The murder is now out; and old Carter brings the body of Susan in a coffin, and forces the murderer to look upon it. The officers of justice enter, and he is taken to prison. Meanwhile, Mother Sawyer is in jeopardy, and calls on her familiar. Her character seems to acquire a tinge of sublimity, as her despair deepens, and the hour of her death is at hand. ACT V. SCENE I.-The inside of the Witch's Hut. Enter Mother Sawyer. borne off to prison-but not before the dog gives some good advice to the spectators. Dog. I'll thus much tell thee: thou never art so From an evil spirit, but that thy oaths, Although thou lose, yet he will gain by thee. In the last scene, Mother Sawyer passes on a hurdle to execution, and Saw. Still wrong'd by ev'ry slave? and not a dog also Frank Thorney. The first is fu Bark in his dame's defence? I am call'd witch, Thou art my raven, on whose coal-black wings Raking my blood up, till my shrunk knees feel If in the air thou hover'st, fall upon me The dog enters white, and by that sign the witch knows that her familiar has deserted her, and that she is doomed to death and to hell. The rabble rush upon her, and she is rious and foaming, yet not without an upbraiding indignation at the cruelty of her persecutors and murderers; the latter is remorseful and penitent, and bids an affecting farewell to Winnifrede, his own father, and the father of Susanna. We feel ourselves standing in the crowd around the gallowsand every thing is sad, shocking, and ignominious. As in real life, the souls of the spectators turn away from their own agonies-and the two old men, the fathers of the murderer and the murdered, walk together from the dreadful scene-and tell us that they must again mix with the bitter busy world to which they belong, and sustain, in its few remaining comforts, the sorrow which they can never overcome. And so passes away this dark shadow of life! SACONTALA; OR, THE FATAL RING. vine, the offspring of mortals beloved by the gods or the gods themselves descending from their holy mountains upon an earth scarcely less beautiful than their own celestial abodes. From the strife and tumult of our own energetic existence, it is delightful to sink away into those old green and noiseless sanctuaries, to look on the Brah WILL our readers turn from those fierce, wild, and turbulent passions, breathed out from the constantly agitated bosom of European life, as they have been exhibited to them in the English and German drama, and, going back with us "into a long recess of years," wander for a while among the still and sacred groves of India, and indulge in the fantastic_mins as they pass their whole lives in but splendid visions of her allegoric mythology? One flight of the imagination, and we find ourselves almost on another earth, living in the spirit of that deep religion, and surrounded with its symbols, its priests, its fanes, and its forms of worship. We breathe, as it were, the fresh, bright, and beaming beauty of the youthful creation-in the drama that there moves before us, the chief agents are either set apart and sanctified from the world or they are half-human, half-di silent and reverential adoration,—Virgins playing with the antelopes and bright-plumaged birds among those gorgeous woods-and, as the scene shifts, to find ourselves amid the old magnificence of oriental cities, or wafted on the chariot of some deity up to the palaces of the sky. Dramatic poetry, Sir William Jones remarks, must have been immemorially ancient in the Indian empire. The Indians have a wild story, that the first regular play was composed by Harumat or Pavan, who commanded an army of satyrs, or mountaineers, in the famous expedition of Rama against Lanca-that he engraved it on a smooth rock, which, being dissatisfied with his composition, he hurled into the sea, and that many years after, a learned prince ordered expert divers to take impressions of the poem in wax, by which the drama was in a great measure restored-and Sir William Jones' Pandit assured him that he was in possession of it. The Indian drama however, it is certain, was carried to very high perfection during the reign of Vicramaditya, who flourished in the first century before Christ-and who, at the time when Britain was a country of savages, gave encouragement at his court to poets and philosophers. Of the nine men of genius, called the nine gems, whom he splendidly patronized, Calidas, the author of Sacontala, or, the Fatal Ring, was the brightest. Sir William Jones has ventured to call him the Shakspeare of India-not perhaps a very philosophical opinion, for neither the human mind nor human life did ever so exist in India, as to create such kind of faculties as those of Shakspeare, or to furnish field for their inspiration. Yet, perhaps our readers, on perusing the following production of Calidas, may think that he possessed, at least, the delicate sensibilities-the gentle fancy --and the simple heart of our own divine poet, as they are shewn to us in Cymbeline and the Tempest. Our great Orientalist observes, the play of Sacontala must have been very popular when it was first represented, for the Indian empire was then in full vigour, and the national vanity must have been highly flattered by the magnificent introduction of those kings and heroes in which the Hindus gloried the scenery must have been splendid and beautiful, and there is good reason to believe that the court at Avanti was equal in brilliancy, during the reign of Vicramaditya, to that of any monarch