504 
For the Monthly Magazine. 
NEWS FROM PARNASSUS. 
NO. XXI. 
Werner, a Tragedy ; by Lord Byron. 
E are informed, in the preface 
to this drama, that the noble 
author had commenced it so far back 
as 1815, and that it was the first he 
ever attempted, except one at thirteen 
years old, which he had sense enough 
to burn. We will not go quite so far 
as to say, that we wish he had been 
guided by the same good sense with 
respect to this production; but we 
sincerely wish that he had either never 
undertaken, at second-hand, so unpro- 
mising a subject, or that he had exe- 
cuted it with more ability and care. 
Werner is not a tragedy; it is wholly 
devoid of tragic interest and dignity ; 
it possesses no characters of interest ; 
and is, in a word, a story of Miss 
Lee’s, adopted with few alterations, 
and put into a dramatic form in a 
hasty and clumsy manner. Poetry, 
there is absolutely none to be found ; 
and if the measure of yerse, which is 
here dealt to us, be a sample of what 
we are to expect for the future, we 
have only to entreat that his lordship 
would drop the ceremony of cutting 
up his prose into lines of ten, eleven, 
or twelve, syllables, (for he is not very 
punctilious on this head,) and favour 
us with it in its natural state. It re- 
quires no very cunning alchemy to 
transmute his verse into prose, nor, 
reversing the experiment, to convert 
his plain sentences into heroics like 
his own. ‘ When, (says Werner) but 
for this untoward sickness, which 
seized me upon this desolate frontier, 
and hath wasted, not alone my 
strength, but means, and leaves us— 
No! this is beyond me! But for this 
I had been happy!” This is, indeed, 
beyond us. If this be poetry, then 
we were wrong in taking his lordship’s 
preface for prose. It will run on ten 
feet, as well as the rest. He tells us— 
Some of the characters are modified 
Or altered, a few of the names changed, and 
One character, Ida of Stralenheim, 
Added by myself; but, in the rest, the 
Original is chiefly followed. When 
I was young, about fourteen I think, L 
First read this tale, which made a deep impression 
Upon me. 
Nor is there a line in these so lame 
and halting but we could point out 
many in the drama quite asbad. We 
do not like mere verbal and formal 
¢riticism, nor have we any pleasure in 
_ News from Parnassus, No. XX1. 
[Jan. fy 
exposing the defects and failures of 
such a genius as Lord Byron has 
proved himself to possess ; but we are 
quite convinced that, unless he re- 
forms the style of his tragic composi- 
tions, which has been gradually pro- 
ceeding from bad to worse, and 
which is growing fast into a perfect 
abomination, he will very shortly be 
read only to be blamed, or be left 
without any readers at all. We think 
we perceive that he is affecting to be- 
come an English Alfieri; but, if so, he 
may rest assured he is taking the 
wrong way. 
We will convey to our readers, as 
briefly as we can, an idea of the story 
of Werner, and the extracts we shall 
make by the way will satisfy them as 
to the merits of its execution. Wer- 
ner, then, is the disowned and disin- 
herited son of a Bohemian nobleman, 
and Jost his father’s fayour by his irre- 
gularities, and finally by an unsuitable 
match with the daughter of an Italian 
exile. This unfortunate pair are in- 
troduced in the first act as on their 
way to claim the possession of the fa- 
mily title and estates, on the death of 
the old Count. Sickness and bad 
weather detain them at a little village, 
where the incidents of the three first 
acts take place. Josephine is at- 
tempting to soothe her husband, 
Werner, who betrays an unmanly, 
weak, and irritable, mind; and who, 
through his whole career, is much less 
successful in exciting our pity than 
our contempt, 
Josephine.—Take comfort,—we shall find our boy. 
J¥erner.—We were in sight of him, of every thing 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrows ; 
And to be baffled thus! i 
Josephine. We are not baffled, 
Werner.—Are we not pennyless? 
Josephine. We ne’er were wealthy. 
Werner.—But 1 was born to wealth, and rank, 
and power, 
Enjoy’d them, loved them, and, alas! abused them, 
And forfeited them, by my father’s wrath, 
In my o’er-fervent youth; but for the abuse 
Long sufferings have atoned. My father’s death 
Left the path open, yet not without snares : 
This cold ent creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me, 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 
Josephine. Who knows? our son 
May have return’d back to his grandsire, and 
F’en now uphold thy rights for thee. 
TF erner. Tis hopeless, 
Since his strange diSappearance from my father’s,— 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself,—no tidings have reveal’d his course, 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
The promise that his anger would stop short 
Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his father’s faults and follies. 
Josephine. 
