So rich, so gay, so poignant is his wit,
Time vanishes before him as he speaks,

And ruddy morning through the lattice peeps
Ere night seems well begun.

De Mon. How is he call'd?

Freb. I will surprise thee with a welcome face:

I will not tell thee now.

The count and countess being gone, De Monfort gives vent to his feelings in a soliloquy, which, by exhibiting the strange alienation of his temper, even from the offices of sincere friendship and politeness, prepares us for the more gloomy appearances which follow.

De Mon. Well, well, prepare my bed; I will to rest.

I know not how it is, my heart stands back,

And meets not this man's love.-Friends! rarest friends!
Rather than share his undiscerning praise

With every table wit, and book-form'd sage,
And paltry poet puling to the moon,

I'd court from him proscription, yea, abuse,
And think it proud distinction.

We next meet De Monfort at breakfast, the morning after his arrival; when, sleep having a little restored his natural temper, he speaks with great kindness to his servant Manuel. Here we begin to observe that every line, as the piece advances, tends to elucidate the character of the hero; and that scenes, at first apparently trivial, answer the important purpose of unfolding, in the most natural manner possible, the rooted sorrow that lies near his heart, and insensibly revealing the cause of it. Even while felicitating himself upon his retreat, he adverts in bitter terms to the evil he has fled from, and shows that it reigns in his mind paramount to all other considerations.

De Mon. Here can I wander with assured steps,

Nor dread, at every winding of the path,
Lest an abhorred serpent cross my way,

To move

Man. What says your honour?

There are no serpents in our pleasant fields.

[Stopping short.

De Mon. Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world,
But those who slide along the grassy sod,

And sting the luckless foot that presses them!
There are, who, in the path of social life,

Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's sun,

And sting the soul-Ay, till its healthful frame

Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease,

So deadly is the wound.

Man. Heaven guard your honour from such horrid skathe!
They are but rare, I hope?

De Mon. [Shaking his head.] We mark the hollow eye, the wasted
frame,

The gait disturb'd, of wealthy honour❜d men,

But do not know the cause.

Man. 'Tis very true. God keep you well, my lord!

De Mon. I thank thee, Manuel, I am very well.

I shall be gay too by the setting sun.

I go to revel it with sprightly dames,
And drive the night away.

This dark superinduced feature of De Monfort's character being thus partially exposed, the poet, by a transition exquisitely fine and natural, contrives to make him, with the aid of Manuel, display some of its brighter natural traits.

Man. I should be glad to see your honour gay.

De Mon. And thou too shalt be gay. There, honest Manuel,
Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse,

And take at night a cheerful jovial glass.
Here is one too, for Bremer; he loves wine;

And one for Jaques: be joyful all together.

That the author of this tragedy possesses the happy power of so mingling and disposing the lights and shades of character, as to produce a perfect and intelligible picture, in a degree superior to any modern poet, we need not offer any stronger proof than this single scene. First, De Monfort appears wrapt in the indulgence of his gloomy, hateful feelings; then he gradually slides into his own noble natural temper; from which he is suddenly roused back again to all the scorpion stings of his former thoughts, by a circumstance which, though natural and simple, is admirably conducive to the progress of the plot. It is thus, by a skilful disposition of the parts, and the quick, yet easy and unforced alternation of the two contrasted characteristics of his heart, she gradually develops and throws out into full relief the whole man. While he is flattering himself with the hope of enjoying a suspension of his tortures, by distance from the causer of it, a servant enters, and, with a word, shows him the fallacy of his expectations, and gives us the first glance of the person he detests.

Serv. My lord, I met e'en now, a short way off,

Your countryman, the Marquis Rezenvelt.

De Mon. [Starting from his seat, and letting the cup fall from his

hand.] Who, say'st thou?

Serv. Marquis Rezenvelt, an' please you.

De Mon. Thou ly'st—it is not so—it is impossible!
Serv. I saw him with these eyes, plain as yourself.

De Mon. Fool! 'tis some passing stranger thou hast seen,
And with a hideous likeness been deceiv'd.

Serv. No other stranger could deceive my sight.

De Mon. [Dashing his clenched hand violently upon the table, and overturning every thing.] Heaven blast thy sight! it lights on nothing good.

Serv. I surely thought no harm to look upon him!

De Mon. What, dost thou still insist? Him must it be?

Does it so please thee well? [SERVANT endeavours to speak.] Hold thy

damn'd tongue!

By Heaven I'll kill thee!

[Going furiously up to him.

Man. [In a soothing voice.] Nay, harm him not, my lord; he speaks

the truth;

I've met his groom, who told me certainly

His lord is here. I should have told you so,

But thought, perhaps, it might displease your honour.

