R370504A. Strafford.
The Morning Herald, 4 May 1837, p. [3].
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 393–394.
Covent-Garden Theatre. Last night Mr. Browning’s tragedy of Strafford was a second time performed at this house, and received with applause warm indeed, but not so much as it deserved. As we believe it was admitted on all sides that Paracelsus, Mr. Browning’s first publication, was, as the work of a very young man, of singular merits, so we may say that in this instance he has produced an acting tragedy, which is equally remarkable on our stage and in our literature. The career and fate of Strafford were the reality of an eventful drama, terminating awfully with a piteous and yet seemingly just retribution of blood. It was and is a subject worthy the best dramatic genius of our country. Mr. Browning has entertained with at least a spirit worthy of its interest. He takes up the Earl’s history at the time of his return from Ireland, and taking occasion to allude sufficiently to his past remarkable acts, in order to connect them with what follows, taking also some little liberty with the “unity” of time and exact historical truth, but with no material aberration, he carries on the great catastrophe to its consummation with a thorough sustained power. Each of his acts has its own special interest, without causing any disjunction of their due connection, and weakening their final and general impression. In the first act, beside other subsidiary matter, there is a meeting—the first after years of severance—between Wentworth and his old bosom friend and brother politician, Pym; in which the latter, flinging aside the stern parliamentarian, and giving full vent to the long-pent-up feelings, tries to win back the ambitious renegade to the party which he had deserted. Wentworth, cold, haughty, and insolent, at first gradually melts, and the victory is almost achieved, when the King enters. A nobler scene than such a one, between such men, could not have been conceived. In Shakspeare’s hands, had Shakspeare been born nearer our time, it would have surpassed the Brutus and Cassius quarrel. In the second act the new Earl of Strafford, wholly the King’s, has a long interview with Charles, in which, by every appeal of affectionate loyalty, passionate remonstrance, and even indignant threats, he labours to overthrow the intrigues of his enemies at court, and impart firmness to the determination of Charles. This also is highly wrought. The third act gives a great impulse to the action of the piece. Strafford (a lapse of time having taken place) returns from his expedition to Scotland, and determining to crush all his foes, open and concealed, hurries to arrest, not only the leaders of the opposition, but his enemies round the King’s person. In the height of his exultation, and as he enters the House of Lords, he is astounded to find that his own impeachment is in progress. The author here, setting history aside, if we recollect rightly, makes Strafford enact a scene of great violence in the lobby of the House of Lords. Passing over the fourth act, which chiefly illustrates the weakness of the King at this crisis, we come to the fifth, and, as decidedly as fitly, the most effective of the whole. Strafford is in his prison—his two young children, son and daughter, with him. While he seems lost in meditation they sing to him a pretty Italian barcarole, by which he seems excited and moved. They leave him on the entrance of two persons, one of whom is closely enveloped in a cloak. The other, Hollis, communicates to the Earl the fatal and unexpected pusillanimity of the King in not carrying into effect his promise of pardon, and the immediate approach of his execution. In an agony of indignation and anguish, Strafford utters the celebrated “Put not your trust in princes,” and, pointing out the special ingratitude of Charles in this instance, is about to invoke curses upon him, when the disguised individual rushes forward, and, almost prostrate at his feet, beseeches him to pause. It is the King. For a moment Strafford is deaf to the abject appeal, when the distant voices of his children, again chanting the barcarole, break up the fountains of his heart, and his feelings dissolve into tears. The King then wishes, by utter submission to parliament, to win the life of Strafford, who firmly resists the attempt. One still more anxious for his preservation now appears, with some friends, in the prison—the Lady Carlisle. This personage in the drama we have not hitherto mentioned. She is not historical, but is well introduced, as one who, in the confidence of the court, deeply loves Strafford with an untold and unsuspected passion. She mingles, like a most gentle influence, in the whole action, and in this final scene, by her zeal in planning the Earl’s escape, and urging him to fly to France, makes her more than friendship manifest. The effect of this revelation bends him to the idea of flight, when the prison door is again flung open, and the relentless Pym enters with the signal for the execution. This brings the tragedy to its conclusion, with a passage thoroughly sublime. Pym weeps for the friend whom he will not pardon, and Strafford forgiving him too, only deprecates his hostility to the King, and beseeches a pledge that, at all events, he will never allow the royal blood to be shed. Pym refuses the pledge for England’s sake, and Strafford hurries to the block, exclaiming—
“O God! I shall die first—I shall die first!”
Such are the chief points in this tragedy, and they appear to us to be put together with great judgment, and be worked out with a powerful and various display of passion, from the most sublime to the most tender and delicate. The language of its dialogue, too, is at once concise and choice, and its general style very pure. It is not garlanded, as the dramas of young writers generally are, with inappropriate flights of metaphorical extravagances; but, in its last act, the very best spirit of impassioned poetry. We have no hesitation in expressing our opinion that Strafford is by far the best tragedy that has been produced on this, or any other of our great theatres, for many years. At the same time its very beauties make us entertain a something of regret that the author should not (trusting to the hope of a life as long as is dispensed to the major portion of men, and we wish he may sing as long as Homer did) reserve this great subject for his maturer years. Of the performers, we have only to mention Macready, Vandenhoff, and Miss Faucit. Macready was as fine as he always is, displaying a thoroughly studied comprehension of his part in almost every respect. It might be said, perhaps, that he makes Strafford too much a man of heart, in the best meaning of that word: and if it be one, in which he has some sanction from his author. It may now be too late for Mr. Macready to correct certain favourite faults of manner; but if it were not, we would suggest to him that, when in very impassioned dialogue, he introduces into the performance of almost every tragic character in which we have seen him a superfluity of pantings, catching of the breath, and preliminary A’s or sighs before his words. Such interjections are natural perhaps to feeble characters when in violently perplexed emotion, but surely are not a trait of manliness. It is a pity that such cherished trifles as these should be retained to injure the effect of such acting as Mr. Macready’s. We remarked it last night, chiefly in his first great scene with Charles. On the whole, however, the performance was fully equal to the subject. Vandenhoff’s Pym was a mixture of good and very indifferent. He in many instances gives an admirable notion of the strong, masculine, and sagacious character of Pym. He has been now a long time in London, and we are forced to ask, can he not hope to get rid of the strange whining which he so constantly introduced into what we would call in music, his effects? It is a sort of special chaunt to which he habitually sets his most feeling conceptions. Miss Faucit is very well in Lady Carlisle. She has sincerity and feeling in her manner, but mingles both with something of a sickly character. The Charles is made utterly imbecile by a Mr. Dale(?). Miss Vincent plays Queen Henriette—only think of that, gentle readers! The representatives of John Hampden(!) “and the rest” we need not particularise. Of the well-informed taste which presides over the properties here an idea may be formed when we state that the agents of the Scotch parliament, London, &c., are dressed up in Highlanders’ kilts, &c. These circumstances may be mentioned, if it were only to show into what hands Mr. Browning and his tragedy have fallen.
The house was well filled last night, and the applause not half as great as it ought to have been.
Reviewed:
Strafford (RB), performance, London, 4 May 1837.
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