of any country. Dushmanta, the hero of the piece, was supposed to have flourished in the twenty-first generation after the flood -and Puru, his most celebrated ancestor, was fifth in descent from Buddha, or Mercury, who married the daughter of the pious king whom Vishnu preserved in an ark from the universal deluge. With respect to the machinery of this drama, all that is necessary to say of it in our present analysis, is, that Casyapa, who seems to be a personification of infinite space, comprehending innumerable worlds, is the offspring of Marichi, or Light, the first production of Brahma-that his consort, Aditi, is Active Power and his children, Indra, or the Visible Firmament, and the twelve Adityas or Suns presiding over so manymonths. The representation of such a drama must indeed have been something glorious during the time of India's glory; and we see no reason why Sacontala might not yet be introduced on the stage of the East. Enough yet remains of inspiration, both in the spirit and practice of her old faith, to give the natives a deep delight in such representations of the sanctities of antiquity-and surely Europeans have not so long inhabited that land without being, many of them, imbued with the character of its mythology, and capable, amid the pursuits of avarice and cupidity, of sympathising with the manifold and high associations indeli bly connected with its union of falsehood and truth. If got up with suitable dresses, manners, and scenery, nothing could be imagined more beautiful and magnificent. The very prologue, seeming at once so different from our common-places, makes us feel in the heart of ancient India. In it a Brahmin enters, and pronounces a benediction,-imploring Isa, the god of Nature, as apparent in the form of water, fire, the two lights, ether, earth, and air, to bless and sustain the audience; then the manager enters, and observing that there is no occasion for a long speech, calls on the principal actress, if her decorations are completed, to come forward-she advances, and is informed by the manager that the piece to be performed before King Vicramaditya,-the patron of every delightful art,-is a new production of Calidas, Sacontala, or the Fatal Ring.' She expresses herself delighted with the beauty of the drama, and is retiring, when the manager says, "What better can you do, since you are now on the stage, than exhilarate the souls and gratify the senses of our auditory by a song?" She does so,-and the manager exclaims, "A charming strain!" The whole company sparkles as it. were with admiration; and the musical mode to which the words are adapted has filled their souls with rapture." The manager is so entranced in the music and song, that the actress has to remind him that he has announced the Fatal Ring for represent ation, and he replies, "How could I forget it? In that moment I was lulled to distraction by the melody of thy voice, which allured my heart as the King Dushmanta is now allured by the swift antelope." At that moment we may suppose the stage to be suddenly exhibited to the audience in all its grandeur,-the scene a forest, and Dushmanta in a car pursuing an antelope, with a bow and quiver, attended by his charioteer. Dushmanta says to his attendant, Dush. "The fleet animal has given us a long chase. Oh! there he runs, with his neck bent gracefully, looking back from time to time at the car which follows him. Now through fear of a descending shaft, he contracts his forehead and extends his flexible haunches, and now through fatigue he pauses to nibble the grass in his path, with his mouth half open. See how he springs and bounds with long steps, lightly skimming the ground, and rises high in air! and now so rapid is his flight, that he is scarcely discernible." feel the affection of a sister for these young plants. (Watering them.) Pri. My beloved friends, the shrubs which have watered flower in summer, you which is now begun: let us give water to time; for our virtue will be the greater those which have passed their flowering that it is wholly disinterested. Sac. Excellent advice. (Watering other plants.) nocent, and beautiful enjoyment, DushDuring this scene of simple, and inmanta, as may well be supposed, is gazing all the while on Sacontala, and drinking deep draughts of love. His fate is sealed by the following unintentional but irresistible charm : mantle of bark so closely over my bosom, Sac. My friend Prijamvada has tied this that it gives me pain. Anusuya, I request you to untie it. (Anusuya unties the mantle.) Pri. (laughing.) Well, my sweet friend, enjoy while you may that youthful serenity, which gives your bosom so beautiful a swell. Love, as is right and natural, is the theme of these damsels' talk; and nothing can be more innocently or beautifully voluptuous. Anu. See, my Sacontala! how yon fresh mallica, which you have surnamed Ranadosini, or delight of the grove, has chosen the sweet Amra for her bridegroom. pleasure.) How charming is the scene when Sac. (approaching and looking at it with the nuptials even of plants are thus publicly celebrated! (she stands admiring it.) Pri. (smiling.) Do you know, my Anusuya, why Sacontala gazes on the plants with such rapture? Anu. No, indeed-I was trying to guess Pri. As the grove's delight is united to a suitable tree, then I, too, hope for a bridegroom to my mind' that is her private thought at this moment. Sac. Such are the flights of your imagination. Just as the king is fixing an arrow in his bow-string, a voice behind