Here the first clear view of the person that disturbs his peace breaks upon us; but only to light us to a more dark and inexplicable mystery. We see that he not only abhors this marquis Rezenvelt, but that he has such a secret dread of meeting him, that, in his consternation, he almost stoops to the meanness of striking his servant for intimating that the marquis is in the same town with him. Having made De Monfort thus disclose himself, the poet artfully turns the tempest of the unhappy victim's mind to another point, and makes him accompany the development with strong indications of conscious shame for the unworthiness of his feelings.

De Mon. [Becoming all at once calm, and turning sternly to MANUEL.]
And how dar'st thou think it would displease me?

What is't to me who leaves or enters Amberg?

But it displeases me, yea, ev'n to frenzy,

That every idle fool must hither come

To break my leisure with the paltry tidings

Of all the cursed things he stares upon.

[SERVANT attempts to speak-DE MONFORT stamps with his foot.]

Take thine ill favour'd visage from my sight,

And speak of it no more.

And go thou too; I choose to be alone.

[Exit SERVANT.

[Exit MANUEL.-DE MONFORT goes to the door by which they went out; opens it, and looks.

But is he gone indeed? Yes, he is gone.

[Goes to the opposite door, opens it, and looks: then gives loose to all the fury of gestures, and walks up and down in great agitation.

It is too much: by Heaven, it is too much!

He haunts me-stings me-like a devil haunts-
He'll make a raving maniac of me-Villain!
The air wherein thou draw'st thy fulsome breath
Is poison to me-Oceans shall divide us!

But no; thou think'st I fear thee, cursed reptile!
And hast a pleasure in the damned thought.
Though my heart's blood should curdle at thy sight,
I'll stay and face thee still.
Ha! Who knocks there?

[Pauses.

[Knocking at the chamber door.

While every string of the unhappy De Monfort's heart is thus untuned and unfitted for harmony, the count Freberg enters; and, perceiving his agitation, entreats him to open his heart to him, and this draws from De Monfort some observations on the fallaciousness of mankind, not less just and true than vigorously expressed.

Freb. What troubles thee?

De Mon. I have no grief: distress me not, my friend.
Freb. Nay, do not call me so. Wert thou my friend,

Wouldst thou not open all thine inmost soul,

And bid me share its every consciousness?

De Mon. Freberg, thou know'st not man; not nature's man,
But only him who, in smooth studied works
Of polish'd sages, shines deceitfully

In all the splendid foppery of virtue.

That man was never born whose secret soul,
With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts,

Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams,
Was ever opened to another's scan.

Away, away! it is delusion all.

When count Freberg has got De Monfort into a more placid mood, he reminds him of his promise, invites him to come along with

him,

and says

I'll introduce you to my pleasant friend.

De Mon. Your pleasant friend?

Freb. Yes, him of whom I spake..

[Taking his hant.

There is no good I would not share with thee,
And this man's company, to minds like thine,
Is the best banquet-feast I could bestow.

In this description a profound knowledge of the most secret avenues, by which the human heart may be surprised and overcome, is displayed. Indeed we are not sure that the manner, in which Shakspeare contrives to make Iago feed the flame of Othello's rage, shows more poetic art and ingenuity than Miss Baillie evinces in raising the expectation of De Monfort by those praises of the person to be introduced to him, and then letting fall upon him the dreadful intelligence-more dreadful for being unexpected,

"It is thy townsman, noble Rezenvelt,"

the man whom he most abhors; and the praises of whom is poison to his soul. Accordingly he shows how deeply he is affected, snatches his hand hastily from Freberg, and shrinks back. Here a scene ensues of great importance, as it demonstrates that De Monfort is conscious of the unworthiness of his feelings, and so ashamed of, that he meanly disavows, them.

Freb. Ha! What is this? Art thou painstricken, Monfort?
Nay, on my life, thou rather seem'st offended:

Does it displease thee that I call him friend?

De Mon. No, all men are thy friends.

Freb. No, say not all men. But thou art offended.

I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure;

But if his presence is not welcome here,

He shall not join our company to-day.

De Mon. What dost thou mean to say? What is't to me
Whether I meet with such a thing as Rezenvelt

To-day, to-morrow, every day, or never?

Freb. In truth, I thought you had been well with him.

He prais'd you much.

De Mon. I thank him for his praise-Come, let us move:

This chamber is confin'd and airless grown.

I hear a stranger's voice?

Freb. 'Tis Rezenvelt.

Let him be told that we are gone abroad.

[Starting

De Mon. [Proudly.] No! let him enter. Who waits there? Ho!

Manuel!

Enter MANUEL.

What stranger speaks below?

Man. The Marquis Rezevelt.