THE NEW YOU PUBLIC LIBRAR

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.

The Hunting of Badlewe, a Dramatic Tale. 8vo. Edin. 1814. [From the Scottish Review.]

THIS is indeed a most extraordinary production, in which the faults and the beauties are almost equally indications of no common-rate talents. The hitherto unknown author has marked out a path for himself with all the boldness at least, if not with all the originality, of Shakspeare. Those infringements of dramatic rules, or, in other words, those transgressions of probability and good taste, into which that master of the art was betrayed by ignorance, allured by indolence, or hurried by the fervours of an impetuous imagination, the author seems to have adopted from choice; and whilst he flounders, in company with his great master, through all the fragments of broken unities, he certainly comes nearer to him in his most daring and unequalled flights than perhaps any modern poct. In order, therefore, to convey some idea of his excellencies, we shall give a short outline of the story, with such extracts as in our judgment, tend to establish the truth of our opinion. The scene opens with a conversation between Glen-Garnet and Kilmorack, who, as we learn from their own mouths, are part of a royal party of pleasure enjoying the amusement of stag-hunting in disguised dresses, and under feigned titles.

'Gar. This is a dull retreat!-What seek we here Amid this waste where desolation scowls,

And the red torrent, brawling down the linn,

Sings everlasting discord? where the mists,
Drizzly and dank, hang lingering on the bosom
Of the bleak wilderness; and winter's flag,
White as the speck upon the North's cold cheek,
Scutcheons the hill for ever?-Are our minds
Estranged from reason's guidance, thus to tilt
Against each principle and bold appeal
She makes to manhood?' P. 1.

In the course of this dialogue, Badenoch, another of the disguised nobles, joins the party, and gives the following spirited account of his success in the chace:

'Bad. At first his horns I saw,

Between me and the welkin, cut the wind;

So swift, they whistled in't, and play'd and toss'd
As light as the tall branchy fern when way'd
By summer gale.-My heart with ardour heav'd!
Anon he came, and belted the green hill
Swifter than ever raven scoop'd the air!

Proud of his matchless speed, he snuff'd the wind,
And bore his brow so high, as he disdain'd
The earth and heaven. I aim'd afar before him;
Just in the shadow of his bawsin'd ear

The arrow stuck-headlong he fell, then, rising,
Bolted aloft in air, as he would scale

The windows of the firmament. The bounds
He made adown the steep were aimless quite;
'Twas the last burst of life-the last exertion.
He flounder'd oft, till in the mead below
Grovelling he lay-His slender limbs, convuls'd,
Pawed the green sward, still struggling to proceed,
But his fair head, disgrac'd and crimson-dyed,

Refused to leave its flowery pillow more.' Pp. 4, 5.

The scaling of the windows of heaven is perhaps too lofty a simile for the vaulting of a wounded stag. From this conversation it appears that Badenoch, a licentious profligate, has a plot upon the virtue of Matilda, Lord Crawford's fair but proud and suspected wife, who is

'Elegant, comely, and tall,

As is the poplar's stem; and her dark locks,
Half curling o'er her eagle eye, appear
Like ebon wreaths on polished ivory.' P. 7.

With whom the milder graces of Annabel, the daughter of Sir
John Drummond, are finely contrasted by Kilmorack,

The chaste snow

That falls o'er night, when neither smoke nor steam,

No, not the smallest atom is afloat

To grime its breast, is not more pure than she.' P. 8.

Badenoch, who is well named, after boasting of his seventeen mistresses, is found to be the seducer of Elenor, the daughter of the Earl of March, and who is now attending him in the dress and the character of a page. Annabel is pleased with the courtly manners and address of the knights, but particularly with Kilmorack. Sir Ronald, one of the party, in order to warn the unsuspecting Annabel of her lover's base designs, narrates the following beautiful incident:

'Once on a lovely day, it was in spring,

I rested on the height of that dread cliff
That overlooks old Stirling. All was gay;

The birds sung sweet; the trees put forth their leaves,
So pale, that in the sun they look'd like blossoms:
The wild thyme and the violet deck'd the sward
On which I lay, scenting the air with sweets.
Some children wandered careless on the hill,
Selecting early flowers. My heart rejoic'd,
For all was glad around me. One sweet maid
Came tripping near, eyeing, with gladsome smile,
Each little flower that bloom'd upon the hill;
Nimbly she pick'd them, minding me of swan
That feeds upon the waste. I blest the girl!
She was not maid nor child, but of that age
"Twixt both, when purity of frame and soul
Awaken dreams of beauty born in heaven.
Deep in a little den, within the cliff,

A flowret caught her eye-it was a primrose
Fair flaunting in the sun. With eager haste,
Heedless of risk, she clamber'd down the steep,

Pluck'd the wish'd flower-and sigh'd; for when she saw
The depth she had descended, then she woke
To sense of danger. All her flowers she dropt,
And tried to gain the height, but tried in vain!
I hasted to her rescue; but, alas!

I came too late!

Anna. O God! and did she fall?

Rom. Yes, lady; far, far, down on rocks below
Her lovely slender form was found at rest!
I saw her, middle air, fall like a seraph
From out the firmament. The rooks and daws,
That fled their roost in thousands at the sight,
Curtain'd her exit from my palsied eye
And dizzy brain. O! never will that scene
Part from my heart; whene'er I would be sad,
I think of it.' Pp. 20-22.

Soon after this conversation, we find Lord March, in search of his runaway daughter Elenor, falling in with an honesthearted shepherd, who makes him acquainted with her un