yet, when he has once made up his mind to let it pass as such during the representation, it is a cruel tax, not merely on his imagination, but on his powers of comprehension, if the scene be suddenly transferred to a distant country. Time is lost before he can form new associations, and reconcile their bearings with those originally presented to him; and if he be a person of slow comprehension, or happens to lose any part of the dialogue, announcing the changes, the whole becomes unintelligible confusion. In this respect, and in discarding a number of uninteresting characters, the plan of Dryden's play must be unequivocally preferred to that of Shakespeare, in point of coherence, unity, and simplicity. It is a natural consequence of this more artful arrangement of the story, that Dryden contents himself with the concluding scene of Antony's history, instead of introducing the incidents of the war with Cneius Pompey, the negociation with Lepidus, death of his first wife, and other circumstances, which, in Shakespeare, only tend to distract our attention from the main interest of the dra The unity of time, as necessary as that of place to the intelligibility of the drama, has, in like manner, been happily attained; and an interesting event is placed before the audience with no other change of place, and no greater lapse of time, than can be readily adapted to an ordinary imagination.

ma.

But, having given Dryden the praise of superior address in managing the story, I fear he must be pronounced in most other respects inferior to his grand prototype. Antony, the principal character in both plays, is incomparably grander in that of Shakespeare. The majesty and generosity of the military hero are happily expressed by both poets; but the awful ruin of grandeur, undermined by passion, and tottering to its fall, is far more striking in the Antony of Shakespeare. Love, it is true, is the predominant; but it is not the sole ingredient in his character. It has usurped possession of his mind, but is assailed by his original passions, ambition of power, and thirst for military fame. He is, therefore, often, and it should seem naturally represented, as feeling for the downfall of his glory and power, even so intensely as to withdraw his thoughts from Cleopatra, unless considered as the cause of his ruin. Thus, in the scene in which he compares himself to "black Vesper's pageants," he runs on in a train of fantastic and melancholy similes, having relation only to his fallen state, till the mention of Egypt suddenly recalls the idea of Cleopatra. But Dryden has taken a different view of Antony's character, and more closely approaching to his title of " All for Love."-" He seems not now that awful Antony." His whole thoughts and being are dedicated to his fatal passion; and though a spark of resentment is occasionally struck out by the reproaches of Ventidius, he instantly relapses into love-sick melancholy. The following beautiful speech exhibits the romance of despairing love, without the deep

and mingled passion of a dishonoured soldier, and dethroned emperor:

Ant. [Throwing himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor ;

The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth,

Is all thy empire now: Now, it contains thee;

Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,

When thou'rt contracted in the narrow urn,

Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then, Octavia,

For Cleopatra will not live to see it,
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widow'd hand to Cæsar ;
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,

To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.

Give me some music; look that it be sad:

I'll sooth my melancholy, till I swell,

And burst myself with sighing

'Tis somewhat to my humour: Stay, I fancy

I'm now turn'd wild, a commoner of nature;
Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;

Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,

Stretch'd at my length beneath some blasted oak,

I lean my head upon the mossy bark,

And look just of a piece, as I grew from it:

My uncomb'd locks, matted like misletoe,

Hang o'er my hoary face; a murmuring brook

Runs at my foot.

Ven. Methinks I fancy

Myself there too.

Ant. The herd come jumping by me,

And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,
And take me for their fellow-citizen.

[Soft music.

Even when Antony is finally ruined, the power of jealousy is called upon to complete his despair, and he is less sensible to the idea of Cæsar's successful arms, than to the risk of Dolabella's rivalling him in the affections of Cleopatra. It is true, the Antony of Shakespeare also starts into fury, upon Cleopatra permitting Thyreus to kiss her hand; but this is not jealousy; it is pride offended, that she, for whom he had sacrificed his glory and empire, should already begin to court the favour of the conqueror, and vouchsafe her hand to be saluted by a " jack of Cæsars." Hence Enobarbus, the witness of the scene, alludes immediately to the fury of mortified ambition and falling power:

"Tis better playing with a lion's whelp,

Than with an old one dying.

Having, however, adopted an idea of Antony's character, rather suitable to romance than to nature, or history, we must not deny

Dryden the praise of having exquisitely brought out the picture he intended to draw. He has informed us, that this was the only play written to please himself; and he has certainly exerted in it the full force of his incomparable genius. Antony is throughout the piece what the author meant him to be; a victim to the omnipotence of love, or rather to the infatuation of one engrossing passion.*

In the Cleopatra of Dryden, there is greatly less spirit and originality than in Shakespeare's. The preparation of the latter for death has a grandeur which puts to shame the same scene in Dryden, and serves to support the interest during the whole fifth act, although Antony has died in the conclusion of the fourth. No circumstance can more highly evince the power of Shakepeare's genius, in spite of his irregularities; since the conclusion in Dryden, where both lovers die in the same scene, and after a reconciliation, is infinitely more artful and better adapted to theatrical effect.

