tiguing the attention, of the common reader; rather sweetly developing the virtues of the heart, than curiously untwisting the subtleties of the mind; diffusing over his whole picture a com louring more grateful and soothing, but less contrasted with strong light and shade; more delightful and amiable, more curious and excursive, but, on the whole, perhaps possessing less of that touching and irresistible power which incidentally redeems the wilder eccentricities of his friends.

We now turn to the poem which has given rise to the preceding remarks, in which we think the defects and the beauties which have been noticed as characteristics of the school will be found to be strongly exemplified.

The Marquis Valdez, a nobleman residing on the sea coast of Grenada, has two sons, Alvar and Ordonio, of whom the first being betrothed to Teresa, an orphan ward of his father, departs on his travels. At their parting Teresa had bound round his neck her own portrait, with a solemn promise from him

"That, save his own, no eye should e'er behold it

Till his return.'

Ordonio, who had conceived a passion for Teresa, had been an unperceived witness of this interview, and when, at the expira tion of three years, Alvar's return was expected, he sends three Morescoes to waylay and assassinate him. To Isidore, one of the three, whose life he had spared in battle, he states that the man they are to murder is betrothed to a lady whose affections were placed on himself, and whose honour had been surrendered to his passion; he informs him also of the picture and particularly insists on that as the assurance of his death. Alvar meets the assassins, and fights so bravely as to compel them to a parley; he offers Isidore his purse, which is rejected, he then exclaims,

*I have a brother, and a promised wife,
Who make life dear to me; and if I fall
That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance.
There was a likeness in his face to yours.

I ask'd his brother's name; he said Ordonio,
Son of Lord Valdez! I had well nigh fainted.

At length I said, (if that indeed I said it,
And that no spirit made my tongue its organ,)
That woman is dishonoured by that brother,
And he the man who sent us to destroy you.
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him
He wore her portrait round his neck. He looked,
Aye, just as you look now, only less ghastly!

M 4

At length, recovering from his trance, he threw
His sword away, and bade us take his life-

It was not worth his keeping.'

The discovery overcomes the spirit of Alvar; he surrenders the pledge, which had lost its value, and promises absence and secrecy. Meantime his fate is variously reported, and Ordonio, assured of his death by the picture, roams the seas in a pretended search of him, and returns with an account of his having been lost in a storm. He then professes his love for Teresa, who still cherishes a romantic hope of Alvar's safety, and feels the strongest aversion to Ordonio. Some time elapses, during which Alvar serves under the heroic Maurice' in Belgium, and is taken prisoner. Upon his release, he determines to return home, still feeding a visionary hope that Teresa may be innocent, and determining, at all events, to awaken remorse in the breast of his brother. At this point the drama opens. Alvar lands in Grenada disguised as a Morescoe chief, and meets Teresa on the sea shore; he converses with her without disclosing himself, believing her innocent, yet convinced that she is married to Ordonio. At this interview was present Alhadra, the wife of Isidore, who had come to solicit Ordonio to rescue her husband from the Inquisition by attesting his Christianity; Ordonio consents, and Isidore is released. He is then desired by his benefactor to assist him in convincing Teresa of Alvar's death. He is to act the part of a wizard, and, at the end of a solemn scene of enchantment, to produce the picture as the last thing which Alvar grasped in death. Isidore declines the task, and recommends the stranger, who has already acquired the reputation of a sorcerer in the neighbourhood. Ordonio visits Alvar, who agrees to perform the part, and, in receiving instructions, becomes fully assured of Teresa's innocence, and that she is still unmarried. The scene commences with mysterious music and invocation to the spirit of the departed, but, at the conclusion, instead of the portrait, is presented the picture of the assassination of Alvar. Ordonio has just time to exclaim,

the traitor Isidore!'

when the familiars of the Inquisition rush in. Valdez and Ordonio are freed, but Alvar is committed to a dungeon as a dealer in magic. Ordonio now determines on the death of Isidore and the stranger. He lures the former to a cavern and kills him. He returns to execute his revenge on the stranger, who had just been visited and recognized by Teresa. An animated scene ensues, in which Alvar discovers himself, and rouses in Ordonio the strongest feelings of remorse. In the midst of his agonies Alhadra enters with a band of Morescoes to avenge the death of her husband,

and, after some parley, on an alarm of 'Rescue and Valdez,' stabs Ordonio. She has just time to retire, when Valdez appears at the head of the armed peasantry, and the play concludes.

There is enough of incident and interest; events follow each other in rapid succession, and though there is room for sentiment, it is not made to supply the place of incident, or to bear the burthen of the play. Neither is there any deficiency of marked and accurately drawn character. Isidore is invested with the virtues and vices, which are so often found allied in the same mind, when oppression compels to habitual deceit, when the moral principles are unsettled; consenting at one time to be an assassin through gratitude, yet at another refusing to lend himself to a comparatively innocent artifice, when he had found himself once deceived by his benefactor. Alhadra too possesses some decisive features, exhibiting, as women often must in a state of semi-barbarism, and under the pressure of adversity, many of the virtues, many of the faults, and none of the graces of the female character; faithful to her husband, watchful over her children, but implacable to her enemies. Her character gives us an opportunity of citing a remarkable instance of the strong powers which Mr. Coleridge possesses in depicting the mind under feelings of the most acute agony. She is describing her state of mind on discovering the murder of her husband:

I stood listening,

Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!

