R370502F. Strafford.
The True Sun, 2 May 1837, p. 3.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 392–393.
Covent Garden. This Theatre was last night literally crammed to its remotest corner, with an audience that gave unequivocal symptoms of a higher degree of intelligence and taste than is usual in such assemblages. Mr. Macready, whose night it was, has well earned so marked an expression of public respect by qualities of head and heart which rarely adorn the actor or the man. Amongst the many triumphs which have place[d] him at the summit of his art, few have better illustrated his peculiar power than his very intellectual, arduous, delicate, and grand personation of the ill-fated Strafford.
Of the drama itself, which we had no opportunity of reading before its performances, we are scarcely disposed to speak at present as a literary work. Its extraordinary characteristics deserve something more than the hasty notice of almost extempore criticism. The author of “Strafford” is already and increasingly known by his dramatic poem of “Paracelsus.” Of that work the charm is in its bold metaphysics and its luxuriant poetry. The Drama which was successfully produced last night acts upon us by the very different power of a most business-like reality of character and action, and a diction of severe truthfulness to the persons and circumstances. It is as if the history itself were again actually passing before our eyes. There is no digression; no impertinence of got-up sentiment or description; the stern doings of our glorious rebels, the pitiful inconsistencies of the “martyr” despot, and the fearful mental conflicts of the devoted and sacrificed Strafford, are all realised, transacted, shown, in our presence. Our homage is compelled to the Truth of history.
The unreturned and unperceived love of Lucy Percy for him who only loves his King, is the single gleam of fancy over this awful reality. It was done more justice to than any of the other characters, by the sweetness, simple feeling, and occasional energy of Miss H. Faucitt.
Such a play implies more familiarity with, and interest in, the history of those stirring times, than we fear can be usually reckoned upon with safety in a theatrical audience. And we cannot but feel the want of a stronger leading sympathy. The interest of the drama is concentrated in the character and conduct of Strafford. But that makes it rather the development of a philosophical question than an action upon the emotions of the audience. It is too cold and curious an interest for the theatre—more of appeal to the broad and elemental passions of humanity might, we apprehend, advantageously mingle with the intensely realised struggle of the public men of England in the seventeenth century.
The following extract will probably make the reader think us rather hypercritical. We give it the more readily on that account. The act of attainder has sent Strafford to the Tower. His children are with him. He is awaiting Charles’s redemption of his written promise to bear him safely through, and expects that Hollis is his messenger to tell him how it will be done. Charles has already signed his death-warrant.
Hollis. The King..I bear
His message, Strafford..pray you, let me speak!
Strafford. Go, William! Anne, try o’er your song again!
(The children retire.)
They shall be loyal, friend, at all events.
I know your message: you have nothing new
To tell me: from the first I guessed as much.
I know, instead of coming here at once——
Leading me forth before them by the hand,—
I know the King will leave the door ajar
As though I were escaping....let me fly
While the mob gapes upon some show prepared
On the other side of the river!
Hollis (To his companion) Tell him all;
I knew my throat would thicken thus..Speak you!
Strafford. ’Tis all one—I forgive him. Let me have
The order of release!
....I’ve heard, as well,
Of certain poor manœuvrings to avoid
The granting pardon at his proper risk;
First, he must prattle somewhat to the Lords—
Must talk a trifle to the Commons first—
Be grieved I should abuse his confidence,
And far from blaming them, and…
....Where’s the order?
Hollis. Spare me!
Strafford. Why..he’d not have me steal away?
—With an old doublet and a steeple hat
Like Pyrnne’s? Be smuggled into France, perhaps?
Hollis, ’tis for my children! ’Twas for them
I e’er consented to stand day by day
And give those Puritans the best of words—
Be patient—speak when called upon—observe
Their rules,—and not give all of them the lie!
Hollis. No, Strafford..no escape..no..dearest Strafford!
Strafford. What’s in that boy of mine that he should be
Son to a prison-breaker? I shall stay
And he’ll stay with me. Charles should know as much!
He too has children!
(Turning to Hollis’s companion.) Ah! you feel for me!
No need to hide that face! Though it have looked
Upon me from the judgment-seat....I know
Strangely, that somewhere it has looked on me....
Still there is One who does not come—there’s One
That shut out Heaven from me....
Hollis. Think on it then!
On Heaven..and calmly..as one..as one to die!
Strafford. Die? True, friend, all must die, and all must need
Forgiveness: I forgive him from my soul.
Hollis. Be constant, now..be grand and brave..be now
Just as when....Oh, I cannot stay for words....
’Tis a world’s wonder..but..but..you must die!
Strafford. Sir, if your errand is to set me free
This heartless jest will..
Hollis—you turn white,
And your lip shivers!—What if....
Oh, we’ll end,
We’ll end this! See this paper—warm..feel..warm
With lying next my heart? Whose hand is there?
Whose promise? Read! Read loud! For God to hear!
“Strafford shall take no hurt”..read it, I say!
“In person, honour, nor estate”....
Hollis. The King....
Strafford. I could unking him by a breath! You sit
Where Loudon sate..Loudon, who came to tell
The certain end, and offer me Pym’s pardon
If I’d forsake the King—and I stood firm
On my King’s faith! The King who lived....
Hollis. To sign
The warrant for your death.
Strafford. “Put not your trust
In Princes, neither in the sons of men,
In whom is no salvation!”
The simple truthfulness, which is also the daring originality, of this Scripture quotation, produced one of the greatest impressions upon the house that we have ever witnessed.
The personations of Pym and of King Charles on both of whom, especially the former, so much of the effect of the play depends, seemed to us so inefficient as to render its perusal an act of needful justice to the author. Mr. J. Webster, as the younger Vane, exerted himself very praiseworthily. But from such hasty glance as we have since taken of the composition itself we feel assured that, to the effect of last night’s representation, must be added that of almost a studious perusal to appreciate the progress of this young, daring, and successful aspirant for the higher honours of poetry.
[William Johnson Fox]
Reviewed:
Strafford (RB), London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green, 1837.
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