Book I

, 168) says, a member of the house of commons cannot vote by proxy, because ‘he is himself but a _proxy_ of a multitude of other people.’” Representation in the Parliament of _Scotland_ went through a similar process. (See Lord Somers' Tracts, vol. 12, p. 610.) In the seventh parliament of the reign of James the First of Scotland, (1427) “the small barons were allowed to send commissioners, and were charged with the fees of their deputies,” and this was the first instance of _elective_ members to the Scottish parliament.

In Burgh's Political Disquisitions, (London, 1774) the American doctrine in its most rigorous extent is found applied in full vigor to members of parliament, and sustained by an abundant series of precedents from the earliest times, and quotations of the strongest language from members of Parliament in sustaining the duty of obedience, and the advice and opinions of the best English authors, to the same purport. (See vol. I, from p. 180 to 205—many instances of instruction and obedience against the sentiments of the representative, a few of which are in _Mr. Leigh's_ report of 1812.)

In the _Irish_ parliament, which met in November 1767, there was scarcely a town or county which had not instructed its representative to vote in favor of a limitation of their parliaments to seven years; and so eager were they, that all required the most positive assurances, and some even exacted an _oath_ from their members to vote for the bill. The bill was passed, and its subsequent history affords a curious instance of legislative cunning and popular firmness. (See London Magazine, 1768, p. 131.)

In the session of 1733-4, (An. 7, Geo. II) _Sir William Wyndham_, in the house of commons, in a speech on _Mr. Bromley's_ motion for repealing the septennial act, said of an opinion of _Mr. Willes_, (afterwards chief justice) of a character very similar to that advanced by _Judge Hopkinson_, (to wit: “After we are chosen, and have taken our seats in this house, we have no longer any dependance upon our electors, at least so far as regards our behavior here; their whole power is then devolved upon us, and we are in every question to regard only the public good in general, and to determine according to our own judgment. If we do not—if we are to depend upon our representatives, and to follow blindly the _instructions_ they send us, we cannot be said to act freely, nor can such parliaments be called free parliaments. Such a dependance would be more dangerous than a dependance upon the crown”)—that it was “not only a _new_ doctrine, but it was the _most monstrous_, the _most slavish_ doctrine that ever was heard, and such a doctrine as he hoped no man would _ever dare_ to support within those walls. He was persuaded that the learned gentleman _did not mean_ what the words he happened to use seemed to import—for though the people of a county, city or borough may be misled, and may be induced to give instructions which are contrary to the true interest of their country, yet he hoped he would allow that in times past the crown has oftener been misled; and we must conclude that it was more apt to be misled in future, than we can suppose the people to be.” (See Com. Debates VIII, pp. 172, 188. The whole debate might be read with advantage by many modern _republicans_.) Here, whatever right the crown had to control parliament, is vested in the legislatures as to senators, and the people as to legislatures, as they are sovereigns; hence, whether whig or tory rule prevails, we ought to have the right of instruction.

The immortal _Sidney_, in his discourses on government, goes to the full extent of our present doctrines. “Many in all ages, and sometimes the whole body of the commons, have refused to give their opinion in some cases till they had consulted with those that sent them; the houses have been often adjourned to give them time to do it; and if this were done more frequently, or that the towns, cities and counties had on some occasions given _instructions_ to their deputies, matters would probably have _gone better_ in parliament than they have often done.” He seems satisfied with subsequent rejection as sufficient punishment for violation of duty, but does not hence infer that there are no duties. “Whensoever any of them has the misfortune not to satisfy the major part of _those that chose him_, he is sure to be rejected _with disgrace_ the next time he shall desire to be chosen. This is not only a sufficient punishment of such faults, as he who is one of five hundred may probably commit, but as much as the greatest and freest people of the world did ever inflict upon their commanders that brought the greatest losses upon them.” (Discourses on Government, section 38.) This rejection from office is the only punishment provided by our constitution in cases of impeachment of the highest officers.

Quotations might be multiplied, but “this little taste shall suffice.” It must be remembered that these doctrines prevailed under a constitution which allowed of no resignation, and where fifty-six members (or about a ninth part of the English representation) were elected by only three hundred and sixty-four votes—where _one man_ sent a representative from _Sarum_, and one from _Newton_, and _two_ sent one from _Marlborough_—and the elective franchise was so unequally and unjustly distributed, that parliament never truly represented the wealth, population, or wishes of all England, or any section, or even a single election district, or any class of persons or property, unless the representatives of the single freeholders of Newton and Sarum constituted an exception! When our “_novel doctrine_, conjured up for party purposes,” has prevailed there _time out of mind_, who shall deny its propriety here? Lords have proxies, and may instruct them, though the absent principals may be gambling in Brussels, or revelling in Parisian debauchery, and neither hear or read the debates; shall that be denied to the majesty of the people which is yielded to the dignity of a half fledged lordling, sunk in vices which disgrace the human character?]

III. If any thing could render a relaxation of our rule tolerable in England, it would be that feature of their constitution which will not permit resignation. As that constitution “will not intend a wrong,” it must suppose constituents utterly incapable of giving instructions “which no honest man can obey”—and it must hold a member entirely irresponsible, morally and legally, for a vote in obedience to them. Such is the fact, and this arrangement prevents that possibility of the defeat of their wishes by resignation, which the judge so much deprecates, and which he sets up as a reason or excuse for wilful disobedience. This absence of a constitutional privilege of resignation renders members, when once elected, indebted entirely to the courtesy of the crown for their escape from their seats when disagreeable. Another feature of their constitution makes the acceptance of office under the crown, (except a few offices of state) _ipso facto_ vacate a seat in parliament. Hence we often hear of gentlemen's accepting the Chiltern Hundreds.[6]

[Footnote 6: “A member when duly elected, is not only compelled to serve in parliament, but he cannot at any future period either resign his seat or be expelled from the house except by some legal disqualification. In order, therefore, to meet the views of those members who may wish to resign their seats, it has been the practice, ever since the year 1750, for such members to accept {690} the office of steward of the Chiltern Hundreds, which being an appointment under the crown, their seats are of necessity vacated. The office, however, is a merely nominal one. The stewards who accept it desire neither honor nor emolument from it, the only salary attached to the appointment being twenty shillings a year. The Chiltern Hundreds are districts in Buckinghamshire belonging to the crown. The appointment to the office of the steward of these Hundreds is vested in the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who, as a matter of course, grants it to every member who applies for it.”—_Random Recollections of the House of Commons_.

“On the 2d of March, 1623, (!) it is agreed, That a man, after he is duly chosen, cannot relinquish.”

See this and other precedents, and the reasons for the principle on which this part of the parliamentary constitution stands, collected in “Volume II of Hatsell's Proceedings and Precedents in the House of Commons.” The rule is firmly established, but thus easily evaded when inconvenient.]

In England no one seems to have objected to this right, that it cannot be enforced, or disobedient delegates punished, although there, delegates may alter or refuse to alter the constitution itself, in despite of their constituents—still less is the want of power to recall, or the length of term urged against it. If this last was a sound reason, then it would follow that members of the old parliaments were bound to obey, but not those elected since the septennial act! That is, the stronger the reason for the right the weaker it becomes, which militates against every principle of British law.

The sublime and eloquent BURKE appeared before the electors of Bristol in all the proud consciousness of lofty virtue and commanding intellect. But strip his arguments of the gilded cloud of drapery flung around them by the magic of his fancy, and his sophistry, naked, unadorned, loses half its force by losing all its beauty.[7] The most powerful and legitimate argument he uses, applies only to the expediency of disobedience in that particular case, and if his facts were correct, ought to have excused him, if such an offence can ever be excused. “Was I not to foresee, or foreseeing, was I not to endeavor to save you from all these multiplied mischiefs and disgraces.” He then artfully asks, if the “little, silly canvass prattle of obedience to instructions would save them from the ‘pelting of the pitiless storm.’” Thus presenting them only the awful _alternatives_ of _destruction_ or disobedience, and appealing to subsequent _developements_ to prove that disobedience was their preservation. By placing it in this position, he ventures to ridicule instructions. His next best argument also applied only to special cases. He appeals to “near two years tranquillity” to prove that “the late horrible spirit was in a great measure the effect of insidious art, and perverse industry, and gross misrepresentation.” In a word, any thing but the deliberate sense of the people. From this it seems the people ought not to be tranquil under insult, or their deliberate will may be mistaken for a “fashionable gale.” After thus fortifying himself by all the strength which his ingenuity and eloquence could give to his own peculiar position, he ventures to fire his gilded shot at the sacred citadel. He contends that if the “dislike had been much more deliberate, and much more general than it was,” he ought not to make the “opinions of the greatest multitudes the masters of his conscience,” unless they “were the standard of rectitude,” which was not expected of him. All they asked was, in a question of expediency, that he would substitute their judgment for his own. He doubts if “Omnipotence itself can alter the essential constitution of right and wrong,” much less such _things_ as his constituents and himself. This was pretty gilding for their chains merely. They never attempted to alter the constitution of right and wrong, but to judge the one from the other; and the question was not between them and Omnipotence, but the electors of Bristol and the “sublime and beautiful” BURKE.

[Footnote 7: “And vice itself loses half its evil by losing all its grossness.”—[Reflections on the French Revolution.]]

He next contends that the delegate owes his _judgment_ as well as his exertions to his constituents—which is true—and the debt is paid when they ask to set aside his judgment for theirs. He admits the delegate should sacrifice his _will_ to his constituents, but that government is a matter of judgment and of reason—not of inclination; and asks, “What sort of reason is that in which the determination precedes the discussion—one set of men deliberate, and another decide—and where those who form the conclusion are perhaps three hundred miles distant from those who hear the arguments?” I might ask what sort of a will is this conceded, which is never to prevail? Can there be no reason or judgment—no discussion—no deliberation—no arguments out of parliament? Can the people neither talk, or think, or read? This argument wholly falls, when the instructions are given, after both popular and parliamentary discussion has spread all the light upon the subject through the country.

Now what remains of MR. BURKE'S great defence of disobedience? His arguments all go to expediency in particular cases, and not the _right_, when stript of the difficulties he throws around its exercise. Take him from his position, and strip him of his gorgeous and dazzling armor, and he must stand a pigmy confessed before all, as he was before the electors of BRISTOL.

JUDGE HOPKINSON finds fault with MR. TYLER for resignation. “He had sworn to support and defend the constitution against _wrong from any quarter_,” and he violated his duty and his oath, it seems, by resigning. “Where is the difference,” he indignantly exclaims, “between the sentinel who turns his own arms upon the citadel he was bound to defend, and one who gives up his trust to the _enemy_, that he may do the work of ruin which the conscience of the latter forbids.” The difference is rather between the sentinel who, being ordered to shoot a traitor brother from the battlements, turns and kills his commander—and one who, with the same orders, retires with leave from the service, and suffers another to do what affection for a brother, or perhaps participation in his designs, will not permit him to accomplish.

This new theory makes every resigning senator responsible for _all_ (or none) of the unconstitutional acts of his successor. MR. TYLER must bear MR. RIVES' expunging sins, to avoid which he resigned; MR. LEIGH must suffer if his successor establishes a bank or other form of monarchy; MR. TAZEWELL is responsible for MR. RIVES' vote on the force bill, and MR. RIVES for MR. LEIGH'S vote censuring the President, to escape which he resigned. Political parties have been censuring the wrong men. This new light, like an ignis fatuus, will lead them into a direction opposite to the one they wish to pursue. The incumbent is never {691} responsible when his predecessor has resigned. Resignation in a senator is at all times as criminal as desertion of his post by a sentinel, and when he is succeeded by a senator of different opinions (which he cannot prevent) it is equivalent to treason. To what a labyrinth of error are we led, by forcing reason to follow a foregone conclusion?

Let us examine it. Because senators are sworn to protect and defend the constitution, if they quit their posts and thus make room for another who may, or certainly will violate it, they themselves violate their oaths, their duty and the constitution. These are Judge H.'s premises. But Mr. Tyler's resignation was of such a character, therefore he violated the constitution. But any senator who will ever violate that instrument is not a fit guardian for it, and ought instantly to resign. Mr. Tyler did so, therefore he ought to have resigned. Then his resignation was right because it was wrong!