Naomi.-Thou calledst him?

Alhadra.-I crept into the cavern ;

"Twas dark and very silent. (wildly) What saidst thou?
No, no, I did not dare call Isidore,

Lest I should hear no answer.

A brief while

Belike, I lost all thought and memory
Of that for which I came ! After that pause,
O heaven! I heard a groan, and followed it;
And yet another groan, which guided me
Into a strange recess-and there was light,
A hideous light-his torch lay on the ground;
Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink.
I spake, and whilst I spake, a feeble groan

Came from that chasm! It was his last! his death-groan.

Naomi.-Comfort her, Allah!

Alhadra. I stood in unimaginable trance

And agony that cannot be remembered,

Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!

But I had heard his last-my husband's death-groan.

Ordonio however is evidently the poet's favourite, and we think he has reason to be proud of him. It is difficult to select any one

passage, which will give a full idea of the various yet not inconsistent peculiarities of his character; they are collected only (and this we think a merit) from a perusal of the whole poem. In the following extract however, where he is preparing himself for the murder of Isidore, he draws the prominent features of his character, omitting at the same time the brightest traits of it. The scene is in the cavern.

Ordonio.-One of our family knew this place well.
Isidore.-Who? when, my Lord?

Ord.-What boots it, who or when?

Hang up thy torch-I'll tell his tale to thee.
He was a man different from other men,
And he despis'd them, yet rever'd himself.
Isid.-What, he was mad?

Ord.-All men seem'd mad to him!
Nature had made him for some other planet,
And press'd his soul into a human shape
By accident or malice. In this world
He found no fit companion.

Isid.-Alas, poor wretch!
Madmen are mostly proud.

Ord. He walk'd alone,

And phantom thoughts unsought for troubled him.
Something within would still be shadowing out
All possibilities; and with these shadows

His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happened,
A fancy cross'd him wilder than the rest:
To this, in moody murmur and low voice,
He yielded utterance, as some talk in sleep.
The man, who heard him-

Why didst thou look round?—

Isid. I have a prattler three years old, my Lord!

In truth he is my darling. As I went

From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep-
But I am talking idly-pray proceed!

And what did this man?

Ord. With his human hand

He gave a substance and reality

To that wild fancy of a possible thing-
Well, it was done!-(then very wildly)
Why babblest thou of guilt?

The deed was done, and it passed fairly off.

And he whose tale I tell thee-dost thou listen?

Isid. I would, my lord, you were by my fireside.

I'd listen to you with an eager eye,

Tho' you began this cloudy tale at midnight.
But I do listen-pray proceed, my lord.

Ord.-Where was I?

Isd.-He, of whom you tell the tale-

Ord.-Surveying all things with a quiet scorn,

Tam'd himself down to living purposes,

The occupations and the semblances

Of ordinary men-and such he seem'd.

To this heartless suspicion and contempt of all men, he unites
a certain degree of generosity and honour; and when he finds Isi-
dore armed and prepared to meet him, he joyfully exclaims:
'Now this is excellent, and warms the blood!

My heart was drawing back; drawing me back
With weak and womanish scruples. Now my vengeance
Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien,

And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of.—
Now will I kill thee, thankless slave, and count it

Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.'

He strikes us as bearing in many points a strong resemblance to the murderer of the lamented Perceval; in his moral madness framing a new code of action, in which he is self-constituted judge and executioner, and by which the most dreadful acts of vengeance stand justified of guilt; feeling indeed at times the tortures of unperverted conscience, yet neither terrified nor subdued and angry, at the weaknesses of a nature, which he deems unworthy of him.

We have endeavoured to give our readers some idea of Ordonio; but we pass over the remainder of the characters, because they are either slightly drawn, or are in themselves rather interesting and amiable, than strongly marked or original. But we do not consider this as a defect in the composition of the play. No scene, to be natural, should be exclusively filled with prominent characters; indeed these are qualities which may be said to exist only by comparison, and certainly cannot have their due effect, unless they are relieved by contrast.

To the merits of incident and character, we have to add the charm of a rich and glowing poetry. Indeed in all that Mr. Coleridge writes are to be observed a loftiness and purity of sentiment, a picturesque conception of imagery, and a luxuriance of fancy, which make us regret that he has so much abused his endowments. The following description is highly poetical:

"The morning of the day of our departure
We were alone: the purple hue of dawn
Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us,
And blending with the blushes on her cheek,
Suffus'd the tear-drops there with rosy light;

!