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pathetic to an excess that absolutely merits the strappado. Why not? all so much the better. He is a fine, open-hearted, ingenuous, accomplished and gentlemanly youth; and we, whose prophecies have been fulfilled somewhat more frequently than those of the Editor of the Blue-and-Yellow, pronounce him a promising poet,-we tie a wreath of laurel round his forehead, and may it remain there till displaced to make room for a bolder branch of the sacred Tree.

His

The subject of the Drama is a good one, deeply, terribly tragic-" a tale of tears, a rueful story,"-a murder strange and overwhelming to the imagination, yet such a murder as the mind can image and believe in its wild and haunted moods. Mr Beddoes deserves praise for choosing such a subject for all true Tragedy must possess its strength in a spirit of terror. reading seems to have lain among the elder Dramatists, and his mind is much imbued with their tragic character. We sup full of horrors, but there are some gay and fantastic garnishings and adornments of the repast, disposed quite in the manner and spirit of those great old masters. Joy and sorrow, peace and despair, innocence and guilt, saintliness and sin, sit all together at one banquet; and we scarcely distinguish the guests from each other, till something interrupts the flow of the feast, and they start up in their proper character. Yes, there is a dark and troubled, guilt-like and death-like gloom flung over this first work of a truly poetical mind, sometimes alternating with an air of ethereal tenderness and beauty, sometimes slowly and in a ghastly guise encroaching upon and stifling it, and sometimes breaking up and departing from it, in black masses, like clouds from a lovely valley on a tempestuous and uncertain day. Dip into the Poem, here and there, and you cannot tell what it is about-you see dim imagery, and indistinct figures, and fear that the author has written a very so so performance. But give it a reading from the beginning, and you will give it a reading to the end, for our young poet writes in the power of nature, and when at any time you get wearied or disappointed with his failure in passion or in plot, you are pleased-nay, delighted, with the luxuriance of his fancy, and with a strain of imaginativefeeling that supplies the place of a profounder interest, and also prepares the mind to give way to that pro

found interest, when, by and by, it unexpectedly and strongly arrives.

The following scenes were written, as you well know, exclusively for the closet, founded upon facts which occurred at Oxford, and are well detailed and illustrated by an interesting ballad in a little volume of Poems, lately published at Oxford, entitled the Midland Minstrel, by Mr Gillet: and may thus be succinctly narrated.

"The Manciple of one of the Colleges early in the last century had a very beautiful daughter, who was privately married to a student without the knowledge of the parents on either side.

"During the long vacation subsequent to this union the husband was introduced to a young lady, who was at the same time proposed as his bride; absence, the fear of his father's displeasure, the presence of a lovely object, and, most likely, a natural fickleness of disposition, overcame any regard he might have cherished for his illfated wife, and finally he became deeply enamoured of her unconscious rival. In the contest of duties and desires, which was the consequence of this passion, the worse part of man prevailed, and he formed and executed a design almost unparalleled in the annals of crime.

"His second nuptials were at hand when he returned to Oxford, and to her who was now an obstacle to his happiness. Late at night he prevailed upon his victim to accompany him to a lone spot in the Divinity Walk, and there murdered and buried her. The wretch escaped detection, and the horrid deed remained unknown till he confessed it on his death-bed. The remains of the unfortunate girl were dug up in the place described, and the Divinity Walk was deserted and demolished, as haunted ground. Such are the the outlines of a Minor's Tragedy."

There is nothing very imposing in the office of a manciple; and accordingly Mr Beddoes has left the peculiar character of his heroine's status in

society undefined. She and her parents are poor and humble, and live in a cottage that is all we know, and it is enough. The fair Floribel is the bride of Hesperus, a youth of high birth, and their marriage remains, for obvious reasons, concealed. The first scene garden of the lowly cottage, and feast in which they appear at evening in the on love's delicious converse, is very

pretty, although not very rational, and serves to interest us for the simple, beautiful, and affectionate Floribel,

"Come, come, my love, or shall I call
you bride?
Floribel.

E'en what you will, so that you hold me dear. Hesperus. Well, both my love and bride; see, here's a bower Of Eglantine with honeysuckles woven, Where not a spark of prying light creeps in,

So closely do the sweets enfold each other. "Tis Twilight's home; come in, my gentle love,

And talk to me. So! I've a rival here; What's this that sleeps so sweetly on your neck?

Flor. Jealous so soon, my Hesperus?

Look then,

It is a bunch of flowers I pulled for you; Here's the blue violet, like Pandora's eye, When first it darkened with immortal life.

Hes. Sweet as thy lips. Fie on those taper fingers,

Have they been brushing the long grass aside

To drag the daisy from it's hiding-place, Where it shuns light, the Danäe of flowers, With gold up-hoarded on its virgin lap? Flor. And here's a treasure that I found by chance,

A lily of the valley; low it lay

Over a mossy mound, withered and weeping

As on a fairy's grave."