Again. Mr. T. violated the constitution by resigning—not by the act itself, but by enabling Mr. Rives to do it; but the guilt could only be incurred by one person, by one vote, and as Mr. T. had clearly incurred the guilt by a previous act, Mr. R. was innocent. But if Mr. R. did not violate the constitution, and Mr. T.'s guilt depended upon that, he too is innocent, and _there was no violation because there was no violation!_ But any reasoning which makes a man both right and wrong, or the constitution not violated because it is violated, must be intelligible and acceptable to those who make two persons who come to “opposite conclusions upon the same case” both right, and only infer from the difference that some one else is wrong!

Who shall be impeached—who punished under this new doctrine? Resignation is not unconstitutional, but is made criminal by an ex post facto act. As the subsequent acts could not be committed without the resignation, all the guilt attaches to the resigning member. Neither MR. RIVES or MR. LEIGH can thus commit any sin in propria persona. MR. TYLER sins in MR. RIVES, and MR. RIVES is responsible, not for his own acts, but those of MR. LEIGH. This is a roundabout responsibility with a vengeance, which makes no one responsible until he resigns, and is beyond the reach of impeachment.

But upon the Judge's own grounds, what better argument could be offered against senatorial infallibility, than this violation of the constitution by Mr. Tazewell, Mr. R. and Mr. T. and the promise to violate it by MR. LEIGH? Four successive _guardians_ of the state have betrayed their trust. They have deserted their posts, and left the constitution at the mercy of the legislatures, as “a rag floating upon the winds.” What can the legislatures do when thus left unchecked, unguarded, and the constitution a prey “to wild democracy?” The high criminality of the senators is enhanced by the fact that he is instructed by “a majority of six or eight out of one or two hundred, and he knows a large proportion of the majority to be men of little knowledge, of strong passions and prejudices, with a servile adherence to party purposes—men whom he would not regard in any concern of his own of the value of a dollar,” and in the minority he knows all to be eminent statesmen. Of what a stupendous violation of duty are these men guilty? They leave the state and the statesmen a prey to these vile demagogues in a new election, which the stupid constitution has put it into their power to make, without the guardian care and saving disobedience of some kind senator to protect us from their rashness. The more the Judge exaggerates the crime, the less worthy he makes the guardian; the more frequent the offence, the less infallible the senatorial wisdom and virtue. If senators commit these high crimes, they ought to be controlled by the ordinary guardians of the state—the legislature. We have now had this crime committed by a senator of each party in each manner, and promised by a third. Mr. R. resigned when first instructed by this wicked majority, and Messrs. Tyler and Leigh _obeyed_. The second time MR. TYLER resigned, and MR. LEIGH promised to resign, and MR. RIVES obeyed. When senators thus differ, what has become of the firmness and guardian care and infallibility which was to protect us? Which shall we follow? One or other of the two has in every instance, by this theory, violated the constitution. How shall we act? They are right and we are wrong, but how can we avail ourselves of the superior wisdom they have developed? What complexity—what difficulty—what a mass of error and confusion in the legislatures—what a waste of inexplicable and incongruous wisdom on the part of senators! Oh that our short-sighted ancestors had so ordered it that the guardian should instruct the ward, instead of the reverse!

This doctrine of non-resignation for fear a successor should violate the constitution, assumes that immediately after a senatorial election, a majority of each legislature becomes and must continue knaves or fools. It operates with much more force against a new election than instructions. It proves that senators ought to hold office for life; that all legislatures after the first have been incompetent, and all to come will be incompetent, from want of honesty and discretion to elect senators. But as it is admitted by all to be the best body for that purpose, and was selected as such by the convention, it follows that no body, since the first senate perhaps, ever has been or can be competent to elect senators. The state legislatures can only be incompetent because the _people_ want honesty or capacity enough to elect men capable of electing senators. _A fortiori_ are they not sufficiently honest or capable to elect presidential electors, or the house of representatives, which are even more important. The government must lapse into anarchy because there is not sufficient honesty or capacity in it to govern it. And it must continue so, because an ignorant and corrupt people without a government cannot better their condition. Nor can any form of hereditary government be established, because it is absurd to say that _chance_ is a better guide than the simplest reason; and where the wisdom of all combined is not sufficient, it is absurd to look for greater wisdom in a _few_ or in _one_. Thus it seems to me that a denial of the right of instruction is not only inconsistent with a representative government, but the reasons on which it is founded are inconsistent with any government.

MR. TYLER admits our principle and says he would obey, but for constitutional scruples, but having these he resigns. This seems a simple, intelligible, respectful course; but Judge H. “whose political metaphysics surpass my understanding,” loses himself in a labyrinth of doubt and obscurity. He says in effect “I will do as I please,” makes the matter simple enough. All {692} despotisms are simple, and simple people submit to them. “Obey or resign” is not too complicated to be understood by men as enlightened as senators ought to be, and seems more suitable language between masters and servants. He creates a new difficulty by making senators not enlightened, but simpletons, groping in the dark in each case, to know whether they must obey _or_ resign. All such should resign at once, for Judge H.'s theory is based only upon exalted wisdom, and cannot save him, if he is a “simple novitiate” seeking a _rule_ to guide him in a plain duty. He would be a “simple novitiate” indeed who would inquire “what legislature he should obey.” Common sense would seem to say the question only arises upon the instructions actually before him in all cases, and he could not obey a legislature which did not instruct, or instructed last year, or forty years ago, or may instruct forty years or a month hence. I cannot see where the Judge finds authority for his “playing for the rubber, or taking his chance for a third heat,” (as he facetiously remarks, “_especially in Virginia_,”) unless the senator has second sight, and then the argument proves that he ought to obey, not only promptly, but _a year in advance_. But it is better to _count out with honors_ and gain _his points_, than run the risque of losing by this _odd trick_.

The strangest perversion runs through these comments upon Mr. Tyler's course. The firmness before required is forgotten. The senator must disobey if he finds great men against his constituents—the opinion of a JAMES MADISON, or even a disappointed minority of his own constituents, if _in his opinion_, possessed of more intellect than the majority, may be obeyed in preference. A majority of constituents seems to be the only body, to be utterly disregarded.

But the leaning on authority is not yet sufficient; we are to be defeated not only by _concurrence_, but _difference of opinion_, as the following paragraph proves:

“I cannot refrain from remarking that these gentlemen, (Messrs. Tyler and Leigh,) both professing to maintain the true and orthodox doctrines of ‘Instruction,’ and exerting their powerful and cultivated intellects to explain them through many a labored column, at last bring themselves to opposite conclusions on the same case. Is it possible to give a more impressive illustration and evidence of the fallacy of the whole faith than that two such men, both indoctrinated in the same school, should, when brought to the practical application of their principles, so differ about their import and obligation?”

I should humbly conceive it proved the fallacy of that faith which holds that a senator cannot be wrong. Two senators “come to opposite conclusions upon the same case,” and it proves not as simple mortals would suppose, that _one_ must be wrong, but that the _legislature_ is wrong. If _their difference_ only proves error in some one else, we cannot wonder at the vast estimation in which senators are held by their admirers. But their difference is not so great as supposed. One says I cannot obey, and, therefore, I resign now; the other says you want me to resign, but I will not now, but at the beginning of next session. Here is the same conclusion from the same case. Mr. Leigh postponed, but why will he resign at last? He gives no reason, but the instructions, and no one has suggested any other. He must resign on account of the disagreeable feelings produced by the peculiar position of being a misrepresenting representative. Those feelings are required and expected by our theory in the bosoms of all conscientious senators. So even the difference which was to destroy us, is one of _time_—not of _principle_. As to the argument that some of the voters of last year gave contrary instructions the year before, if true,—it does not prove them less worthy of respect now than then,—indeed, the last being the more deliberate, is the more worthy opinion; and as Mr. Tyler obeyed the first, _a fortiori_ he was bound to obey the last, or resign.

I have done. Long as I have been with you, I have only touched the most striking points. There are two documents which would have shed light upon the obscurest part of this subject, I mean the letter of ELDRIDGE GERRY to the Massachusetts convention, on the constitution of the senate, and JAMES MADISON'S history of the constitution, and debates of the convention. These were inaccessible, but whenever examined they must confirm the views taken here. Though the Sun of Montpelier has sunk in glory, below the horizon, it will thence shed a brilliant but mellowed light upon its noon-day track, and mystic truths so long hidden by its dazzling brilliancy, may be read by its milder rays, engraven in letters of gold upon the imperishable arch of Heaven. We must abide the coming of that time in mute faith, confiding in what we have already learned from Moses and the prophets; but, if it be no profanity to quote the sacred founder of our religious faith in defence of our hallowed constitution, I would say, “If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead.”

ROANE.

'TIS THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last day of Summer, Now fading away, As behind yon blue mountain, The sun hides its ray; And the low breeze is sighing, So chilly and drear, That, methinks, the wood whispers, Stern Autumn is near!

'Tis the last day of Summer, And sad is the smile, That now lights up the gloom, Where it lingers awhile; Whilst the cloud that is wreathing, So gaily the west, But reveals by its brightness, The tempest's dark crest.

'Tis the last day of Summer, And fleet as its ray Hath departed, so fleetly, Doth life speed away! But beyond _this drear gloom_, Is a resting place given, Where the spirit shall bask, In the summer of Heaven.

T. J. S.

_Frederick County, Aug. 31st, 1836_.

{693}

THE LEARNED LANGUAGES.

The youthful votary of knowledge, naturally infirm of purpose, is ever prone to despond and falter in a pursuit the utility of which is not immediate and palpable; yet he listens with amiable credulity to the matured in judgment and the ripe in scholarship. It should therefore be the duty and pride of such to cheer onward the ingenuous, even in those studies whose inceptive difficulties alarm him. Hence we read with feelings of regret and surprise an article in the August number of the Messenger, from the pen of Mathew Carey, Esq., the inevitable tendency of which will be to discourage students of the Classics, and to diminish the estimation, already too low, in which they are held in the south. We should be deterred from entering the list against a name so imposing, and one which deserves so well of his adopted countrymen, if we did not reflect that the inherent strength and self-tenability of a good cause greatly outweigh the most splendid abilities in sustaining a bad one. _Magna est veritas et prævalebit._ So thus we hurl our white pebble from the river of Truth at the forehead of Goliah.

Before we rush in _medias res_, permit us to premise that, if we chose to decide this question with Mr. Carey by a preponderance of authorities, the rich libraries of our university would supply an array of illustrious names as long as that of John Lackland's barons. But reason and experience shall be our only authorities, than which there are none greater, not even Locke or Carey.

The universality of the study of the dead languages is objected to. “A young Englishman, unless he goes to the University of Cambridge, has scarcely a notion that there is any other kind of excellence.” But one would suppose that the practice of studying them by all enlightened nations, for so many centuries, ought to be conclusive evidence of their utility; because mankind are so much influenced by interest, that they are ever ready to abandon whatever does not promote it. Our opponents, however, tell us that they were engrafted into seminaries of learning in ages less enlightened than the present—that such is the force of prejudice and custom, they have been continued as a course of education despite their many disadvantages. Is this true? Have not mankind long since shaken off their idolatrous veneration for antiquity? The whole cumbrous and chaotic mass of feudal error has fallen before the full blaze of modern discoveries and improvements. But modern reformers and experimentalists, in removing the rubbish of ignorance, and the rust of antiquity from literary institutions, spared the languages in which Mæonides and Maro bequeathed to posterity models more potent for inspiring genius than all the waters of Castalia, in which Demosthenes and Cicero gave utterance to sentiments which, even at this distant day, have impelled many to deeds of noblest patriotism. Spared did we say? They have done more; they have recommended redoubled attention to them. It is a fact, that the learned languages are more extensively cultivated now than at any former period, and that too by utilitarian and practical Englishmen—by intellectual and acute Germans—by scientific Frenchmen—by economical, pence-counting Scotchmen, in the teeth of opponents, powerful, gifted, active. If they are worthy of so much attention in Europe, _a fortiori_, they are worthy of it here, for the obvious reason that, breathing as they do the spirit of liberty and republicanism, they furnish ideas more congenial and valuable to that form of government in which these principles are recognized, than to an oppressive one, where Brutus is stigmatized as a murderer, and the burning words of the two mighty scourges of tyranny regarded as dangerous food for popular lips. In a free country eloquence is the lever that heaves the body politic. In the Classics the purest models are found. Hence we infer that they are the appropriate study of American youth, and that it would be our highest glory to outstrip Europe in a knowledge of them, as we have already done in the science of government.