the scenes exclaims, that the antelope must not be slain, for that he has an asylum in that forest; and two Brahmins advance, who have been collecting wood for a solemn sacrifice. They invite the monarch to enter a neigh-pray tell me. bouring grove, where resides the irreproachable Sacontala, the sacred deposite of her holy Preceptor Canna, who is then gone to Sonatirt'ha, in hopes of deprecating some calamity with which her destiny is threatened. The hermits go to prepare his reception, and Dushmanta having laid aside his regal ornaments, as too vain for groves devoted to religion, is about to follow, when he hears in the flowery thicket a voice cxclaiming, "Come hither, my beloved companion! oh! come hither!" Then enters Sacontala, with her virgin attendants, Anusuya and Prijamvada. Anu. O my Sacontala, it is in thy society that the trees of my father Canna seem to me delightful! it well becomes thee, who are soft as the fresh olive mallica, to fill with water the canals which have been dug round these tender shrubs. Sac. It is not only in obedience to my father that I thus employ myself, though that were a sufficient motive, but I really VOL. VI. While thus watering the flowers, Sacontala is annoyed by a bee that keeps fluttering round her head-and the amorous monarch seizes on this excuse for coming forth from his concealment, and is received by the nymphs with the joy and kindness of innocence. When Sacontala speaks to him, Dushmanta, who is of Othello's opinion, that a low and gentle voice is an excellent thing in women, replies, "holy maid! the gentleness of thy speech does me sufficient honour," and they all sit down together on a bank, spread with the leaves of the Septaperna, when Sacontala whispers, with much simplicity, to one of her friends," at the sight of this youth 3 G I feel an emotion scarce consistent with a grove devoted to piety.”— Dushmanta tells them that he is a student of the Veda, and, in the discharge of religious and moral duties, has come thither to behold the sanctity of virtue. In return, he learns, from one of her attendants, that Sacontala, though the adopted child of the Brahmen Canna, is the daughter of Menaca, one of the nymphs of the lower heavens, by Causica, the sage and monarch. Every moment Dushmanta and Sacontala are becoming more desperately enamoured of each otherbut, at last, a voice from behind the scenes cries out, that a wild elephant, alarmed at the appearance of the Stran ger's car, is laying waste the forest, and threatening destruction to its inmates. This gives Sacontala the opportunity of a very beautiful and fascinating fright-and she hurries away, impeded partly by the entangling stalks of flowers, and partly by her own languid emotions, while Dushmanta remains behind. Dush. My body moves onward, but my restless heart runs back to her; like a light flag born in a staff against the wind, and fluttering in an opposite direction! This first scene is throughout, and without the exception of one single word or thought, exquisitely natural and beautiful-and has all over it, more than almost any thing we ever read, the air of an adventure. Sacontala and Dushmanta love in a moment and in a moment we love them-while a single hint dropped by one of the attendant virgins awakens, in the midst of so much happiness, a faint fear of some evil impending over the incomparable daughter of the celestial nymph. Indeed this act is a very beautiful little poem in itself. The second act opens with a soliloquy of Madhavya, the buffoon of the monarch, who has accompanied him on this hunting-and who, by the way, is a very amusing and not uninteresting personage. Sir William Jones expresses some little dissatisfaction with poor Madhavya, and is for curtailing his colloquies with the monarch. To our minds he throws a cheerful air over the forest, like Touchstone in As You Like It, or Wamba in Ivanhoe-and his absurd talk with Dushmanta, perhaps prevents the egotism of that prince's love from becoming rather wearisome. We have not room, however, for more of honest Madhavya's wisdom than the opening soliloquy of this act. Strange recreation this! Ah me! I am wearied to death, my royal friend has an unaccountable taste. What can I think of a king so passionately fond of spearing unprofitable quadrupeds!" Here runs an antelope, there goes a boar !" Such is our only conversation. Even at noon, in excessive heat, when not a tree in the forest has a shadow under it, we must be skipping and prancing about, like the beasts whom we follow. Are we thirsty? we have nothing to drink but the waters of mountain torrents, which taste of burnt stones and maukish leaves. Are we hungry? we must greedily devour lean venison, and that commonly roasted to a stick. Have I a moment's repose at night? my chamber is disturbed the sons of slave girls blubbering out, "more with the din of horses and elephants, or by venison, more venison!" Then comes a cry that pierces my ear-" away to the forest! away"- -nor are these my only grievances; fresh pain is now added to the smart of my first wounds; for while we were separated from our king, who was chasing a foolish deer, he entered, I find, yon lonely place, and there, to my infinite grief, saw a certain girl called Sacontala, the daughter of a hermit. From that moment not a word of returning to the City. These distressing thoughts have kept my eyes open the whole night-alas! when shall we return! I cannot set eyes on my beloved friend Dushmanta, since he set his heart on taking