler cast, as a thing which might have been ; and then, by his fearful power of making the fantastic real, he gradually rendered the whole possible — probable — true ! The consequence of this extraordinary power of vivifying the frigid, and familiarising the remote, was to dissipate the fears of my friends ; to render the play an object of attraction during the short remainder of the season ; and to embolden others to attempt the part, and encourage other audiences to approve it, even when the power which first gave it sanction was wanting.

How little it was anticipated that the success of the first performance would justify its repetition, may be gathered from the prologue, which was spoken on that

PREFACE TO ION.

occasion by Mr. Serle, whose earnest and laborious pursuit of excellence as a dramatic poet from early youth I have watched with admiration ; whose successes I have hailed with delight ; and whose association with me in the night's venture is among its happiest recollections.

" What airy visions on a play's first night Have flush'd refulgent here on poet's sight ! While emulous of glory's stainless wreath, He felt ' the future in the instant' breathe; Saw in the soften'd gleam of radiant eyes The sacred tear through lids yet tearless rise; Made to each fervid heart the great appeal To bear him witness — stamp'd with living seal — Of passion into forms of grandeur wrought, Or grief by beauty tinged, or raised by thought : As cordial hands their liberal boon couferr'd, Fame's awful whisper in the distance heard, Now shrunk from nicest fear, from fancied scorn, — Now glow'd with hope for ' age yet unborn.'

"With no such trembling sense of inward power Our author seeks to win his little hour, While to your transient glance, he dares unveil The feeble outlines of a Grecian tale. He boasts no magic skill your souls to draw Within the circle of Athenian awe ; Where Fate on all things solemn beauty throws, And shapes heroic mourn in stern repose ; Or to reveal the fane where genius tips With love's immortal lustre heavenly lips, Where airs divine yet breathe round forms s fair, That Time enamour'd has been charm'd to spare ; Nor his the power which deeds of old imbues With present life, and tints with various hues ; Casts glowing passion in heroic moulds, And makes young feelings burn 'neath ancient folds Unlearn'd in arts like these, he seeks to cast One faint reflection from the glorious past ; A narrow space his fond ambition bounds, — His little scenic life this evening rounds !

" O ! if some image pure a moment play O'er the soul's mirror ere it pass away ; If from some chance-sown thought a genial nerve Should, heart-strung, quicken virtue's cause to serve ; Let these slight gifts the breath of kindness claim For one night's bubble on the sea of Fame, Which tempts no aid, which future praise insures, — But lives— glows— trembles— and expires in yours ! "

PKEFACE TO ION.

The unhoped-for prolongation of the dramatic life of Ion has not altered the opinion of its essential defects which I expressed in the original preface ; but it has been delightful to me, not only because it has gratified an author's passionate desire for the embodiment of his work in theatrical action, but because it has induced a conviction that gentleness and self-sacrifice have charms for the multitude which neither the frigidity of a Greek plot, nor the feebleness of its development, nor manifold errors of composition, can destroy.

T. K T.

London, 1852.

PEKSONS OF THE DEAMA.

Adrastus, King of Argos.

Medon, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo.

Crtthes, Captain of the Royal Guard.

Phocion, son of Medon.

„ > noble Argive youths.

Cassander, J

Ion, a foundling youth.

Agenor, -J

Cleon, [.sages of Argos.

Timocles, J

Irus, a boy, slave to Agenor.

Clemanthe, daughter of Medon.

Habra, attendant on Clemanthe.

Scene — Argos.

The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night, and the following morning.

i

ION;

A TRAGEDY.

Scene I. — The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is

to be placed on a rocky eminence overlooking the city of Argos. Early morning. The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from the roof. Agenor resting against a column; — Ibus seated on a bench at the side of the scene.

Agenor comes forward and speaks.

Will the dawn never visit us ? These hours

Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear

To do the work of desolating years !

All distant sounds are hush'd ; — the shriek of death

And the survivors' wail are now unheard,

As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus !

I'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest,

But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ;

Is it not breaking? — speed and look — yet hold,

Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs

Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point

That stretches eastward ?

IRTJS.

Know it ? full well !

There often have I bless'd the opening day, Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste In happy wandering through the forests.

AGENOR.

Well, Thou art not then afraid to tread it ; there The earliest streak from the unrisen sun Is to be welcomed ; — tell me how it gleams, In bloody portent or in saffron hope, And K ten back to slumber.

IRTJS.

I shall hasten : Believe not that thy summons broke my rest ; I was not sleeping. [Exit irus.

AGENOR.

Heaven be with thee, child !

His grateful mention of delights bestow'd On that most piteous state of servile childhood By liberal words chance-dropp'd, has touch'd a vein Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd, And, by a gush of household memories, breaks The icy casing of that thick despair Which day by day has gather'd o'er my heart, While, basely safe, within this column'd circle, Uplifted far into the purer air And by Apollo's partial love secured, I have, in spirit, glided with the plague As in foul darkness or in sickliest light It wafted death through Argos ; and mine ears, scene i.] ION; A TKAGEDY.

Listening athirst for any human sound, Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind Has borne from each sad quarter of the vale Where life was.

Re-enter Irus.

Are there signs of day-break ?

IRUS.

None; The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom.

AGENOR.

It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim (No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now I look upon them near, with scalding tears. Has care alighted on a head so young ? What grief hast thou been weeping ?

IRUS.

Pardon me ; I never thought at such a mournful time To plead my humble sorrow in excuse Of feebly-render'd service : but my brother — Thou mayst have noted him, — a sturdy lad, With eye so merry and with foot so light That none could chide his wildest moods — fell sick But yesterday, and died in my weak arms Ere I could seek for stouter aid : I hoped That I had taught my grief to veil its signs From thy observant care ; but when I stood Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails — His favourite pastime, for he burn'd to share

c2

20 ION ; A TEAGEDY. [act i.

A seaman's hardy lot, — my tears would flow, And I forgot to dry them. But I see Cleon is passing yonder ; let me call him ; For it must cheer thy heart to speak with him.

AGENOR.

Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep,

Or, if thou wilt, to weep. [Exit ikus.

I envy thee The privilege, but Jupiter forefend That I should rob thee of it !

Enter Cleon. cleon.

Hail, Agenor !

Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet To find thy age unstricken.

AGENOR.

Rather mourn That I am destined still to linger here In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. I chide these sinews that are framed so tough Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air Which round this citadel of nature breathes With sweetness not of this world ; I would share The common grave of my dear countrymen, And sink to rest while all familiar things, Old custom has endear'd are failing with me, Rather than shiver on in life behind them : Nor should these walls detain me from the paths Where death may be embraced, but that my word, In a rash moment plighted to our host, scene i.] ION; A TKAGEDY.