In reply to the argument that the languages consume too much time from the acquisition of English, we assume high ground, and lay down the predicate that the study of them is the shortest, best and easiest way to learn English. This idea will be illustrated by attending to the _modus operandi_ of teaching. Before a student can acquire the idea contained in the simplest sentence of a dead language, he must ascertain the English meaning of every word in it; and before he can render it correctly, he must study into what English moods, tenses, and cases the words of his translation are to be put. If he do not this, he will be liable to render a Latin or Greek imperfect by an English future, and vice versa; hence it is evident that he must have not only his classical books, but that an English Grammar, a Geography, and a Dictionary must be ever at his side. Take an illustration. The crude, disarranged sentence, “vinco Scipio Hannibal in Africa,” and the English translation, (Scipio conquered Hannibal in Africa) are given him to reduce to good Latin, and to explain the three proper names. To do this he must refer to his English Grammar, to find in what mood, tense, number, person and voice the verb “conquered” is, and then take up the English books containing the required information concerning Scipio, Hannibal and Africa: thus, in correcting this short sentence, learning, perhaps, more of English Grammar, Geography, and History, than of Latin. We are persuaded that nine-tenths of our southern teachers will tell Mr. Carey, that in their schools, consisting of Classical and English students, the Latin scholars are the better English scholars—that they are the better writers and speakers, the more cheerful and industrious, the more influential with their fellows, and that they require in their studies a larger number of English books than the other.

But if we are answered by Mr. Carey that he did not mean to assert that the verbal and grammatical knowledge of English which has been shown to be the result of the study of the Classics was lost thereby, but that knowledge of a higher order, science and literature were sacrificed to them, we have a reply ready at hand, which obviates this objection, viz: that they are chiefly studied at that infantile period of the intellect, when common sense teaches that it is not prepared to comprehend either the abstrusities of Mathematics, the minutiæ of Chymistry, or the mysteries of Philosophy. To require so much of mere tyros, is as absurd as to exact of one of tender years and feeble frame the labors of a Hercules. Mr. Carey need not be afraid that the nascent stage of the mind above referred to, will be {694} left without its appropriate food, even if the sciences are forbidden to it. It is an established principle of the present day to educate the faculties in the order of their development. In the spring time of existence, Memory is the first to put forth its buds; and therefore, in accordance with the truism just laid down, should receive the earliest culture. What is more proper for this purpose than getting by rote the simple rules of Grammar, tracing out and remembering the definitions of words, and passing from author to author in the order of their difficulties? In thus proceeding from what is easy to what is comparatively difficult, the student would be obeying a law both of reason and nature; his mental powers would be gradually invigorated and expanded, until he would be prepared to enter with greater probability of success on the dreaded path of Mathematics and Philosophy; for the derivation and composition of their abstract and scientific terms, would in many cases instantaneously and perfectly suggest their meaning to the Classical scholar, whilst the English one would be compelled to learn them laboriously and imperfectly from English Dictionaries. It is this happy fitness of ancient languages to that period of youth which, without them, would want a proper object of study, that gives to them a crowning pre-eminence over every other substitute.

We will now examine that extraordinary argument by which Mr. Carey attempts to prove that too much time is consumed in the study of languages, even in those few cases in which he would tolerate them at all. Here it is. “That lads of moderate capacity, and no very extraordinary application, frequently acquire the French language in twelve or eighteen months,” &c. Again—“That the Latin language is not more difficult than the French—indeed I believe not so difficult.” From these _petitiones pricipii_, he draws the _non sequitur_ conclusion, “that it's an error to consume three, four, five or six years in the attainment of the Latin.” Now every person at all acquainted with Philology, knows that foreign language to be easiest to himself which bears the greatest resemblance to his vernacular tongue in its structure, syntax, the sequence of its words in sentences, and the identity or similarity of many of its terms with corresponding ones in his own language. It will be evident to any individual, that in these particulars the French resembles our language much more than the Latin. If he will only reflect, the whole intricate machinery of declensions and conjugations, which constitutes one of the greatest difficulties of ancient languages, is almost entirely wanting in the French, and indeed in all modern languages. Here I cannot do better than to quote the words of that elegant rhetorician, Dr. Blair. “There is no doubt that in abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure of modern languages more simple. We have disembarrassed it of the intricacy which arose from the different forms of declension. We have thereby rendered modern languages more easy to be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules.” Again, in a subsequent chapter, he says, “Language (modern) has undergone a change in conjugation perfectly similar to that which I showed it underwent with respect to declension; the consequence was the same as that of abolishing declensions; it rendered language (modern) more simple and easy.” But the proof of the pudding is in the eating; so the universal practice among teachers of giving much longer French than Latin lessons, to be prepared in the same given time, is conclusive of the more easy attainment of the former. Most opportunely for the tenability of our argument, while we were preparing this article, an intelligent student of the University stated to us that he found he was making very little progress in French, and could assign no reason for it, unless it was because French is so easy that it does not take hold upon and engage the mind. But Mr. Carey would not only limit the time during which the ancient languages ought to be studied; he goes a good deal farther in his hostility to them, by advising that they should be studied even during the short period of twelve or eighteen months through the medium of translations. Now simply to state that this plan would utterly destroy that strengthening of the memory, disciplining of the mind, and refining of the taste, which languages are known to afford, is to prove its absurdity. If his plan should recommend itself to public adoption, the friends of Classical literature would abandon its defence in despair. The followers in any vocation are the best authority in the world in relation to the vocation, whether they be statesmen, teachers, or shoemakers. The united voice of teachers denounces translations as ruinous to the minds and habits of their pupils; hence they are regarded as contraband commodities, and as such, lawful confiscations to the dominion of Vulcan. These labor-saving machines of the mind, like those in mechanics, engender habits of idleness, by shortening the time and toil of accomplishing a task, smoothing the way, leaving the student nothing to elaborate for himself, until his mind is reduced to a state of wretched imbecility and servile dependence. Can a mind thus educated be prepared to make nice discriminations, to trace effect to cause, to winnow away the chaff of error from the golden grains of truth and wisdom? Even the little gained in this way is evanescent—takes no root in the memory. To look for enduring and accurate knowledge from him, would be as unreasonable as to expect a correct description of a country from one who flies through it in a steam car. But we might give up all that has yet been said about translations, and still maintain our argument against them, upon the ground that they do not express the meaning of the translated authors. At least the fire, spirit, enthusiasm are squeezed out and _skeletonized_ in dull, vapid, prosaic copies. And is not this the case with all translations? Have not the French vainly essayed to translate Milton and Shakspeare? Are not their abortive attempts miserable caricatures? What becomes of the halo of glory which the ancient artists threw around the forms of Apollo Belvidere, and the Venus de Medicis, when copied—of the coloring of Titian, the sublimity of Claude, and the grandeur of Raphael, when attempted to be transferred to the canvass of some impotent imitator? Gone! Why should we contemplate Homer and Virgil through those smoked glasses, translations, when we can do it in the bright mirror of their own languages? There remains yet another disadvantage of studying ancient authors by translations. They cannot infuse that self-sacrificing patriotism, that high moral, and almost romantic elevation of character, which even Mr. Carey admits the poets of antiquity have a tendency to create. These virtues must be contemplated, turned and {695} returned in the mind, as they are portrayed in the originals—not conned from “Horace's three hundred and seventeen lines introduced into the Latin primer, to illustrate the rules of Grammar.”

But if Mr. Carey cannot argue down the ancient languages, he will frighten parents from putting their sons to the study of them, and the sons from studying, by asking, “how many years of life are spent in learning—how much labor, pain, and imprisonment are endured by the body—how much anxious drudgery by the master—how many habits are formed of reluctance to regular employment, and how——” and the rest of the bugbears. Oh, how will the preceding paragraph be hailed as pregnant with wisdom by all our vigorous, idle, southern youth, who long for more time out of school, to hunt, fish, and scamper over the broad, umbrageous Campus. If Mr. Carey only knew the quantity of swine and pancakes devoured by our students at a meal, and then behold them rush to their sports, and jump twelve feet in the “clear,” he would never again say that Latin kills boys. There might be some truth in the assertion contained in the quotation now before us, if predicated of German seminaries, where we are told the youth frequently study fourteen hours out of the twenty-four. But let any one carefully examine the pupils of an American academy, and he will be convinced that they enjoy more happiness, health, and leisure than any other class of the community. This fact is farther proven by the common observation of educated men, that their school-boy days were the happiest of their whole life, and that they never pass a group of students, and witness the joyous outpourings of youthful feelings, without envy. There is no royal road to learning. It is admitted that the languages are not to be acquired without labor—hard labor. Is this an evil to be deprecated? No. Whatever is acquired without it is generally worthless, not prized—because no price, no toil, no sweat has been paid for it. Constituted as society is, the original curse denounced against man, “in the sweat of thy brow thou shall eat bread,” has proven a blessing. Truly says the adage, “an idle brain is the devil's work-shop.” An industrious one is the chosen abode of the sister virtues. Why, then, should we increase the temptation to idleness, already great to the youth of the south, by the banishment of the only study, perhaps, suitable to the idlest stage of human life? We should thus leave a chasm in the plan of instruction, and that precious time unfilled up, when a regard to the formation of good habits would imperiously require that it should _be filled up_ as far as is consistent with health. Substitute something else, you say. If what has already been said, does not prove that nothing else effectually supplies their place, perhaps the following reflection may assist to do it. The principal point in which we fall short of our northern brethren, and of most European nations, is in our want of system in our employments, and attention to the _small things_ of business. Now the Classics demand constant attention to the most minute marks and letters, together with the exercise of judgment, patience, memory, classification—all of which are component parts of system.

No disposition is felt to controvert the position taken by Mr. Carey, that great men have been made under systems from which the learned languages were excluded—or to discourage the gifted child of poverty, who can never enjoy their advantages. Let such a one reflect that there have been orators who never tasted the honied eloquence of Cicero—bards whose lips were never touched with a “live coal” from the poetic fire of Homer and Virgil—patriots whose bosoms were never warmed, whose arms were never nerved by the story of Aristides and Brutus. There are men to keep whom down would be as impossible as to suppress the fires of Ætna. They ask—they need no aid from their predecessors or cotemporaries. They will create opportunities and modes of development and action for themselves. Very properly, therefore, the institutions of society, the systems of education, are not framed for them; but for ordinary beings—persons of mediocre intellect, of which a vast majority of mankind are composed.

In reviewing the field of our argument, we find that the Classics have been mainly defended upon the ground of the mental training and good habits which result from the study of them—dry objects of pursuit certainly to boys, but still most necessary. But we might long since have cut this question short, by holding up the argument, the truth of which is now generally admitted by competent judges, that it is impossible to understand English in all its power, beauty, copiousness, without a previous acquaintance with the Classics. But the multitude, in the true spirit of English vanity, are constantly proclaiming the entire independence of their language, and vauntingly assert that it needs no plumage borrowed from any tongue under heaven. Mark you! this was not said until the huge, misshapen skeleton of the Anglo-Saxon had received a filling up—a beauty and proportion from much abused Latin and Greek. Now, as the English language has declared her _Independence_, and set up for herself, it is but fair that she should surrender back to Greek and Latin the harmonious and expressive words, the poetical imagery and rich mythology which she has stolen from them, but which she has just found out she does not need. Let her do this, and what does she become?—what she was originally. _Rudis indigestaque moles_. We have never known the common-sense rule, viz: That to know the _whole_ we must know all the _parts_, to be dispensed with except in the case of the English language, which it appears can be perfectly known without previously studying the languages of which it is made up.[1] We however have no fears that our boasted vernacular will be able to sustain her declaration, since Greek and Roman ideas, illustrations, and allusions are so interwoven with it that they have become an inseparable part and parcel of it. Those who would know the nice and delicate shades of meaning belonging to English derived terms, will ever betake themselves to the fountain-head for this knowledge. What praise do we unwittingly bestow upon the two noble tongues of antiquity, when we consider that the highest compliment we can pay our illustrious characters is to compare them to some Greek or Roman worthy—to say of a Washington he is a Fabius, of a {696} Franklin he is a Socrates, of a Henry he is a Demosthenes!