another wife. (Stepping aside, and looking.) Dushmanta cannot, it is plain, leave the forest in which so beautiful an antelope dwells-and he is thrown into some distress by a message from his queen-mother in the city, to return thither to attend an annual solemnity kept on his own account. He has been waited upon by a deputation of two Brahmins, informing him that the forest is haunted by demons, and earnestly entreating him to remain for their protection till the return of their master Canna. The king deliberates with himself which course to pursue ; and at last resolves to despatch that egregious Brahmin Madhavya to the city, in room of himself, and to guard the holy men from the demons. The buffoon is not so blind as not to attribute this decision rather to Sacontala than to the demons; and the act, which is a short one-and very lively, ends with Dushmanta and the buffoon endeavouring to outwit each other with respect to the secret of the mo 1820.] Sacontala; or, the Fatal Ring. narch's love, in which contest it would be unreasonable to blame his majesty for coming off second-best. In the third act, which opens in the hermitage in the holy grove, we find Dushmanta irrecoverably lost in loveand poor Sacontala, who is, or says she is, ignorant of the nature of her malady, emaciated to a shadow, and just about to pass away from the earth. At last she expresses her feverish and burning passion to her attendants, and they, desirous of giving to her the only relief that nature allows to her sufferings, the love of Dushmanta-conceive a very happy scheme for calling in the aid of that skilful physician. Pri. I have a thought Anusuya, let us write a love-letter which I will conceal in a flower, and under the pretext of making a respectful offering, deliver it myself into the king's hand. Anu. An excellent contrivance, it pleases me highly. But what says our beloved Sa contala. Sac. I must consider, my friend, the possible consequences of such a step. Pri. Think also of a verse or two which may suit your passion, and be consistent with the character of a lovely girl born in an exalted family. Sac. I will think of them in due time, but my heart flutters with the apprehension of being rejected. Dushmanta rushes forward-and their mutual passion is avowed. The attendant maidens very humanely leave the lovers together on this important crisis-and we quote the whole of the scene which succeeds, as one that seems to us to exhibit very skilfully that union of tenderness, silliness, and passion, which constitutes love among young people in Europe and Asia, and even Africa though we should suspect, scarcely in America. Sac. How could my companions both leave me? Dush. Sweet maid, give yourself no concern. Am not I, who humbly solicit your favour, present in the room of them? (Aside.) I must declare my passion.-(Aloud.) Why should not I, like them, wave this fan of lotos leaves, to raise cool breezes and dissipate your uneasiness? Why should not I, like them, lay softly in my lap those feet, red as water-lilies, and press them, O my charmer, to relieve your pain? Sac. I should offend against myself, by receiving homage from a person entitled to my respect. (She rises and walks slowly, through weakness.) Dush. The noon my love, is not yet 421 passed; and your sweet limbs are weak. (He gently draws her back.) Dush. (Aside.) Fear of displeasing her makes me bashful. Sac. (Overhearing him.) The king cannot give offence. It is my unhappy fate only that I accuse. Dush. Why should you accuse so favourable a destiny? Sac. How rather can I help blaming it, since it has permitted my heart to be affected by amiable qualities, without having left me at my own disposal? Dush. (Aside) One would imagine that the charming sex, instead of being like us, tormented with love, kept love himself within their hearts, to torment him with delay. (Sacontala going out.) Dush. How! must I then fail of attaining felicity? (Following her, and catching the skirt of her mantle.) Sac. (Turning back.) Son of Puru, preserve thy reason; Oh! preserve it.-The hermits are busy on all sides of the grove. Dush. My charmer, your fear of them is vain. Canna himself, who is deeply versed in the science of law, will be no obstacle to our union. Many daughters of the noblest men have been married by the ceremony called G'and-harva, as it is practised by Indra's band, and even their fathers have approved them. (Looking round.) What say you? Are you still inflexible? Alas! I must then depart. (Going from her a few paces then looking back:) Sac. (Moving also a few steps, and then turning back her face.) Though I have refused compliance, and have only allowed you to converse with me for a moment, yet, oh, Son of Puru, let not Sacontala be wholly forgotten. Dush. Enchanting girl, should you be removed to the ends of the world, you will be fixed in this heart, as the shade of a lofty tree remains with it even when the day is departed. Sac. (Going out, aside.) Since I have heard his protestations, my feet move, inI will condeed, but without advancing. ceal myself behind those flowering Curuvacos, and thence I shall see the result of his passion. (She hides herself behind the shrubs.) Dush. (Aside.) Can you leave me, beloved Sacontala; me who am all affection? Could you not have tarried a single moment? Soft is your beautiful frame, and indicates a benevolent soul, yet your heart is obdurate, as the tender Sirisha hangs on a hard stalk. Sac. (Aside.) I really have now lost the power of departing. |