taken it up, not expecting to read it through, and had not been able
to put it down. Every word and line told of richness in the poetry,
he said, and as far as he could judge the play had great dramatic
opportunities. Early in the autumn "The Spagnoletto" appeared,--a
tragedy in five acts, the scene laid in Italy, 1655.

Without a doubt, every one in these days will take up with misgiving,
and like Mr. Emerson "not expecting to read it through," a five-act
tragedy of the seventeenth century, so far removed apparently from
the age and present actualities,--so opposed to the "Modernite,"
which has come to be the last word of art. Moreover, great names at
once appear; great shades arise to rebuke the presumptuous new-comer
in this highest realm of expression. "The Spagnoletto" has grave
defects that would probably preclude its ever being represented on
the stage. The denoument especially is unfortunate, and sins against
our moral and aesthetic instinct. The wretched, tiger-like father
stabs himself in the presence of his crushed and erring daughter, so
that she may forever be haunted by the horror and the retribution of
his death. We are left suspended, as it were, over an abyss, our
moral judgment thwarted, our humanity outraged. But "The Spagnoletto"
is, nevertheless, a remarkable production, and pitched in another
key from anything the writer has yet given us. Heretofore we have
only had quiet, reflective, passive emotion: now we have a storm
and sweep of passion for which we were quite unprepared. Ribera's
character is charged like a thunder-cloud with dramatic elements.
Maria Rosa is the child of her father, fired at a flash, "deaf, dumb,
and blind" at the touch of passion.


"Does love steal gently o'er our soul?"