[Footnote 1: Since this short article was penned, the number of words of Greek and Latin derivation in it was roughly estimated to be eight hundred, though the writer made an effort to use words purely English in all cases where they would answer the purpose as well.]

The department of poetry would lose the most by a neglect of the Classics. As the bards of antiquity were the first to walk forth into the garden of poetry, they did not fail to appropriate to themselves their most beautiful flowers; they, having the gathering of the harvest, have left to the moderns in many branches of the poetic art naught but the mere gleanings of the field. These ancient poems have been so translated, paraphrased, metamorphosed by modern poets, that a mere English scholar would find nearly as much difficulty in the works of the latter, as in those of the former. A glance at one more argument in favor of the learned languages, and this discussion is closed. The history of the forum and halls of legislation proves that in the actual conflict of mind against mind, the Classical orator has a decided advantage over an antagonist who has merely an English education, though in every other respect they be entirely equal. His knowledge of the variety and flexibility of his own tongue, will place at his command a greater copiousness of words, a wider range of selection, a greater fluency and facility in the utterance of them than his unfortunate antagonist can possibly pretend to.

In conclusion, we would say to the ingenuous of the Old Dominion—of the whole south, be not discouraged, be not deluded. The inceptive steps of all great undertakings are slow—sometimes unpleasant. If the beauty, perfection, and pre-eminent usefulness of the Classics are not at present obvious, you will at your docile age be willing to take something on trust, and to pursue your studies under the assurance, that by degrees the circumference of your vision will be enlarged, the point from which you take it in will be elevated, until you shall stand on the pinnacle of the temple of knowledge. Although you will not be so unreasonable as to expect to behold the interior and brighter glories of the temple, while you are merely entering the vestibule, yet along your path you will meet with many flowers to cheer you onward. You have every encouragement to proceed. Are you emulous to serve your country in the halls of legislation? You will, at the completion of your scholastic education, come forth armed with weapons from the armory of Demosthenes and Cicero. Would you create a southern literature? Your present studies are the very first step towards it. Your discouragers may be defied to point you to a single nation eminent in literature, and at the same time proscribers of the Classics. Contribute your mite to demonstrate to the world that this is not the land where “Genius sickens and Fancy dies,” and to enable your countrymen to point proudly to our sister band of states, and say of one, this is our Arcadia—of another, this is our Laconia—of a third, this is our Attica. Do not suppose that this is too much to expect. By the blessing of God, and the operation of causes now at work, to this pitch of glory we must arrive. You live in the region of great men; you daily tread upon the same lines of latitude once trodden by Homer, Demosthenes, and Plato. _Macte nova virtute puer, sic itur ad astra._

Hæc exempla— Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.

Hæc studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium præbent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.

_University of North Carolina, October, 1836._

LINES TO A WILD VIOLET, FOUND IN THE WOODS OF ALABAMA.

BY HENRY THOMPSON.

Type of thy God, in nature drest, Emblem of innocence and rest, Why hid'st thou in the sunless glade Those lovely tints which sure were made To woo the light? Hast thou too felt the cold world's scorn, The with'ring blight of rayless morn That thus within the woodland gloom In ivy shade you're wont to bloom So far from sight? And wilt thou fade in lonely bower, Pale, gentle, melancholy flow'r! And die when leaves in vernal dearth Shall kiss the cold and dewy earth In autumn day? Or wilt thou wither on _my_ heart, And there sweet sympathy impart, And give beneath the dew of grief, Those lovely hues so bright and brief, To slow decay? Ah! no, I will not thus intrude, To mar thy gentle solitude, For thou art pure and undefil'd, Lonely and beautiful and wild, A forest queen! Bloom on in thy secluded dell, Sweet flow'r! that lovest alone to dwell! And there within thy silent glade, In God's own purity array'd, Perish unseen.

TRAITS OF A SUMMER TOURIST.

No. I.

_Hamlet_. I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wirtenburg?

_Horatio_. A truant disposition, good my lord!

_Hamlet_.

Steaming from Washington to Baltimore is an improvement upon that route at least. “I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and say ‘all is barren;’” was the beneficent _dictum_ of a philosopher as wise as he was witty,—but he never travelled on the post-road from the Monumental city to the capital of the western world. If he had, I fear that precious morceau of pitiful cosmopolitism would have never fallen from his pen.

The locomotive Andrew Jackson whirled us by a series of fields, of which one will serve as a sample. It consisted of about three acres, from the surface of which a few weakly, wilting, pea-green shoots were starting reluctantly upwards, and which nine negroes were {697} trying to make a corn-field of, by dint of most desperate hoeing. Patches of rye and wheat were seen also, at intervals, most forcibly illustrating the condition of Egyptian fields in the seven years of famine of Joseph's time. It was plain that this section of the country, (as Mr. Senator G—— remarked to the representative for the district,) was fit for nothing else than to make rail roads of.

* * * * *

At the end of “The Thomas Viaduct,” a beautiful piece of mechanism, by the way, is the “Viaduct Hotel,” _not_ so beautiful. As we passed, several of the Light Corps of the city [Baltimore] were “standing at ease” by the door of the hotel. They had gone out thither to spend the day of our nation's birth, in drinking mint-julaps, and watching the passing and repassing of the rail road cars. It seemed to be an object with them to discover, as we flew onward, who, of all the grandees who had just concluded those labors which had for seven months been making Washington so famous, were forming a part of our freight. The senator was for stopping the cars, and giving the representative a chance at the stump, before so goodly an array of his constituents. But whether he thought the audience not “fit,” nor “few” enough for such a display, I could not discover—the Colonel declined the proposal.

* * * * *

Commend me to mine host of the Exchange! Page's is the very home of good order, good cheer, good company, and all else that is good,—the very place where one may ask, with a confidence defying negation, “Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” We found our rooms commodious and airy, and soon saw reason to bless our forethought, in having pre-engaged our accommodations, while compassionating the “potent, grave, and reverend seniors” of the land, as they cubiculated on pallets in the dining-rooms, and were, in some instances, denied the liberty to hang for the night upon a hat-hook! Always engage rooms a week before hand, considerate traveller.

* * * * *

Who shall adequately describe what has so often been dwelt upon by tourists, the distinctive peculiarities of the older cities of the Union? To attempt it were “damnable iteration.” Suffice it therefore to say, that Baltimore has beautiful brick edifices, with pure white marble porches and porticoes—several splendid public buildings, among which none is more deserving of particular mention, inside and outside, than the Unitarian Church, (although Baltimoreans generally “stump” on the Cathedral,) two monuments, one in questionable and the other in unquestionable taste—and upon the whole, neat, clean, orderly, and well-kept streets. She has here and there public fountains, supplied with ever-flowing streams of the purest water,—baths, places of public amusement, (although theatrical entertainments are not much in favor there,) shot-towers, hotels, newspapers, steamboats, rail roads, and pretty women in great abundance. Few cities possess a more refined or more generally diffused taste for music, painting, architecture, and the fine arts in general, than Baltimore. Her present situation, in a commercial and enterprising point of view, is extremely encouraging; and recent legislation in regard to internal improvements will doubtless have a very beneficial effect upon her fortunes.

A steamboat burned to the water's edge last night, at one of the wharves, and a boy was consumed as he was sleeping in the cabin! It was a pleasure boat, and had been running to different points in the neighborhood of the city all the day previous. The unfortunate boy who lost his life was a wanderer from New York, and had been permitted by the captain to sleep and board in the cabin, until a vessel in which he was about to go to sea, was ready to sail. He had retired to rest, after a day of toil to him, though of pleasure to those upon whom he had been waiting, as one of the hands on board the boat; and met his horrible fate while sleeping in innocent unconsciousness of danger. The neglect of the watchman who had been entrusted with the care of the boat, was the cause of the fire, that unfaithful officer having left his charge to join in a carousal in the town. How fearful a thought, that all our enjoyments are obtained by others' pains! The smiles that deck the faces of the few are watered in their growth by the tears of the many.

* * * * *

How neglectful of the _minutiæ_ of comfort and convenience are most of those who cater for the traveller's enjoyment in his journeyings along these great thoroughfares of our country! Here are we, arrived in the city of brotherly love, upon one of the very hottest days in the year, and upon asking for rooms at a new and much vaunted hotel, are ushered into a suite of three flights of stairs, and glowing, almost _hissing_, with the concentrated rays of the meridian sun, shining through crimson curtains—“Think of that, Master Brook,”—_crimson curtains_, in weather to set the very mercury in the thermometer a bubbling! As honest Jack said upon a not dissimilar occasion, “it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation!” What salamanders must be the people of the M—— house! We could not stand it, and so, after one night's parboiling, we turned our backs upon the rectangular city, resolved never to “tarry” there, in summer time again, until she had her Tremont, her Page's, or her Astor's to receive and accommodate us.

* * * * *

Arrived at New York, I was told that half the town were “out of town”—a comfortable assurance, methought, for we can have our choice of quarters. Yet were we three hours in finding a place whereon to lay our heads! I soon learned that by “the town” was meant that wandering, gossipping, gadding, sight-seeking, lionizing, country-visiting portion of this great Babel, who make it a point to spend all “the months that have no R,” at the crowded watering places of their own and the neighboring states. But they have left the streets as noisy, as crowded, and as business-like as ever, and a stranger feels quizzed when told that they are empty.

The sail up the Hudson is full of interest, and thousands are now daily enjoying the many attractions it presents to the traveller. As the city at this season is any thing but delightful, I got on board the good steamer Erie, (to which commend me ever,) and bade adieu to hot streets, and the crowded thorough-fares for a season. On my return I may find it worthy of a sketch or two.

The Hudson is very broad near its mouth, or junction with the East River, at the harbor of New York. {698} Hoboken, New Brighton, Jersey City, and Staten Island, besides Brooklyn on the East, lie invitingly contiguous, and are attained by steamboats constantly running thither at every hour in the day. As they are all plentifully provided with green lawns, and cool shades, to say nothing of numerous houses of refreshment, you may be assured, that in the hot season, they are by no means vacant. As you go up the river, and leave the island on which the great city is laid out, on your right, the first prominent object that strikes your eye is _Fort Lee_ on the left, which the map tells us is ten miles from New York. This was an important post in the revolutionary contest, and is now in ruins. Its position is admirable, standing on the bluff which commences the celebrated _Palisadoes_. These extend twenty miles up the river, and are curious ridges of rocks, from two to six hundred feet high, very much resembling that species of defence, whence they derive their name. Passing along, the traveller is prompted by the guide books to look at _Tappan Bay_, where the celebrated Andre attempted to take an advantage of the treason of the despicable Arnold, which would have been fatal to the cause of liberty, but for the fidelity of some of the American scouts. The spy was executed very near this place. The next place of interest is _Sing-Sing_, where is one of the New York State Prisons. As we intended to visit the more interesting one at Auburn, we did not stop here, but casting a glance at the _Sleepy Hollow_ of Irving's Rip Van Winkle, we glided on, and soon entered _The Highlands_.

I had never imagined that any thing half so grand and so picturesque awaited us on our up-river jaunt. The half had not been told. Besides the splendor of the scenery,—the tremendous hills and ravines on one side, and the gently levelling upland and lowland fields and meadows, full of fertility and the promise of rich harvests, on the other,—there were a thousand associations with the early history of our Republic, especially with that interesting period, when “men's souls were tried,” which rendered it a continuous and uninterrupted scene of thrilling and exciting interest. _Stony Point_ and old Wayne, Forts _Montgomery_ and _Clinton_ with Gates, Sir Henry Clinton, and “Old Put,” Independence, Bloody Pond, General Vaughan, James Clinton, and a thousand other places and names throng upon the memory, and tell the tale over again of a most interesting part of that glorious struggle for freedom by our brave fathers.

