mother; one is queen. Egotism controls the affections of nature, and it is that which Corneille explains to us, by the mouth of Seleucus, with that political sagacity which is one of the peculiarities of his genius:

Ah, my brother, love is not very strong
For sons brought up in exile;

And, having brought us up almost in slavery,

She [Cleopatra] has remembered them only to increase her rage. I discover the disguise of her pretended tears;

We have in her heart but little part;

She is wise in proclaiming this great love of a mother;

But she loves and considers only herself;

And although she exhibits a language so sweet,
She does all for herself and nothing for us.

Act ii. scene 4.

Although there is a kind of resemblance between ambition and coquetry, and both of them have the same need of succeeding, or of pleasing, there is, nevertheless, a great difference between the coquette mother of Quinault and the Cleopatra of Corneille. They resemble each other only in one point; passion extinguishes maternal love in them. The Ismene of Quinault is neither hateful nor vindictive; she only suffers in seeing her daughter each day become more beautiful near her, who each day remains more beautiful with difficulty. She would be a good mother, if her daughter were only ten or twelve years old; but she is sixteen; it is that which displeases her. See how, in the conversation between Ismene and Laurette, her confidant, all those secret vexations of a woman who does not wish to seem to be old, naturally break out.

Ismene. With what eye can I see (I who, by my address, Believe that I could pique myself on my youth,)

An adored daughter, and who, in spite of my cares,

Obliges me to confess that I have thirty years at least.

And as to judge harshly people are too much disposed,

If we acknowledge thirty years, do they not believe that we are forty?

Laurette. It is true that the world is full of slanderers ;

But we can still be beautiful at forty years.

Ismene. We can be; but it is the age of retirement;

Beauty loses its rights, even though it were perfect;

And gallantry, as soon as we become old,

Is only confined to the beauty of the mind.

Laurette. You are too well made, and it is a mere notion,

Ismene. A daughter at sixteen years easily outshines a mother. I in vain endeavor, by a thousand cares, to re-establish

Whatever charms my age can diminish,

And to preserve, by art, the natural beauty

Which is derived from youth, and which passes away with it.
My daughter destroys all as soon as she is near me;

I feel myself become ugly as soon as she is near me;
And youth in her, and simple nature,

Do more than all my art, my cares, and my dress.
Was there ever a subject of a more just anger?

Act ii. scene 2.

But we do not perceive in this the violent passions which move or irritate us, but only ridiculous ones, which make us laugh. The heart of Ismene is not corrupt; she is good and amiable with all the world; she is only in bad humor with the sixteen years of her daughter. Moreover, Ismene believes herself a widow. Her husband has been absent for eight years, without any one having heard from him. They believe him to be dead, and even Ismene puts on mourning. Hence the temptation which she felt to take a young husband, for her husband was old and ugly. This young husband, whom she has already chosen, is Acanthe, the son of her neighbor. But Acanthe loves Isabelle, the daughter of Ismene; he has only fallen out with Isabelle, as lovers quarrel; and it is by the aid of this quarrel, artfully kept up by the intrigue and trickery of Laurette, one of those rare waitingmaids in comedy who do not take part with the daughter against the mother; it is by means of this quarrel that Ismene hopes to replace her daughter Isabelle in the heart of Acanthe. She agrees with the father of Acanthe, who, although old and ugly, would also wish to marry the young Isabelle, in bartering, if we may so speak, with their children. Cremante will marry Isabelle, Acanthe will marry Ismene. All that is wanting to this agreement is the consent of Acanthe, and Acanthe does not refuse. But, (and it is above all there that the comedy breaks out,) in the scene in which Acanthe consents to marry Ismene, he only speaks to her of Isabelle, of the love which he had for Isabelle, and the treachery with which he believes that she has repaid his tenderness. In a word, his passion for Isabelle breaks out at each word, and inflicts upon the vanity of Ismene the most cruel and the most just torment which vanity can suffer, the torment of seeing itself forgotten and despised; and that without Acanthe

seeming to wish it, for it is in spite of him that he forgets Ismene, who is present; it is in spite of him that he always remembers Isabelle, absent. This scene is truly worthy of the. great masters of comedy:

Acanthe. After the unworthy love with which his heart is blackened,

I seek to avenge myself; it is all that I can hope.

Laurette. If I can serve you in marrying the mother,

I offer you my cares, and without disguise

Acanthe. But can I not avenge myself otherwise?
Laurette. No, sir, I know

Act iv. scene 7.

At this moment Ismene appears, and Laurette declares to her that Acanthe has just revealed his secret feelings. It is you and not Isabelle, says she to Ismene,

It is you he wishes to love, it is you

Acanthe. Ah! the faithless!

Ismene. You still think of my daughter, sir.

Acanthe. Me, madam, think of her! Could I be so base!

Would you believe me capable of such meanness?

