Monthly Review of Literature, 



[J 



that the simplest incidents, which have 

 once taken hold of a mind truly poetical, 

 soon become the nucleus the central 

 point of gravitation, around which a world 

 of thoughts and subordinate incidents be- 

 gin to revolve. The inventive mind, 

 whence all this universe of fancy arises, 

 so loves to contemplate its own creation, 

 t bat it will not and cannot, without pain- 

 ful efforts, disengage itself from the em- 

 ployment till the work be made a perfect 

 whole. In plain terms, we mean, the 

 powers of genuine inspiration are com- 

 monly thought to be competent to whole 

 dramas at least ; and a tacit persuasion 

 exists in the minds of most people, that 

 short productions of imagination are either 

 the fruits of very inferior writers, or if 

 they issue from the better kind, are only 

 shreds and patches of their higher facul- 

 ties so intimately blended in human na- 

 ture are the ideas of greatness of power 

 and tenacity of object. 



We were well pleased, therefore, to per- 

 ceive that Miss Mitford a favourite of 

 ours confessedly can effectually stir our 

 hearts to any variety of emotion, even in 

 the narrow compass of a single scene. 

 Considering how much time is generally 

 required before the matured, the hack- 

 nied, the world - worn reader can be 

 brought into a state to be moved, no 

 slight degree of power is evinced by a 

 writer, who so rapidly tunes our minds to 

 her own purposes. Her genius reminds 

 us of the quality of machinery, where the 

 less the time the greater the power. 



We have no space to speak of each piece 

 separately. "Cunegunda's vow" fixed our 

 attention. The Duke of Mantua's speech, 

 when describinghis own wife, and contrast- 

 ing her with Cunegunda, possesses the high- 

 est dramatic beauty. The " Bridal Eve " is 

 full of the deepest and most touching ten- 

 derness we recollect reading it in one 

 of the New Year Souvenirs. But we must 

 not forget " Fair .Rosamond." The detail 

 of her first interview with her royal se- 

 ducer, as given by herself to oue of her 

 attendants, on that last fatal day, when 

 they were expecting the king, and dis- 

 covered too late that Queen Eleanor had 

 penetrated into their asylum, is well worth 

 extracting : 



Rosamond. 'Twill soon be even. Did I never 



tell thee 



The story of his wooing ? Listen, girl, 

 Sit here and listen. Twas a glorious day, 

 A glorious autumn day, as bright and clear 

 As this, the small white clouds now softly sailing 

 Along the deep blue sky, now fixed and still 

 As the light western breeze arose or sank, 

 By fits a glorious day ! I and my maids 

 Sat by the lakelet in my father's park, 

 Working as we do now, right merrily. 



For young and innocent maids are in their 



nature 

 Gay as the larks above their heads. The scene 



Was pleasant as the season, not a spot 



Of the Lord Clifford's wide demesne could vie 



With this in beauty. Woods on every side, 



Ash, oak, and beech, sloped downward to the 



clear 



And quiet waters, overhung by tufts 

 Of fern and hazel, and long wreaths of briar* ; 

 Only one little tufty bank was free. 



From that rich underwood there we sat bending 

 Over a tapestry loom, until we heard 

 A horn sound right above us, and espied 

 A hunter threading the rude path which wound 

 To our sequestered bower. Oh what a sight 

 It was ! The managed steed, white as the foam 

 Of some huge torrent, fiery, hot, and wild, 

 Yet reined into a lameness by his bold 

 And graceful rider, winding with slow steps 

 His way 'mid those huge trees; now seen, now 



lost, 



Now in bright sunshine, now in deepest shade ; 

 The red autumnal tint of those old woods 

 Contrasting well the huntsman's snow-white steed 

 And garb of Lincoln green. No sign bore be 

 Of prince or king, save in the sovran grace 

 Of his majestic port, his noble brow, 

 His keen commanding eye. My maidens fled 

 Soon as they saw the stranger. 

 Mabel. And thou, lady ? 

 Rosamond. Why I too thought to fly, but 



loitered on, 



Collecting the bright silks and threads of gold, 

 Careful excuse that to myself I made 

 For lingering there till he approached ; and then 

 When I in earnest turned to go, he stayed me 

 With such a smile and such a grace, and craved 

 My aid so piteously, for he had lost 

 Comrades, and hounds, and quarry, and himself 

 In that morn's chase, that I was fain to proffer 

 Guidance to our old castle. 

 Mabel. He went with thee ? 

 Rosamond. No. At Lord Clifford's name he 



started. 

 Mabel, shun thou the lover that shall start to 



hear 



Thy father's name. With slight excuse he rode 

 To seek his partners of the chase. But oft 

 From that day forth we met beside the lake ; 

 And often, when November storms came fast, 

 Driving against the casement, I have wept 

 Drop for drop with the sky, if my dear father, 

 In his fond care, forbad his Rosamond 

 To brave the raging tempest ; all my heart 

 Was in that bare damp wood, and on the bank 

 Of that dark water, where my lover stood 

 To wait my coming, patiently as sits 

 The nightingale beside his drooping mate. 

 How could I chuse but love him ? 

 Mabel. Didst thou know thy lover for a king? 

 Rosamond. Not till my love had been con- 

 fessed ; then he in turn confessed 

 The fatal secret. What a coil of wild 

 And desperate passions broke within my heart 

 Fear, shame, and pride, and anger, but true love 

 O'ermastered all ; we fled, and I am here. 

 Mabel Alas I 

 Rosamond. Nay, wherefore cry alas! my 



father 



I must not think of him out on thee, wench ! 

 That sigh of thine hath saddened me, hath brought 

 Fond thoughts of days of old the blessed days 

 When I was innocent and happy! Girl, 