On one of the boldest and most commanding of those highland eminences, the traveller soon perceives the moss-grown battlements of Fort Putnam, over-hanging the barracks of the Military Academy at _West Point_. As the steamboat passes this headland, Kosciusko's monument, erected by order of government, is discerned, and then the hotel comes in sight. Intending to stop at mine host _Cozzens'_ on our way down the river, we did not land, but went on to _Catskill_ landing, where we debarked, and took stage for the celebrated Mountain House, at Pine Orchard. This is a grove situated on the table land near the summit of one of the most lofty of the Catskills, and is more than two thousand feet above the level of the Hudson. We found there a most commodious hotel, the view from the front piazza of which is exceedingly picturesque. We experienced a great change in the weather upon reaching the Mountain House, having left an almost torrid climate at the foot of the hill, and finding it cold enough at the top for a fire. We therefore retired to rest, after this, our first day's journey, with great expectation for the morn.

Salvator Rosa alone could do justice to the scenery around Pine Orchard. The pencil of modern artists may find much here to furnish a fitting subject for their attempts, and they may succeed in giving pleasing sketches from its inexhaustible sources of picturesque and romantic illustration. But it requires the hand of that great painter of the grand, the sublime, the stupendous, fitly to _illustrate_ that scenery.

You look down three thousand feet into a valley, stretching over an hundred miles in one direction, and more than half that distance in the other, in the midst of which runs the river Hudson, covered at this season with craft of various descriptions, which, from that great elevation, seem mimic boats upon a rivulet. At your feet a rocky precipice descends perpendicularly, the depth of which it is impossible to estimate, as it has never been explored, and loses itself, to the eye of the gazer from the summit, amidst the rude and tangled masses of primeval forest, stretching downward to the distant valley, verdantly sloping to the river's banks. This is the scene presented to the sojourner at the Mountain House, and its many changes, like those of a panorama, render the prospect intensely interesting, in every aspect of the weather.

Having enjoyed this first gush of picturesque beauty, you are reminded, by the daily arrival of the proper vehicles at the door, of a scene of yet more mingled romance,—the cascades of _Canterskill_. These lie at the termination of a delightful woodland path, along the side of which flows a smooth and quiet stream, taking its rise in a lake upon which you bestow, as you pass, a gratified glance. Following this rivulet you come suddenly to the brink of a tremendous precipice, shelving down between woody mountains, with rough rocky ravines, seemingly unattainable by human feet. But your guide holds a clue, following which you soon attain a level formed of sandstone and gray-wacke, and await the fall of the water from the edge of the precipice, one hundred and seventy-five feet above. As the water at this season runs low, the proprietor has taken the precaution to dam it up above the precipice, and so lets it fall when a company of visiters demand it. This fall is very beautiful. No obstacle intervenes to break the silvery sheet as it descends, and, as it comes over the rough edges of the rock at top, it assumes a form as of feathery spray, which is sometimes so thin and vapory, as to float away without reaching the level at all. Descending eighty feet farther, you see the second fall, the termination of which is even more grand and savage than the upper level. Here you may see both falls at the same instant, and from a situation which challenges another attribute of grandeur and sublimity to enhance the perfect enchantment of the scene.

* * * * *

We lingered at Catskill several days in a sort of dreamy state of quiet enjoyment,—now fishing, now roving among the woods, now stretched on the brink of the Pine Orchard looking listlessly down upon the impenetrable forests, the smiling, sunny valleys, or the silver thread of water, on which seemed {699}

“———the tall anchoring bark Diminished to her cock,—her cock a bouy Almost too small for sight”

and where the many steamers that smoke their daily course along the Hudson, seemed like some tiny utensil discharging its culinary office. There would we gaze upon the lifting fog-banks at morning, watching the sunbeams as they gradually struggled forth to irradiate, first the distant valley, and so diffusing thin yellow glory upward and upward, until, at length, we stood in the midst of their effulgence, and saw their vapory veil floating away over our heads, like gossamer web of the dew spider.

Nor were our household attractions few or powerless. Many visiters were at the Orchard, but there was a coterie of young ladies with their brothers and husbands from the neighboring village of the Catskill, from whose good offices and gentle hospitality we derived a great deal of additional enjoyment. Music, books, and conversation drove away ennui during those hours, when the inclemency of the weather or fatigue compelled us to suspend our out-of-door amusements, and we were thus enabled to enjoy the everlasting scenery of the Catskill, under auspices the most favorable.

* * * * *

New Lebanon Springs next attracted us. They lie about twenty-seven miles from Hudson, which is ten miles up the river on the opposite side, whither we went by the same steamer that had landed us at Catskill, and thence by stages to New Lebanon.

New Lebanon is a pleasant village, near the eastern line of the state of New York, lying in a most fertile and valuable tract of country, with alternations of gently sloping hills and smiling valleys, all of which seem arable and productive. The most popular public house is that to which the Spring that gives a name to the place, belongs. It is very well kept, but was far too crowded for comfort,—the day of our arrival being Saturday, and great numbers having come from Albany, Troy, Saratoga, Ballston Spa, &c. to witness the worship (?) of the Shakers on the Sabbath.

* * * * *

The waters of these Springs have no very decided mineral or medicinal qualities,—but as they are very profuse in their flow, and as their temperature is always rising of seventy degrees, Fahrenheit, they are delightful for bathing in the summer season. The proprietors have, accordingly, fitted up commodious bathing houses, which are very well attended, and afford, by no means, the weakest attraction to be found at New Lebanon. But even in this respect they cannot be compared with the Warm and Hot Springs of Bath county in Virginia.

The truth is, New Lebanon invites the visiter more by the salubrity of its climate, the rural beauty of its scenery, the quiet seclusion which it offers to the town-weary traveller, and more than all, by its accessibility from so many populous parts of the country, than by any magic virtues possessed or imparted by its “springs,” and all these inducements combine to keep the pretty little village full to overflowing from spring to autumn. I saw many visiters from the southern states there among the rest, and was gratified to learn that there is an annual increase of business at “Columbian Hall.” In my next I shall describe a scene at the Shaker's Church.

VIATOR.

SACRED SONG.

“There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,” When the heart's best affections are yielded to God, And the spirit that wandered, returns to the fold Of the Saviour who bought it by shedding of blood! One moment of rapture so holy, is worth Far more than whole ages of wandering bliss; And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth, It is this, it is this!

The pleasures of time are all fleeting and vain— The bubbles that sparkle o'er life's turbid stream, E'en the ties of affection are sundered in twain, When the dark clouds of sorrow portentously gleam. But the rapture that thrills through the soul at its birth Into favor with God, is ineffable bliss; And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth, It is this, it is this!

T. J. S.

MARTIN LUTHER INCOGNITO.

_Mr. Editor_,—Public attention has recently been attracted, with great justice, to the Memoirs of Luther, by Professor Michelet of Paris; a work remarkable, first, as composed almost entirely of the Reformer's own words, and, secondly, as proceeding from a Roman Catholic. You will not, I trust, deem it unseasonable to accept the translation of a very rare and entertaining document, relating some scenes eminently illustrative of this great man's private manners. Allow me to premise, by way of refreshing the reader's memory, that after the celebrated appearance of Luther at the Diet of Worms, he was secretly snatched away by his friend the Elector, and kept for some months in the castle of Wartburg. The paper which follows gives some account of his return. It is from the pen of an honest Swiss, and is written in the Swiss-German dialect, but is so full of racy diction and inimitable naïveté, that it cannot fail to gratify every lover of ancient story. I have availed myself, here and there, of an antique idiom or phrase, as remarkably comporting with the rude original.[1]

Respectfully, &c. JAMES W. ALEXANDER.

[Footnote 1: The document may be seen In Marheineke's History of the German Reformation, vol. i, p. 319. Berlin, 1831.]

* * * * *

I cannot forbear to relate, though it may chance to seem trifling and even childish, how I, John Kessler, and my comrade John Reutiner, fell into company with Martin Luther, at the time when he was enlarged from his captivity, and was on his way back to Wittenberg. For as we were journeying thither, for the sake of studying the holy scriptures, we came to Jena, in the Thuringian territory, (and God knows in a dismal storm,) and after much inquiry in the city for an inn where we might lodge for the night, we were utterly unable to find any. The taverns were shut against us on every side, for it was carnival-time, at which season there is little care for wayfaring people. So we had come to the outskirts of the town, thinking to go on further, to find if possible some hamlet where we might be entertained. Under the very gate of the town, as {700} we went out, there met us a reverend man, who greeted us kindly, and asked whither we were bound at so late an hour. For he said there was neither house nor court-yard offering us lodging, which we could reach before the dead of night, and that the way was intricate; therefore he counselled us to abide where we were. We answered, “Good sir, we have been to every hostelry which has been shown to us, but every where we have been denied entrance; we must needs go further.” Then he asked whether we had inquired at the Black Bear. To which we replied, “No such inn have we seen, pray tell us where we may find it.” He then pointed out the place, a little without the town. And though all the innkeepers had dismissed us, yet no sooner had we reached the Black Bear, than the host came to the door, helped us in, and gave us the kindest welcome, taking us into the common room. There we found a man sitting alone at a table, with a little book lying before him, who saluted us in a friendly manner, and invited us to come forward and seat ourselves by him at the table. Now (under favor be it spoken) our shoes were so clogged with the filth of the roads, that we dared not to enter with freedom, but crept in softly, and sat upon a bench by the door. But he invited us to drink with him, which indeed we could not refuse.

After we had accepted his friendly and courteous advances, we placed ourselves, as he desired, at the table near him, and ordered some wine that we might drink to his honor; having no other thought than that he was a trooper, for he sat, after the manner of the country, in a red cloak, with doublet and hose, a sword by his side, with his right hand upon the pommel and his left grasping the hilt. He soon began to ask the place of our birth, and then, answering his own question, added, “You are Switzers. From what part of Switzerland come you?” We answered, “From St. Gallen.” “You will find,” said he, “at Wittenberg, whither I understand you are going, some excellent people, such as Doctor Jerome Schurf, and his brother Doctor Augustin.” We replied, that we had letters to them; and then proceeded to ask in turn, “Sir, can you certainly inform us whether Martin Luther is now at Wittenberg, or in what place he is?” “I have sure information,” said he, “that Luther is not in Wittenberg at this time; but he is to be there shortly. Philip Melancthon however is there; he teaches the Greek tongue, as there are others who teach the Hebrew, both which languages I earnestly exhort you to study; for they are necessary preparations to the understanding of the scriptures.” We answered, “God be praised, if our lives are spared, we shall not rest until we see and hear that man; on his account it is that we have undertaken this journey; for we understood that he was minded to set aside the priesthood, with the mass, as an unauthorized service. Now, inasmuch as we have, from our youth up, been trained and set apart, by our parents, to become priests, we desire to hear what reason he can show for such a design.”

After some conversation of this kind, he asked, where we had already studied. We answered, “At Basle.” “How fares it,” said he, “at Basle? Is Erasmus Roterodamus there at present? What is he doing?” “Sir,” replied we, “so far as we know all things go on well. But what Erasmus is doing there is no one can tell, for he keeps himself quiet and aloof.” Now it struck us with great surprise that the trooper should talk thus, and that he was able to discourse about Schurf, and Philip, and Erasmus, and about the importance of both Greek and Hebrew. Moreover, he would now and then let slip a Latin word, which made us suspect that he was something different from an ordinary cavalier. “Prithee,” said he, “what is thought of Luther in Switzerland?” “Sir,” said I, “there, as elsewhere, there are diversities of opinion. Some there are who cannot enough extol him, and thank God that by his means he has revealed his truth and discovered error; but others denounce him as an intolerable heretic; and such are chiefly the clergy.” “Ah,” said he, “I could warrant it was the parsons.” In such talk he continued to be very sociable, so that my comrade made free to take up the little book which lay before him and open it. It was a Hebrew Psalter. He then laid it down, and the trooper took it up. Hereupon we fell into still greater doubt as to who he might be. Then said my comrade, “I would give a finger off my hand, if I could thereby understand this language.” The man replied, “You may attain it, if you will only bestow labor; I also desire this attainment greatly, and am exercising myself every day to make greater proficiency.”