After some soft talk and fond endearments, not unmixed with some natural tears, Floribel gives utterance to those thoughts "that in the happiness of love make the heart sink"-they part, and the short scene passes by like a dream.

Hesperus has a rival in the affections of Floribel, "the Diana of our Forests," named Orlando, who throws old Lord Ernest, the father of Hesperus, into prison, on account of a debt,

of which his whole estate is scarce a fourth." This debt, however, is not to be claimed, provided Hesperus consent to wed Olivia, in which case Orlando hopes to espouse Floribel. This is a clumsy contrivance, but it cannot be helped. Accordingly Hesperus is admitted to his father, in chains and in a dungeon, when the following dialogue ensues.

"Lord Ernest. Oh set me free, I cannot

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Aye, when I thought him good; but now -Nay, still

He must be good, and I, I have been harsh,

I feel, I have not prized him at his worth;
And yet I think if Hesperus had erred,
I could have pardoned him, indeed I could.
Hesp.
We'll live together.
No, for I shall die;

Lord Ern. But that's no matter.

Hesp. Bring the priest, the bride. Quick, quick. These fetters have infected him

With slavery's sickness. Yet there is a

secret,

"Twixt heaven and me, forbids it. Tell me, father;

Were it not best for both to die at once? Lord Ern. Die! thou hast spoke a word,

that makes my heart

Grow sick and wither; thou hast palsied

me

To death. Live thou to wed some worthier maid;

Know that thy father chose this sad seclusion;

(Ye rebel lips, why do you call it sad?) Should I die soon, think not that sorrow caused it,

But, if you recollect my name, bestow it Upon your best-loved child, and when you give him

His grandsire's blessing, add not that he perished

A wretched prisoner.

Hesp. Stop, or I am made

I know not what, perhaps a villain.
Curse me,

Oh if you love me, curse.

Lord Ern. Aye, thou shalt hear
A father's curse; if fate hath put a moment
Of pain into thy life; a sigh, a word,
A dream of woe; be it transferred to
mine;

And for thy days; oh! never may a
thought

Of others' sorrow, even of old Ernest's,
Darken their calm uninterrupted bliss,
And be thy end-oh! anything but mine.
Hesp. Guilt, thou art sanctified in such

a cause;

Guards; (they enter) I am ready. Let me
say't so low,

So quickly that it may escape the ear
Of watchful angels; I will do it all.

Lord Ern. There's nought to do; I've learned to love this solitude. Farewell, my son. Nay, never heed the fetters,

We can make shift to embrace.

Hesp. Lead him to freedom, And tell your lord I will not, that's I will. (Exeunt Lord Ernest and guards.) Here, fellow; put your hand upon my mouth

Till they are out of hearing. Leave me

now.

No, stay; come near me, nearer yet. Now

fix

The close attention of your eyes on mine."

Soon after his father's liberation, Hesperus visits his Floribel in her cottage, but finds her rather coy and fretted by his too-long absence. During this lovers' quarrel, Orlando's boy gives a letter to Floribel, who reads it, and then dismisses him with a kiss. Hesperus either feels or feigns jealousy, and parts from his unhappy wife, with displeasure and anger. He is next introduced to Olivia, who proves to be a most engaging and delightful creature; and Hesperus, alás! transfers his affection to her, from his own Floribel. This scene is managed with considerable skill, and reminds one of something in Ford or Massinger. We see that the affection of the fickle, weak, and unprincipled Hesperus for Floribel, has given way under the fa

scination of a beautiful woman of his own rank, and that misery and death are about to knock at the door of that humble cottage.

"Floribel,

I would not have thee cross my path to night;

There is an indistinct dread purpose forming,

Something, whose depth of wickedness ap-
pears

Hideous, incalculable, but inevitable;
Now it draws nearer, and I do not shud-
der;

Avaunt! haunt me no more; I dread it
not,

But almost hence! I must not be alone."

In this unhallowed state of mind he retires to rest, but finds none, and starts up from horror-haunted dreams. "Hesperus discovered in a disturbed slumber.

Hesperus, (starting from his couch.) Who speaks? Who whispers there? A light! a light!

I'll search the room, something hath called me thrice,

With a low muttering voice of toadish
hisses,

And thrice I slept again. But still it came
Nearer and nearer, plucked my mantle from

me,

And made mine heart an ear, in which it
poured

Its loathed enticing courtship. Ho! a light.
Enter Attendant with a torch.
Thou drowsy snail, thy footsteps are asleep,
Hold up the torch.

Attend. My lord, you are disturbed.
Have you seen aught?

Hesp. I lay upon my bed,
And something in the air, out-jetting night,
Converting feeling to intenser vision,
Deeper than sight.
Featured its ghastly self upon my soul

She's busy with men's thoughts at all night
Attend. This is Delusion surely;

hours,

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I'll not look on thee; Why does thy frantic weapon dig the air With such most frightful vehemence? Back, back,

Tell the dark grave I will not give it food. Back to thy home of night. What! playest thou still?