In the character of Ventidius, Dryden has filled up, with ability, the rude sketches, which Shakespeare has thrown off in those of Scæva and Eros. The rough old Roman soldier is painted with great truth; and the quarrel betwixt him and Antony, in the first act, is equal to any single scene that our author ever wrote, excepting, perhaps, that betwixt Sebastian and Dorax; an opinion in which the judgment of the critic coincides with that of the poet. It is a pity, as has often been remarked, that this dialogue occurs so early in the play, since what follows is necessarily inferior in force. Dryden, while writing this scene, had unquestionably in his recollection the quarrel betwixt Brutus and Cassius, which was justly so great a favourite in his time, and to which he had referred as inimitable in his prologue to " Aureng-Zebe.”+ The inferior characters are better supported in Dryden than in

* Dryden has himself, in the prologue, alluded to this predominance of sentiment in his hero's character.

His hero, whom you wits his bully call,

Bates of his metal, and scarce rants at all;
He's somewhat lewd; but a well meaning mind,
Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind.

+ But, spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name:
Awed, when he hears his god-like Roman's rage,
He, in a just despair, would quit the stage,
And, to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd,
Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.

Shakespeare. We have no low buffoonery in the former, such as disgraces Enobarbus, and is hardly redeemed by his affecting catastrophe. Even the Egyptian Alexas acquires some respectability, from his patriotic attachment to the interests of his country, and from his skill as a wily courtier. He expresses, by a beautiful image, the effeminate attachment to life, appropriated to his character and country:

O, that I less could fear to lose this being,
Which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand,
The more 'tis grasp'd, the faster melts away.

The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important personage than in the "Antony and Cleopatra" of Shakespeare. She is, however, more cold and unamiable; for, in the very short scenes in which the Octavia of Shakespeare appears, she is placed in rather an interesting point of view. But Dryden has himself informed us, that he was apprehensive the justice of a wife's claim upon her husband would draw the audience to her side, and lessen their interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems accordingly to have studiedly lowered the character of the injured Octavia, who, in her conduct towards her husband, shews much duty and little love; and plainly intimates, that her rectitude of conduct flows from a due regard to her own reputation, rather than from attachment to Antony's person, or sympathy with him in his misfortunes. It happens, therefore, with Octavia, as with all other very good selfish kind of people; we think it unnecessary to feel any thing for her, as she is obviously capable of taking very good care of herself. I must not omit, that her scolding scene with Cleopatra, although anxiously justified by the author in the preface, seems too coarse to be in character, and is a glaring exception to the general good taste evinced throughout the rest of the piece.

It would be too long a task to contrast the beauties of these two great poets in point of diction and style. But the reader will doubtless be pleased to compare the noted descriptions of the voyage of Cleopatra down the Cydnus. It is thus given in Shakespeare:

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burn'd on the water: The poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that

The winds were love-sick with them: The oars were silver;

Which, to the tune of flutes, kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat, to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,

It beggar'd all description: she did lie

In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue,

O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see
The fancy outwork nature; on each side her,
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With diverse colour'd fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did.

Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids,

So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,
And made their bends adornings: At the helm
A seeming mermaid steers: The silken tackle
Swells with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony,
Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,

And made a gap in nature.

Antony and Cleopatra, Act i. Scene 2

The parallel passage in Dryden runs thus:

The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold,
The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails:

Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed;
Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.

Dola. No more: I would not hear it.

Ant. O, you must!

She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,
And cast a look so languishingly sweet,

As if, secure of all beholders hearts,

Neglecting she could take them: Boys, like Cupids,

Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds

That play'd about her face! But if she smiled,

A darting glory seem'd to blaze abroad,

That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,

But hung upon the object: To soft flutes

The silver oars kept time; and while they play'd,

The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;

And both to thought. Twas heaven, or somewhat more :

For she so charm'd all hearts, that gazing crowds

Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath

To give their welcome voice.

Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul?

Was not thy fury quite disarm'd with murder ?

Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes,

And whisper in my ear, Oh, tell her not
That I accused her of my brother's death?

In judging betwixt these celebrated passages, we feel almost afraid to avow a preference of Dryden, founded partly upon the easy flow of the verse, which seems to soften with the subject,