By this time the day was declining and it had become quite dark, and the host entered lo look to the table. As he saw our eager curiosity about Martin Luther, he said, “My good fellows, had you been here two days sooner, you might have been gratified, for he was then sitting at this very table.” And with this he pointed out the place. We were now chagrined and vexed at our own delay, and provoked at the bad roads which had been our hinderance; but we said, “It rejoices as to be in the house, and at the very table where he has lately sat.” At this the host could not but laugh, and went immediately out. After a little while, he called me to the outside of the door. I was alarmed, and began to think with myself in what I had been unseemly, or of what I could be suspected. The host then said to me, “Since I perceive in very truth that you long to see and hear Luther—the man who sits by you is he.” This I took in jest, and said, “Ay, sir host, you would fain mock me, and stay my curiosity with Luther's lodging.” He replied, “It is assuredly he; nevertheless, do nothing to show that you recognize him.” I straightway left the host, still being incredulous, and returning to the room seated myself at the table, and was very desirous to let my companion know what the host had disclosed. I therefore turned myself towards the door and at the same time towards him, saying softly, “The host says that this is Luther.” Like myself he could not believe it, and said, “Perhaps he said it was _Hutten_[2] and you have misunderstood him.” Now, as the horseman's dress suited better with Hutten, than with Luther, who was a monk, I persuaded myself that the host had said, “It is Hutten;” for the beginning of both names sounds alike. All that I said, therefore, was under the supposition that I was conversing with Ulrich ab Hutten.

[Footnote 2: Ulrich von Hutten; a celebrated knight and statesman, and a friend of Luther, who died two years after these events, in 1523.]

In the midst of these things there came in two merchants, who wished to pass the night, and when they {701} had laid aside their habits and spurs, one of them placed beside him a small unbound book. Martin asked what book it was. “It is Doctor Luther's exposition of sundry gospels and epistles, just printed and published; have you never seen it?” At this time the host appeared and said, “Draw near to the table, for we are about to eat.” We however spoke to him and begged that he would bear with us so far as to give us something by ourselves. But the host said, “Dear fellows, seat yourselves by the gentleman at the table, I will give you good cheer.” And when Martin heard this, he said, “Come along, I will pay the reckoning.”

During the meal Martin gave us much friendly and godly discourse, so that both we and the tradespeople paid more attention to his words than to all our food. Among other things he lamented with a sigh, that while the princes and nobles were now assembled at the Diet at Nuremberg, on account of God's word, and the impending affairs and grievances of the German nation; yet they undertake nothing but to spend their time in expensive jousts, cavalcades, frolics and debauchery. “But such,” said he, “are our Christian princes!”

He further said that it was his hope that gospel truth would bring forth fruit among our children and descendants, who are not poisoned by popish error, but are now grounded in the pure truth of God's word, more than among their parents, in whom error is so rooted that it cannot be easily eradicated. Upon this the tradespeople united in expressing their opinion, and the elder of them said, “I am a plain, simple layman; I have no particular knowledge of this business. But this I say, as the matter seems to me, Luther must be either an angel from heaven or a devil out of hell. I have here ten gulden that I would gladly give that I might confess to him; for I believe he is the man that can and would direct my conscience.”

Meanwhile the host came to us and said privately, “Do not trouble yourselves about the reckoning; Martin has settled for your supper.” This gave us great joy, not for the sake of the money or the cheer, but that we had been entertained by such a man. After supper the merchants arose, and went into the stable to see to their horses; while Martin was left alone with us in the room. We then thanked him for his favor, and at the same time let him understand that we took him for Ulrich ab Hutten. But he answered, “I am not he.” Here the host came near, to whom Martin said, “I have to-night been made a nobleman, for these Switzers take me to be Ulrich ab Hutten.” “And you are no such person,” said the host, “but Martin Luther.” At which he laughed, and said with great glee, “These take me for Hutten, and you for Martin Luther; I shall soon be called Martinus Marcolfus.” And after some such discourse, he took a high beer-glass, and said, after the custom of the country, “Switzers, join me in a friendly glass to your health.” And as I was about to take the glass, he changed it, and ordered instead of it a flask of wine, saying, “The beer is to you an unaccustomed beverage; drink wine.”

With that he arose, threw his knight's cloak over his shoulder, and bid us good night, giving us his hand as he said, “When you arrive at Wittenberg commend me to Dr. Jerome Schurf.” We said, “We will cheerfully do so, but how shall we name you, that he may understand your greeting?” “Only say,” said he, “that he who is on his way greets you; he will soon understand you.” And so saying he went to bed. After this the tradespeople returned, ordered the host to bring them something to drink, and had much conversation concerning the unknown guest who had been sitting by them. The host made known that he took him to be Luther, which the merchants believing, lamented very much that they had behaved themselves so rudely in his presence; saying that they would on this account rise so much earlier the next morning before he departed, in order to beg that he would not take it in ill part, nor be offended, as they had not known his person. This they accordingly did, finding him next morning in the stable. Martin answered them: “You said last night at supper, that you would willingly give ten florins that you might confess to Luther. When therefore you confess to him you will discover whether I am he.” And without betraying himself any further he mounted and rode on his way towards Wittenberg. On the same day we set out on the same road, and arrived at a village lying at the foot of a mountain; I think the mountain is called Orlamund, and the village Nasshausen. The stream which flows through this was swollen by the rains, and the bridge being in part carried away so that horses could not pass, we turned aside into the village, where we chanced to fall in with the same merchants, who entertained us there free of cost for Luther's sake. On the Saturday after, being one day after Luther's arrival, we called upon Doctor Jerome Schurf, in order to present our letters. When we were ushered into the room, whom should we see but Martin Luther, the same as at Jena, together with Philip Melancthon, Justus Jodocus Jonas, Nicholas Amsdorf, and Doctor Augustin Schurf, relating what had befallen him in his absence from Wittenberg. He greeted us and said, laughing as he pointed with his finger, “This is the Philip Melancthon of whom I told you.” Upon which Philip turned to us, and asked us many questions, which we answered according to our knowledge. And thus we passed the day on our part with great joy and satisfaction.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

It is a lovely spot they chose, This green and grassy dell! And here in death's long, last repose, Eudora now sleeps well: Escaped from all her mortal pain, She sleeps—and will not wake again.

Oh! who that knew her can forget That highly polished mind? Those charms that Love must cherish yet, In that fair form enshrined? And that warm heart that felt the flame Of friendship—worthy of the name?

Yes, she was one of those—the few— That decorate the earth; A diamond of the purest dew; Nor knew I half its worth {702} Till death had stolen the precious gem That would have graced a diadem.

But why am I lamenting here, When she is now at rest; And, happy in her heavenly sphere, Her soul is with the blest? No, no, I will not, will not weep: Enjoy, sweet saint, thy sacred sleep.

* *

_Norfolk_.

ALFIERI AND SCHILLER.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

The characteristic differences between the national drama of the Germans and that of the Italians, as well as in the genius of the two writers, are strikingly shown by a comparison of the works of Alfieri and Schiller. Nor need we refer to the whole range of their respective productions; the two great poets have more than once, by their choice of the same subject for dramatic effort, afforded us opportunity to draw a parallel between them. The distinction is exactly the reverse of what the characters of the nations would lead us to expect; the cold and classic simplicity of the ancient school pertaining to the more ardent and volatile Italian, while the energy of expression and warmth of action peculiar to the romantic system belong to the representative of a colder and more meditative race. We shall not now employ ourselves in endeavoring to discover the causes of the general barrenness of the drama among a people of a temperament so imaginative, and whose history has been so rich in the materials of fiction. It is our object to show the vast difference which actually exists between the tragic compositions of Italy and those of the German school; as well as to give some idea of the peculiarities of the two authors who form the subject of this article. For this purpose, we select a play of each, founded upon the same historical event, and portraying in part the same characters; and purpose to offer a close analysis of both.

The “_Filippo_” of Alfieri treats of the same events with the “_Don Carlos_” of Schiller. It was the first published production of the noble poet, and is marked by much of the harshness of diction and severe simplicity, amounting almost to baldness, which distinguished his earlier plays. The author avoids, with scrupulous care, any thing approaching to local coloring; excluding all inferior personages from the stage, and admitting no forms or observances that might remind us of our vicinity to the person of the Spanish monarch. The chief care of Alfieri is ever bestowed upon the character of his protagonist; and it is to that point we must direct our attention.

It is well known that Philip II supplanted his unfortunate son Don Carlos, and married the princess to whom the youth had been betrothed with the consent of both crowns. Our poet depicts the disastrous attachment of the devoted pair. The piece opens with a passionate soliloquy of Isabella, in which she reproaches herself bitterly for the unconquered love she bears to the son of her husband. Her mind revolts at the idea of such an affection, which she fears her indiscretion may one day betray to its object. She distrusts her every word and look. In the midst of this, the prince enters, evidently unhappy, and earnestly asks her reason for avoiding his presence. He perceives that the whole court is hostile to him; miserable and oppressed, he cannot wonder that he reads envy and hatred in every countenance about him, since he is conscious that he does not possess the favor of his father and sovereign. From the queen, however, “born under a milder sky,” whose nature is all gentleness, he expected pity. Isabella is moved to the expression of sorrow for his misfortunes; his joy in her sympathy is extreme, and in return he offers condolence with her for her “hard lot,” which she repels with some confusion; immediately after, hinting at the relation in which she stands to him, she offers to intercede with the king in his behalf. Carlos declines this offer, telling her she is the innocent cause of all his sufferings, and reminds her of their former affection and engagement; bitterly alluding to his father's hatred, and the greatest wrong he has inflicted, in depriving him of his bride. Isabella reproves his resentment against the king, whom she imagines deceived by false counsellors, and refuses to listen to his passionate complaints; the prince pleads with her to remain, and at length bids her renounce and accuse him. Now comes the discovery. When Carlos calls himself guilty, the queen says,

“Art thou alone the guilty?”

This thoughtless exclamation betrays to the prince the state of her heart; and shocked at her own indiscretion Isabella implores him to leave her. He pleads that flight would not protect him from the vengeance of Philip, who regards him with detestation, though ignorant of his only fault. The queen departs, forbidding him to follow her, and Perez enters. This person, a warm friend to the prince, attempts to console his evident wretchedness, which he attributes to his father's displeasure, by assuring him that the king has been wrought upon by false rumors and the machinations of his enemies. His offers of service and devoted attachment affect Carlos, who nevertheless will not reveal the secret cause of his grief. He yields, however, to the entreaties of Perez, to accept him as his friend, and permit him to share his destiny; congratulating himself even in the midst of wretchedness that he is less worthy of compassion than Philip on his throne.

The next act introduces upon the scene the tyrant and arch-hypocrite, attended by his minister Gomez. Their conversation illustrates strikingly the haughty reserve of the king, who will not admit even his private counsellor to his most secret thoughts, or treat him as an equal.

_Philip_. Gomez, what thing above all else in the world Dost thou esteem?

_Gomez_. Thy favor.

_Philip_. Hopest thou to keep it? By what means?

_Gomez_. By the self-same means That first obtained it, sire; obedience, And silence.

_Philip_. Thou to-day must practise both.

Gomez is commanded to watch the countenance and actions of the queen in the interview about to take place. The crafty minister is accustomed to observe, interpret, and silently execute his master's will. Isabella enters, summoned by her lord, who expresses his wish for her {703} advice in a matter pertaining to private relations as well as to the concerns of state. He then speaks of his son, artfully adapting his words to alarm and reassure her alternately.

_Philip_. Carlos, my son—thou lov'st Or hatest him.

_Isabella_. My lord——

_Philip_. I understand. If to thy inclinations—not the voice Of virtue—thou didst listen, thou wouldst feel Thyself his——step-dame.

_Isabella_. Nay, not so; the prince——

_Philip_. Is dear then to thee; virtue in thy heart So strongly dwells, that thou, the wife of Philip, The son of Philip lov'st with love—maternal.

