. . . . "We speak with restraint and unwil- lingly of the defects of a work which must have cost its author so much labour. We are peculiarly reluctant to touch the anxieties of a man who has already exhibited talent, and whose various acquirements and manly application of them deserve the favour of those who value literature. But to conceal the truth is only to do final injury, and it must be acknowledged that this drama has sins, nay, a multitude, almost beyond the covering of charity. Its first fault is its unwieldy length: it was almost five hours long. Its next is its passion for laying hold of everything that could allow an apology for a description. Murderers stop short with the dagger in their hands to talk of 'roses on mountain sides;' fathers start back from their children to moralise; and a lover, in the outrage of disappointed love, lingers to tell at what hour of the day he parted from his mistress,—how she smiled, and how the sun smiled,—how its light fell upon the valleys, and the sheep, and the vineyards, and the lady,—and how red her tears were in 'the slant beam.' This may be poetical, but it has no connexion with the plain, rapid, and living truth of the drama. There is an essential difference in those two