Then thus I banish thee. Out, treacherous torch,

Sure thou wert kindled in infernal floods, Or thy bright eye would blind at sights like this.

[Dashes the torch on the ground. Tempt me no more, I tell thee Floribel Shall never bleed. I pray thee, guilty word,

Tempt me no more."

He now roams about in the darkness, sullen, fierce, and distracted; and hints are dropped, that there is a taint of madness in his mind. A great deal of fine poetry occurs in this part of the drama, but throughout either extravagant, or bordering on extravagance. It is, however, effective; and we quote, as a proof of this young poet's fine powers, the first scene of the third act.

"An apartment in Orlando's Palace. Hesperus seated. Attendants. Enter to them Claudio.

Claud. The bridegroom's here? Attend. Yonder he sits, my lord, And since the morn's first hour, without

the motion

Even of a nerve, as he were growing marble,

Has sat and watched, the sun blazed in at

noon

With light enough to blind an eagle's ken, He felt it not, although his eye-balls glared

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And I will thank thee for't; or if some horror

Has frozen up the fountain of thy words,
Give but a sign.
Claud.

Lady, alas, 'tis vain. Olivia (kneeling.) Nay, he shall speak, or I will never move,

But thus turn earth beseeching his dull hand,

And let the grass grow over me. I'll hold A kind of converse with my raining eyes, For if he sees not, nor doth hear, he'll know

The gentle feel of his Olivia's tears.

Claud. Sweet sir, look on her.

Orlan. Brother.

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Hesperus has now wrought his courage to the striking place, and goes to the cottage, where he had often been so blest, to murder Floribel. Perhaps, after Othello and Desdemona, no man should ever murder his wife more, except off the stage. Dr Johnson thanked God when he had done annotating on that dreadful scene. Mr Beddoes has here conceived something very fearful-in our opinion, much beyond what lately occurred near Gill's-hill cottage.

"Flor. Hence did I seem to hear a hu man voice,

Yet there is nought, save a low moaning sound,

As if the spirits of the earth and air
Were holding sad and ominous discourse.
And much I fear me I have lost my path;
Oh how these brambles tear; here 'twixt

the willows;

Ha! something stirs, my silly prattling

nurse

Says that fierce shaggy wolves inhabit here, And 'tis in sooth a dread and lonely place; There, there again; a rustling in the leaves.

Enter Hesperus. 'Tis he at last; why dost thou turn away, And lock thy bosom from my first embrace ?

I am so tired and frightened; but thou'rt here;

I knew thou wouldst be faithful to thy promise,

And claim me openly. Speak, let me hear thy voice,

Tell me the joyful news.

Hesp. Ay, I am come

In all my solemn pomp, Darkness and Fear,

And the great Tempest in his midnight car, The sword of lightning girt across his thigh,

And the whole damon brood of night, blind Fog

And withering Blight, all these are my retainers;

How not one smile for all this bravery? What think you of my minstrels, the hoarse winds,

Thunder, and tuneful Discord? Hark, they play.

Well piped, methinks; somewhat too rough, perhaps.

Flor. I know you practise on my silli

ness,

Else I might be well scared. But leave this mirth,

Or I must weep.

Hesp. 'Twill serve to fill the goblets For our carousal; but we loiter here, The bridemaids are without; well-pick'd thou❜lt say,

Wan ghosts of woe-begone, self-slaughtered damsels

In their best winding-sheets; start not, I bid them wipe

Their gory bosoms; they'll look wondrous comely;

Our link-boy, Will o' the Wisp, is waiting too

To light us to our grave-bridal, I mean. Flor. Ha! how my veins are chilled— why, Hesperus!

Hesp. What hero of thy dreams art calling girl?

Look in my face-Is't mortal? Dost thou

think

The voice that calls thee is not of a mouth Long choaked with dust! What, though I have assumed

This garb of flesh, and with it the affec

tions,

The thoughts and weakness of mortality? "Twas but for thee; and now thou art my

bride;

Lift up thine eyes and smile-the bride of death.

Flor. Hold, hold. My thoughts are 'wildered. Is my fancy

The churlish framer of these fearful words,
Or do I live indeed to such a fate?
Oh! no, I recollect; I have not waked
Since Hesperus left me in the twilight
bower.

Hesp. Come, we'll to our chamber, The cypress shade hangs o'er our stony couch

A goodly canopy; be mad and merry; There'll be a jovial feast among the worms. [Aside.

Fiends, strew your fiercest fire about my heart, Or she will melt it.

Flor. Oh, that look of fury! What's this about my eyes? ah! deadly night,

No light, no hope, no help.

Hesp. What! Darest thou tremble Under thy husband's arm, darest think of fear? Dost dread me, me?

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