_Isabella_. Yours are the pattern of my thoughts; you love him; At least I do believe it; in like manner I also—love him.

The king expresses his wish to make her the judge of his son, who he says has been guilty of a heinous offence. With cruel art he remarks the agitation of the queen at this disclosure, which he pretends to impute to indignation at a crime of which she is yet ignorant. He brings an accusation against the prince of having leagued with rebels to overthrow the power of his sovereign; silences the doubts Isabella ventures to suggest, respecting the truth of the charge, and appeals to her for his sentence. The queen seizes upon some artful expressions of parental tenderness that fall from Philip, and implores him to listen to the voice of nature; pleads eloquently the cause of Carlos, and beseeches her husband to dismiss suspicion, and win back the affections of his son by clemency and gentleness. Gomez is despatched for the accused; the queen requests leave to retire, but is commanded to remain. Carlos, on his entrance, demands to know of what fault he has been guilty; the king speaks in an ambiguous manner, asserting his acquaintance with the private thoughts of the prince, whom he afterwards reproves for his communication with a leader of the rebels, yet the monarch ostentatiously pardons him, telling him he owes his impunity to the intercession of the queen, to whose counsel and guidance he recommends him. They are dismissed; and the brief dialogue between the king and his minister shows the result of their investigations. The silent understanding and concert between them has something in it more fearful than the most elaborate denunciation.

_Philip_. Heard you?

_Gomez_. I heard.

_Philip_. Saw you?

_Gomez_. I saw.

_Philip_. Distraction! Suspicion then——

_Gomez_. Is certainty.

_Philip_. And yet Philip is unrevenged?

_Gomez_. Think——

_Philip_. I have thought; Follow you me.

_Act II, Scene 5_.

In the third act Carlos acquaints Isabella with her imprudence, in speaking in his favor to the tyrant, and the probable consequences of addressing thus one whose mercy is but the pledge of evil. She cannot however believe the king an unnatural father, but promises never to repeat so perilous an effort. After her departure, Gomez enters and announces the king. To his hypocritical offers of service, Carlos deigns no reply, but leaves him without uttering a word. Philip, with his nobles and ministers, then appears upon the stage; and having ordered the doors to be closed, in a set speech, accuses his son of treason and an attempt upon his life; produces the blade which he states to have fallen at his feet when the baffled assassin fled from him; and having played off a feigned reluctance to hear the condemnation of the criminal, leaves the sentence to their decision. Gomez, with affected sympathy for the sufferings of the father, confirms the accusation of treason by producing intercepted letters alleged to have been written by the prince, that prove a treacherous correspondence with the French; while Leonardo completes the catalogue of crimes by charging him with heresy, and hurling against him the denunciations of the church. They are proceeding to adjudge him to death, encouraged by Philip, who tells them they stand in the presence, not of the father, but the king, when Perez craves permission to speak, and boldly vindicates the innocence of his friend. The king, in displeasure, breaks up the assembly; his anger at the boldness of Perez is only equalled by his wonder that such a spirit could exist in his court.

“Alma si fatta Nasce ov'io regno? e dov'io regno, ha vita?”

Carlos is afterwards surprised alone at night, by a body of soldiers, led by his father. To the displeasure of Philip at finding him armed at such an hour, he answers by submitting himself to the royal will. The scene that ensues between father and son is terrible, and powerfully depicts the native cruelty of the tyrant. He accuses the youth of secret and atrocious designs—of attempted parricide.

_Carlos_. Of parricide! What hear I? Parricide? Thyself canst not believe it. And what proof, What inference, what suspicion?

_Philip_. Inference, proof And certainty, I from thy paleness draw.

_Carlos_. Father! Oh, force me not, by fierce excess, That fearful bound to pass, which 'twixt the subject And sovereign—'twixt the father and the son, Heaven, nature, and the laws have placed!

_Philip_. With foot Most sacrilegious thou hast passed already, Long since, that bound. What do I say? Unknown It ever was to thee. Lay by the words Of haughty virtue and severe; but ill Such words become thee. Speak now as thou art; Thy meditated treasons, and the many Already ripe, unveil. What dost thou fear? That I should be less great than thou art impious? If truth thou speak'st and nought dost hide, then hope! If aught thou dare conceal, then tremble!

_Carlos_. Truth Severe thou forcest from me now. Myself Too well I know, to fear; and thee, oh Philip! Too well I know, to hope. The luckless gift, My life, take back; 'tis thine; but mine my honor, Which thou hadst never power to take nor give. Guilty I should be, if to such confession Base fear could lead me. Here my latest breath {704} Thou may'st behold me draw; long, cruel death, And infamous prepare for me; no death Degrades me. Thou alone, sire—thou alone Wilt not weep tears of pity for my fate.

_Philip_. Rash youth! thus to thy sovereign lord dost offer Excuse for all thy crimes?

_Carlos_. Excuse? Thou hat'st me, That is mine only fault; thy thirst for blood Mine only crime. Thy right alone, O king, Is kingdom absolute.

_Philip_. Ho—guards—arrest him!

_Carlos_. Such is a tyrant's sole reply. These arms, Lo! to the chain I give—lo! to the steel I bare my breast. Wherefore delay? Dost now Begin to soften? Day by day thy reign Is written in black characters of blood.

_Philip_. Bear him hence—from my sight. In the next tower, Unto the deepest dungeon. Wo to you If any of you show compassion to him.

_Carlos_. Nay—fear not that. Thy ministers in cruelty Do equal thee.

_Philip_. Drag him by force away; Forth from my presence.

_Act IV, Scene 2_.

At the close of this appalling scene, Isabella enters in time to see the prince dragged away by the guards. The king pretends, as before, to attribute her emotion to fears for his own safety, and ironically tells her to be comforted by the assurance that all danger to the royal person is past; promising her that the traitor shall be visited with summary punishment. The villain who would shed the blood of a father, he suggests would not hesitate to take the life of a step-mother. After this cruel hypocrisy, he leaves her to despair, and she is joined by Gomez, who comes with offers of sympathy and assistance. He brings the sentence of Carlos from the council, who have adjudged him to death for an alleged attempt upon his father's life; and the sentence only wants the king's signature. Gomez artfully works upon her feelings; assures her that the prince's only fault is his right to the crown, which Philip would bestow upon one of her children. It is this, he says, that has caused the king's unnatural hostility to his son. The crafty minister affects the warmest pity for the unfortunate victim, and indignation for the cruelty of the monarch. The queen, deceived by these representations, implores his aid for the prince. Gomez answers that he will be too proud to accept safety at his hands, or save himself by flight; and Isabella offers to remove his scruples by a personal interview in the prison. The minister covers the joy he feels at this proposal by an appeal to the justice of heaven to protect the innocent.

The fifth act opens with a soliloquy of Carlos in the dungeon. He wishes to die, but shrinks from the disgrace of an ignominious execution, and dreads above all that the king should discover his ill-fated attachment to the queen. The iron door opens, and Isabella appears; she beseeches him to save himself from impending death. Carlos, with a presentiment of despair, asks how she obtained access to his prison. He believes her to have come with the knowledge of Philip, and as a messenger of his vengeance.

_Isabella_. Doth Philip know it? Heaven! Wo—if he did!

_Carlos_. What say'st thou? Philip here Knows all. Who dares to break his stern command?

_Isabella_. Gomez.

_Carlos_. What do I hear? What fatal name, Fearful, detestable!

_Isabella_. He is no foe Of yours—as you may think——

_Carlos_. If I could ever Believe he was my friend more shame would kindle My cheek than e'er did wrath.

_Isabella_. Yet he alone Feels pity now for you. 'Twas he revealed The king's atrocious plot to me.

_Carlos_. Incautious! Alas, too credulous, what hast thou done? Why give to such compassion faith? If truth He uttered—he—most impious minister Of the most impious king—'twas with the truth To cheat thee!

_Act V, Scene 2_.

Both are now in the tyrant's power; as a last resort, the prince beseeches Isabella to begone from his dangerous presence.

_Carlos_. Away—if life be dear——

_Isabella_. To me—life dear?

_Carlos_. My honor then—thy fame! * * Go—hide thy tears; Smother thy sighs in thine own breast; with eye Unmoistened, with intrepid front, must thou The tidings of my death receive.

It is too late; Philip enters, and scornfully upbraids them with their mutual love, which they have vainly thought to conceal from his discernment. He has long known it, but has suffered them to remain in their delusion, that his revenge might more readily overtake them, and now comes to rejoice in their last sufferings. The monster asserts what is evident throughout, that his jealousy is not the object of love, but of pride.

“Thou hast offended In me thy sovereign king—and not thy lover; The sacred name of Philip's wife hast stained.”

The unhappy pair vindicate their innocence, and excuse the attachment which was honorable and proper before their forced separation. The haughty tone that Isabella assumes contrasts strongly with her previous submission, and shows that she has lost all hope. Gomez then appears with a dagger and a cup of poison, which the king offers to the choice of the lovers. Carlos chooses the dagger, yet reeking with the blood of Perez, and stabs himself; but counsels the queen, who he knows has said too much to hope for safety, to drink the poison, as a less painful death. Isabella prepares to follow; but Philip, perceiving that she rejoices in the prospect of death, bestows life upon her as a punishment; she will not accept the cruel gift, but snatching his dagger from his girdle, plunges it into her side, and dies asserting her innocence.

The last words of the monster who witnesses the horrid scene intimate something like remorse.

“Lo, full and fearful vengeance I obtain; Yet am I happy? Gomez, be concealed The dire event from all. By silence thou Shalt save my fame, thy life.”

Before making any remarks upon this powerful play, we shall proceed to analyze the corresponding production of Schiller, in order to present the two pieces in as {705} close proximity as possible. In _Don Carlos_, we are transported at once into the Spanish court, and the tragedy has all the aids and appliances which a graphic delineation of the manners of the age and country can give. We have no “voices in the desert;” all around reminds us that we are among the ministers and courtiers of a despotic monarch; there are the pomp and circumstance of sovereign state; the jealousies, the repinings, the fears and the plots of selfish and intriguing courtiers; the designs and labors of patriotic enthusiasm and of less disinterested feelings, and the contrast of innocence and unsuspicious credulity with artful malice. The piece opens with an interview between the prince and the king's confessor Domingo, which takes place in the royal garden at Aranjuez. The priest artfully endeavors to learn the cause of the evident melancholy cherished by Don Carlos. For this purpose, he alludes to the queen, and the sorrow which the depression of her son-in-law has occasioned her. The prince, with artifice of which he seems afterwards ashamed, replies by accusing her of having cost him the affection of his father; but Domingo cannot believe in his dislike.

“You mock me, prince. All Spain Adores her queen. Can you with eye of hate Behold what all esteem? * * The loveliest woman in the world, a queen— And once your bride. Impossible, my prince! It cannot be! No—no. Where all men love Can Carlos never hate; you cannot thus Strangely gainsay yourself. Be sure the queen Knows not how much she hath her son displeased; 'Twould be a grief to her.”

He goes on to assure the heir of her interest for him; and relates an incident that occurred at a tournament, in which her fears for his safety were involuntarily betrayed. Carlos haughtily replies:

“I much admire The king's gay confidant, so aptly versed In tales of curious wit.”

and adds in a more serious tone,

“Ever I've heard it said, the spy on looks, And he who treasures tales, hath done more ill In this wide world, than in the murderer's hand The dagger or the poisoned cup. Your trouble, Good sir, you might have spared; if thanks you wait, Hence to the king.”

After the intimation of his suspicion that the confessor is placed as a spy upon him by the king, he is relieved of the presence of Domingo, and the Marquis of Posa enters. This personage, who plays a conspicuous part in the drama, and is in fact the hero of the piece, is a political enthusiast, whose whole soul is devoted to the attainment of a favorite object, to which all his efforts and intrigues have an ultimate tendency. The skill with which he lays his plans, and the metaphysical subtlety with which they are carried on, even to the delusion of the vigilant Philip, are developed in the course of the tragedy; but it is proper to give this insight into his character at first, to avoid the imputation of inconsistency and folly, which would otherwise rest for a time upon his actions in the mind of the reader. The delight of Carlos at again embracing his friend just returned from a tour through Europe, is so excessive that the marquis himself reproves his boyish weakness, which the prince excuses by expressing his utter misery. In this and the other extracts we are obliged to use our own translation, having never met with an English version of the play. Carlos answers to the generous suggestions of his friend.

