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By Root 16251 0

or ultra-romantic, and its incidents unconsequential, seldom furthering the business of the play. The dénouement is feeble, and its moral of very equivocal tendency indeed — but I have already shown that it is the especial office neither of poetry nor of the drama, to inculcate truth, unless incidentally. Mrs. Osgood, however, although she has unquestionably failed in writing a good play, has, even in failing, given indication of dramatic power. The great tragic element, passion, breathes in every line of her composition, and had she but the art, or the patience, to model or control it, she might be eminently successful as a playwright. I am justified in these opinions not only by “Elfrida,” but by “Woman’s Trust, a Dramatic Sketch,” included, also, in the English edition.

A Masked Ball. Madelon and a Stranger in a Recess.

Mad. — Why hast thou led me here?

My friends may deem it strange — unmaidenly,

This lonely converse with an unknown mask.

Yet in thy voice there is a thrilling power

That makes me love to linger. It is like

The tone of one far distant — only his

Was gayer and more soft.

Strang. Sweet Madelon!

Say thou wilt smile upon the passionate love

That thou alone canst waken! Let me hope!

Mad. — Hush! hush! I may not hear thee. Know’st thou not I am betrothed?

Strang. — Alas! too well I know;

But I could tell thee such a tale of him —

Thine early love — ‘twould fire those timid eyes

With lightning pride and anger — curl that lip —

That gentle lip to passionate contempt

For man’s light falsehood. Even now he bends —

Thy Rupert bends o’er one as fair as thou,

In fond affection. Even now his heart —

Mad. — Doth my eye flash? — doth my lip curl with scorn?

‘Tis scorn of thee, thou perjured stranger, not —

Oh, not of him, the generous and the true!

Hast thou e’er seen my Rupert? — hast thou met

Those proud and fearless eyes that never quailed,

As Falsehood quails, before another’s glance —

As thine even now are shrinking from mine own — ­

The spirit beauty of that open brow —

The noble head — the free and gallant step —

The lofty mien whose majesty is won

From inborn honor — hast thou seen all this?

And darest thou speak of faithlessness and him

In the same idle breath? Thou little know’st

The strong confiding of a woman’s heart,

When woman loves as — I do. Speak no more!

Strang. — Deluded girl! I tell thee he is false —

False as yon fleeting cloud!

Mad. True as the sun!

Strang. — The very wind less wayward than his heart!

Mad. — The forest oak less firm! He loved me not

For the frail rose-hues and the fleeting light

Of youthful loveliness — ah, many a cheek

Of softer bloom, and many a dazzling eye

More rich than mine may win my wanderer’s gaze.

He loved me for my love, the deep, the fond —

For my unfaltering truth; he cannot find —

Rove where he will — a heart that beats for him

With such intense, absorbing tenderness —

Such idolizing constancy as mine.

Why should he change, then? — I am still the same.

Strang. — Sweet infidel! wilt thou have ruder proof?

Rememberest thou a little golden case

Thy Rupert wore, in which a gem was shrined?

A gem I would not barter for a world —

An angel face; its sunny wealth of hair

In radiant ripples bathed the graceful throat

And dimpled shoulders; round the rosy curve

Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed wandering ever;

While in the depths of azure fire that gleamed

Beneath the drooping lashes, slept a world

Of eloquent meaning, passionate yet pure —

Dreamy — subdued — but oh, how beautiful!

A look of timid, pleading tenderness

That should have been a talisman to charm

His restless heart for aye. Rememberest thou?

Mad. — (impatiently.) I do — I do remember — ‘twas my own.

He prized it as his life — I gave it him —

What of it! — speak!

Strang. — (showing a miniature,) Lady, behold that gift!

Mad — (clasping her hands) Merciful Heaven! is my Rupert dead?

(After a pause, during which she seems overwhelmed with agony)

How died he? — when? — oh, thou wast by his side

In that last hour and I was