Laurette. No, it is to do him a wrong; that is not credible; Whatever a fit of anger may have induced him to say, He certainly wishes to think only of you.

Acanthe. Madam, it is certain; never, I confess it,

Has love caused me to love with so much tenderness,
Never was there inspired by the heart of a lover,

Any thing comparable to my ardor;

Never was there any thing equal to the pure, lively, faithful passion, With which my charmed soul adored İsabelle.

You see, nevertheless, how I am treated.

Ismene. Youth, sir, is only a levity.

In quitting infancy, a soul is little capable

Of the solidity of a reasonable love;

A heart is not sufficiently mature at sixteen years,
And the great art of loving requires a little more time.
It is after the errors in which youth is engaged,
While it is returning from vain amusements,
Which divert the mind from true attachments,

It is then that one can make a choice with safety;
And that is properly the age of constancy.

A mind until then is not well regulated,

Nor have hearts their maturity in love.

Acanthe. But, madam, after all, who would have believed it of
Isabelle?

Isabelle inconstant! Isabelle faithless!
Isabelle treacherous, and without caring
Ismene. What! Always Isabelle!
Acanthe. Ah! it is to forget her;

And I wish, if it is possible, in my extreme chagrin,
To tear from my heart her very name,

I wish to leave nothing of what was agreeable to me.
Thanks to Heaven, I have accomplished it.

Laurette. It is very well done for

you.

Acanthe. Judge for yourself, madam, and tell me

If there is any thing so black as this perfidy;
After so many oaths, and so tenderly made,
Always to love each other, never to change,
Isabelle now, this same Isabelle .

Madam, you will oblige me by never mentioning her name.
Ismene. It is you who speak to me of it.

Act iv. scene 8.

We must acknowledge that Moliere, in these scenes of quarrels and amorous reconciliations which he has so often represented on the stage, has never more admirably expressed love, and those emotions of a heart which permits its secret to escape at the very moment when it seems most desirous to conceal it.

Isabelle does not treat the old Cremante better than Acanthe treats Ismene, and she is not more malicious. Her love for Acanthe breaks out in spite of her before Cremante, and punishes him for his ridiculous pretensions. In fine, the reconciliation between the two lovers is made in the presence Cremante, and by the aid of the reproaches of infidelity which they make towards each other.

of

The reconciliation having been made between the two lovers, the play must conclude; but the denouement is made in the side scene. Ismene has recovered her husband; he has unexpectedly returned. She is then no longer a widow; she can no longer marry Acanthe; she can hereafter recommence to love her daughter, who is no longer her rival; she may again become a good mother. This is what Laurette has announced to the two lovers; for Ismene does not reappear, and we think well of Quinault for having spared this mother the pain of reappearing after her disappointment; he desired that Ismene should be ridiculous, but not that she should be despised; and he has respected the maternal character in the very fault which he has given it.

We have examined the different expressions which the dramatic art has given to maternal love, from Euripides to our own days. Among the personages which art has taken as types of this sentiment, the most ancient is the purest. The Andromache of Homer is the most perfect model of maternal tenderness and grief, and she preserves this character upon the ancient and modern stage, in Euripides and in Racine. Racine himself gives to maternal tenderness a more delicate expression than his predecessors; his Andromache has the purity and the sweetness of Christian widows. Merope is more violent in her grief than Andromache; but she is not less pure, she is not less honored, and her virtues add to her misfortunes to make us pity her and to make us love her. Idamé herself, in the Orphan of China, has the same kind of dignity; and although she deals too much in philosophical maxims, yet she at the same time inspires us with pity and esteem; for she has, in addition to maternal love, all the virtues which do honor to a woman; she is faithful to her husband-she prefers rather to perish with him than to reign with Gengis-Khan. We may then still take Idamé as the model of maternal love. Let us not forget it; the idea which we have of this love is an idea of virtue, and we do not lend ourselves with a good grace to the belief that a poisoner can be a good mother, and that we can love her. We should take care lest we confound astonishment and even the interest which we sometimes feel for a wicked person who has one good sentiment, with the natural attraction with which virtue inspires us. In the one, what remains of good surprises us and pleases us as an unexpected evidence of human dignity; virtue, on the contrary, charms us, and we abandon ourselves without fear to the pleasure of loving it. We are desirous, at the Theatre, of being sometimes kept in suspense; we wish to hesitate for a moment between good and evil; but it is necessary that a sentiment should come which controls and fixes our heart; in short, it is necessary to the discussions of the drama, that there should be a moral conclusion which will satisfy the conscience. Show us, then, a character whom we can in the denouement love or hate at our pleasure. In Rodogune, Cleopatra inspires us with horror, but this horror is not troubled by any scruple, for Corneille has not represented Cleopatra as a woman who continues good, notwithstanding her crimes; he has not done.