of some other person; and then, re-established
in his own good opinion, marches on cheerfully in the smooth path toward
the temple of his own immortality. Yet even here, you see, I am
indirectly lauding my own worship for not being persuaded to laud my own
worship. How sleek, smooth-tongued, paradisaical a deluder art thou,
sweet Self-conceit! Let great men give their own thoughts on their own
thoughts: from such we can learn much; but let the small deer hold jaw,
and remember what the philosopher says, 'Fleas are not lobsters: d----n
their souls!'"

Caring nothing even for professional honors, Beddoes refused various
professorships in Germany, and traveled about to Zurich, to Bale, and to
the other German centres of learning as his desires prompted him. Always
the same independent and rebellious spirit that he had shown himself as
a boy, he sympathized warmly with the democratic movements then
agitating Switzerland and the Rhine provinces, and devoted both his
purse and his pen to aid the anti-oligarchic and anti-clerical party. In
1848 he had intended to go back to England, but in the spring of that
year a slight wound received while dissecting infused a poison into his
system that undermined his health. In May, while seeking restoration in
the purer air of Bale, his horse fell with him, and his left leg was so
badly broken that amputation became necessary. Until the autumn he
seemed to be doing well, but then the poison imbibed at Frankfort
declared itself once more, and a slow fever set in which terminated in
death on the 26th of January, 1849.

Beddoes' great fault as a dramatist he was quite aware of himself, and
had pointed out to the friend who was continually urging him to write:
"The power of drawing character and humor--two things absolutely
indispensable for a good dramatist--are the first two articles in my
deficiencies; and even the imaginative poetry I think you will find in
all my verse always harping on the same two or three principles; for
which plain and satisfactory reasons I have no business to expect any
great distinction as a writer." He could draw types of character, but
not individuals: the power of making the creations of the mind seem as
real as "our dear intimates and chamber-fellows" was denied him. But he
was not wholly destitute of humor, though he was possessed of but one
kind--that grim, sardonic quality which we find so often among the
Elizabethans--that mocking irony most like the gri