f
"The Atheist's Tragedy" have life and spirit enough to make them
heartily interesting: and the mixed character of Sebastian, the
high-hearted and gallant young libertine whose fearless frankness of
generosity brushes aside and breaks away the best-laid schemes of his
father, is as vividly and gracefully drawn as any of the same kind on
the comic or the tragic stage.

In this earlier of the two plays extant which preserve the name of Cyril
Tourneur the magnificent if grotesque extravagance of the design may
perhaps be partly accounted for by the didactic or devotional aim of the
designer. A more appalling scarecrow or scarebabe, as the contemporaries
of his creator would have phrased it, was certainly never begotten by
orthodoxy on horror than the figure of the portentous and prodigious
criminal who here represents the practical results of indulgence in free
thought. It is a fine proof of the author's naturally dramatic genius
that this terrific successor of Vanini and precursor of Diderot should
be other than a mere man of straw. Huge as is the wilful and deliberate
exaggeration of his atrocity, there are scenes and passages in which his
daring and indomitable craft is drawn with native skill as well as force
of hand; in which it is no mere stage monster, but a genuine man,
plausible and relentless, versatile and fearless, who comes before us
now clothed in all the cajoleries of cunning, now exultant in all the
nakedness of defiance. But indeed, although the construction of the
verse and the composition of the play may both equally seem to bear
witness of crude and impatient inexperience, there is no lack of life in
any of the tragic or comic figures which play their part through these
tempestuous five acts. Even so small a figure as the profligate Puritan
parasite of the atheist who hires his hypocrisy to plead against itself
is bright with touches of real rough humor. There is not much of this
quality in Tourneur's work, and what there is of it is as bitter and as
grim in feature and in flavor as might be expected of so fierce and
passionate a moralist: but he knows well how to salt his invective with
a due sprinkling of such sharply seasoned pleasantry as relieves the
historic narrative of John Knox; whose "merry"[1] account, for instance,
of Cardinal Beaton's last night in this world has the very savor of
Tourneur's tragic irony and implacable disgust in every vivid and
relentless line of it.

[Footnote 1: These