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NINA SFORZA.

A new melo-drama in five acts, by a gentleman who rejoices in exactly the same number of titles—­namely, “R.  Zouch S. Troughton, Esquire”—­made its appearance for Miss H. Fancit’s benefit on Monday last, at the Haymarket.

The old-fashioned recipe for cooking up a melo-dramatic hero has been strictly followed in “Nina Sforza.” Raphael Doria, the heir-apparent to the dukedom of Genoa, is a man about town in Venice—­is accompanied, on most occasions, by a faithful friend and a false one—­saves the heroine from drowning, and, of course, falls in love with her on the spot, or rather on the water.  She, of course, returns the passion; but is, as usual, loved by the villain—­a regular thorough-paced Mephistopheles of the Surrey or Sadler’s Wells genus.  These ingredients, having been carefully compounded in the first act, are—­quite selon les regles—­allowed to simmer till the end of the fourth, and to boil over in the fifth.  Thus we have a tragedy after the manner of those lively productions that flourished in the time of Garrick; when Young, Murphy, and Francklin were Melpomene’s head-cooks.

Modern innovation has, however, added a sprinkle of spice to the hashes of the above-named school.  This is most commonly thrown in, by giving to the stock-villain a dash of humour or sarcasm, so as to bring out his savagery in bolder relief.  He is also invested with an unaccountable influence over the hero, who can on no account be made to see his bare and open treachery till about the middle of the fifth act, when the dupe’s eyes must be opened in time for the catastrophe.

These improvements have been carefully introduced into the present old new tragedy. Ugone Spinola is the presiding genius of Doria’s woes:  and dogs him about for the pleasure of making him miserable.  He is a finished epicure in revenge; picking little tit-bits of it with the most savage gout all through; but particularly towards the end of the play.  This taste was, it seems, first acquired in consequence of a feud that formerly existed between Doria’s family and his own, in which his side came off so decidedly second-best, that he only remains of his race; all the rest having been murdered by Doria and his father’s faction.  From such deadly foes, it may be observed, that tragic heroes always select their most trusted friends.

Doria’s father dies, and Nina’s consents to his marriage; so that we see them, at the opening of the third act, the picture of connubial bliss, in a garden belonging to the Duke’s palace at Genoa, exchanging sentiments which would be doubtless extremely tender if they were quite intelligible.  A great deal is said about genius being like love; which gives rise to a simile touching a rose-bud in a poor poet’s window, and other incoherencies quite natural for persons to utter who are supposed to be in love.  This peaceful scene is interrupted by an alarm of war; and the Prince goes to fight the Florentines.