Thou speak'st of time long past; I also once Dreamed of a prince of Spain, in whose proud cheek The fiery blood would mount, if one did speak Of Liberty!—yet he is long since buried. Whom thou seest here—he is no more the Carlos Who in Alkala took his leave of thee, Who with the sweet and glorious vision burned. Creator of a new and golden age For Spain to be; Oh, the design was simple, Yet godlike still! Past is that dream!

_Marquis de Posa_. A dream! Prince—Was it but a dream?

_Carlos_. Nay—let me weep; Weep on thy breast hot tears—mine only friend! I have none—none—in the wide full earth none; Far as my father's regal sceptre reaches, Far as the seaward breeze our flag sends forth, There is no place—not one—where I may pour My bitter tears, but this. O Roderick, By all that thou and I may hope in heaven Of future rest—drive me not hence!

_Act I, Scene 2_.

With pathetic earnestness the desolate prince reminds the marquis of the days of their boyhood and their affection; relates an instance of his own devotion to him, when he bore the punishment of some juvenile offence committed by Posa, and resented by the king. The marquis sympathizes but coldly with these emotions; his mind is occupied with thoughts too high and momentous to find pleasure in the recollections of childhood. He would pay the debt of kindness, however, in manlier coin. The prince, in explanation of his previous agitation, and his long cherished grief, confesses his love for the queen his step-mother, and his eager wish for an interview with her without the presence of malicious spectators. His friend, after exacting from him a promise to undertake nothing without his knowledge and sanction, engages to help him to a private audience. It is no part of the design of Posa to discourage this unfortunate attachment, so long as he fancies it can be made subservient to the accomplishment of his schemes.

The next scene introduces us into the retirement of the queen. Elizabeth of Valois, the wife of Philip, is surrounded by her ladies, who converse upon their anticipated return to Madrid, and the sports and festivals that wait to welcome the royal pair. These are savage as the temper of the age; and the delight in anticipation displayed by some of the noble dames calls for the mild reprehension of the gentle queen. A better subject for discussion is offered in the approaching marriage of the princess of Eboli, one of the ladies, to a nobleman of Spain. The queen, with playful grace, inquires his merits of the destined bride, but is surprised when the latter, in a passion of tears, throws herself at her feet, and beseeches that she may be saved from such a sacrifice. Elizabeth promises her liberty, then dismisses the subject with an abruptness that shows unpleasing remembrances are awakened in her mind, and asks for her daughter the Infanta Clara, a child of three years old. The Duchess of Olivarez, who holds {706} supremacy over the other ladies, suggests that it is not yet the hour to admit the child to her mother's presence; and immediately after, a page announces the Marquis of Posa, as having arrived from the Netherlands, and waiting to present a letter to her majesty. The lady of Olivarez objects to his admission at such a time and place, as a violation of court etiquette, but is overruled by the queen, who commands the entrance of the marquis, and permits her scrupulous governess to retire. The noble knight is most graciously received; and in the course of conversation takes occasion to relate a story bearing much resemblance to the queen's own history—of a lady betrothed to a prince who was afterwards supplanted by his uncle. Both Elizabeth and the princess of Eboli are much interested in the narration; the former then sends Eboli to fetch her daughter; the marquis seizes the occasion to request leave to introduce his friend into the presence. Carlos enters, and kneeling, kisses the hand of his mother-in-law: the marquis and ladies retire out of sight. The scene that ensues is admirable; the passionate sorrow and devotion of the prince, and the dignity and inexorable virtue of the youthful queen, are beautifully pictured. We cannot perceive that she cherishes a single emotion towards Carlos, at variance with her duty to her royal husband. She appeals to his manhood and heroic spirit to conquer his ill-fated passion; “Elizabeth,” she says, “was your first love; let your second be Spain.” He promises silence if not forgetfulness, and the Marquis of Posa suddenly rushes in, announces the king, and leads his friend hastily away. Philip enters with several of his nobles, and asks why he finds his wife alone. The marchioness of Mondekar, who comes up at this juncture, and attempts to divert the displeasure of the sovereign, is dismissed by him from the court, and banished from Madrid for ten years. The queen, indignant at the suspicions cast upon herself, and the treatment of her domestic, evades a reply to the king's questions, and bids the marchioness a weeping adieu, giving her her girdle as a token of favor and remembrance. Philip utters a half apology for his harshness, by expressing his anxiety to be without the shadow of a rival in his wife's affections.

I am called The richest man in Christendom; the sun Goes never down on my domain; yet all Another once possessed, and after me Full many a monarch shall possess. One thing Is all mine own. What the king has, belongs To fortune—but Elizabeth to Philip.

He afterwards incidentally inquires of the courtiers after his son, and enjoins it upon them to watch his movements. The Duke of Alba willingly undertakes the task, boasting himself to be to the throne of Spain what the cherub was to the gate of Paradise. After this high-flown simile, Count Lerma ventures to speak in favor of the prince, but is silenced by Philip, who then departs, accompanied by the queen and his train. Carlos and Posa return; the former declares his resolution to ask of his father the government of Flanders, which he hopes to obtain by his solicitations, and thereby escape from the temptations continually presented during his residence in the court. He means to make a last appeal to parental feeling in the bosom of the king, and hopes to regain the confidence and affection so long lost. Posa expresses the most enthusiastic approbation of his purpose, and they pledge inviolable friendship. The prince has a just appreciation of the noble and disinterested character of his friend, and values his esteem beyond aught in the world.

In the second act Carlos seeks the king, and implores a private audience. The Duke of Alba is in presence, and is excessively reluctant to depart; nor is it without displeasure that Philip, at the repeated solicitations of his son, sends him away. The prince, alone with his father, lays open his heart; implores forgiveness for his offences, and expresses in the most ardent language, his dutiful affection and desire for a perfect reconciliation. Upon the machinations of designing courtiers, he charges the fault of the breach that has so long existed between them; pleads that he will do for good will the service his corrupted ministers do for their own interests; that a purer fount of love than gold can purchase, swells in the heart of Philip's son. The king is not unmoved by this generous abandonment, but coldly answers that those he traduces are his proved servants. With increasing earnestness Carlos appeals to the parental feelings of his father; and the following picture of happiness succeeds the startled admission of Philip that he is alone upon a throne.

You have been so, my lord. Hate me no more, And I will love you with a duteous love And ardent; but oh, hate me not; How lovely, How sweet it is, in a fair soul, to feel Ourselves as holy things enshrined; to know Our happiness another cheek doth kindle, Our trouble doth another bosom swell, Our sorrow fill with tears another's eyes. How sweet and glorious is it, hand in hand, With a beloved and duteous son, once more To tread the rose-strewed path of early youth! To dream again life's dream of pleasure o'er! How sweet and blessed in your children's virtue, Immortal, ever present to endure, The benefactor of a century! How fair to plant, what a beloved offspring One day shall reap; to sow what shall make glad Their future fields; to anticipate the joy, The gratitude which they shall feel! My father, Your priest is wisely silent of this Eden On Earth!

Carlos then offers his petition that he may have the command of the army appointed to quell the insurrection in Brabant. He hopes much from the attachment of the Netherlands to him, and reasonably anticipates that his appearance in person, his dignity as crown prince, and the course of mildness and forbearance he proposes to pursue, may bring them back to their allegiance. The king intimates gloomily his suspicion that treacherous designs against his life are concealed under the philanthropic zeal of his son; Carlos is horror-struck and deeply wounded at the insinuation, but withdraws not his prayer, pressing it more earnestly again and again, in spite of the rising displeasure of the monarch. Philip haughtily and decisively rejects his suit, having bestowed the command upon Alba, and commands the mortified prince to remain in Spain; Carlos leaves the audience chamber, and the Duke of Alba entering receives the royal orders to prepare for his immediate departure to Brussels, to take his leave of the queen {707} and the prince. The cautious courtier observes the emotion yet visible on the countenance of his master, and asks if it is caused by the subject of his conference with his son. Philip merely tells him the subject of their conversation was Duke Alba; and thus alarming his fears bids him seek a reconciliation with the prince, hinting darkly his doubts of the honesty and candor of the noble duke, who, troubled at this intimation, departs disconcerted.

The next scene takes place in an ante-chamber to the queen's apartment. Carlos is in conference with a page belonging to the queen, who has privately brought him a letter and a key. In a tumult of contending feelings, the prince breaks the seal, and at the same moment duke Alba crosses to the inner chamber. The letter is in a female hand, and appoints a meeting in a cabinet attached to her majesty's apartments, safe from intrusion, where the writer promises that “the reward of love” shall be bestowed. Carlos is ignorant of the queen's hand writing, but does not for a moment imagine the letter to be from any other than herself. In this supposition he is confirmed by the page, whom he knows to belong to Elizabeth, and who replies to his eager questions that the letter was given him by “her own hand.” The possessor of the hand is not named by either—and hence arises the mistake. The surprise and agitation of the prince are extreme; yet in the bitterness of a spirit wounded by unkindness, he does not hesitate to accept the bliss he fancies offered to him. Before he can escape from the ante-chamber, Alba enters and requests a conference. A long interview follows, which at length, in spite of the studied calmness of the duke, terminates in a dispute; both draw their swords, but are interrupted by the queen, who rushes from her chamber. The effect of her appearance is instantaneous; Carlos at a word of remonstrance from her, drops his sword, and embracing Alba asks his forgiveness. The queen, accompanied by the duke, returns into her closet.

We are next introduced into a cabinet, where the Princess of Eboli, fancifully dressed, is playing on the lute. She is enamored of the prince, and is anxiously awaiting the return of the messenger, by whom she despatched her letter. The page of the preceding scene appears—she starts up and hastily questions him; he relates the words and the emotion of the prince on the reception of the billet, and informs her that he may be momentarily expected. The boy is dismissed, and Carlos enters the cabinet by means of the key conveyed to him by the page. His surprise at finding himself alone with the princess of Eboli, his embarrassment, and efforts to explain his apparently unexpected appearance, are almost amusing. The graceful and animated conversation of the lady does much to remove the first awkwardness of his mistake, and he becomes insensibly interested, though quite unable to account for the apparent pleasure with which his fancied intrusion is received. The princess informs him of the king's design to bestow her hand upon Don Ruy Gomez, Count of Silva, and of her aversion to the match; and wishes to be guided by his counsel, which she asks as from a dear friend. Her sentiments on love excite the admiration of the prince, who nevertheless seems marvellously ignorant of the drift of all her intimations.

_Princess of Eboli_. Love is alone the price of love. It is The invaluable diamond, which I give Freely away—or else, forever hid, Must bury—like the noble-hearted merchant Who all unmoved by the Rialto's gold, Or king's displeasure, to the mighty sea Gave back his pearl, too proud to part with it Below its price!

Again she fancifully styles the passion, or rather the charms which awaken it, “the sister hues of one divine beam—the leaves upon one lovely flower.” The prince is enchanted with her wit and beauty, and the crisis approaches.

_Princess of Eboli_. Long since had I departed from this court, And from the world departed; buried me Within the cloister's walls, but that one tie Still held me back—one tie, that to the world Binds me with force resistless. Ah! perchance A phantom! yet so dear to me! I love; And I am——not beloved.

_Carlos_. You are—you are! Truly as God doth dwell in Heaven. I swear it— You are—unspeakably.

_Princess of Eboli_. And dost thou swear it! That was indeed mine angel's voice! Yes—yes! If thou dost swear it—Carlos—then indeed Do I believe——I am!

This avowal on the lady's part is understood; but the prince—though he opens his arms to receive her when in the transport of affection she throws herself into them—has no idea of returning in coin the love so unexpectedly offered to him. A sudden thought has struck him; it is no less than to make the enamored princess a confidant of his attachment to his mother-in-law. He does not dream of the existence of such a thing as feminine jealousy; but is proceeding, in accordance with his mad design, to acquaint her with his love for another, when she suddenly interrupts his communication by her exclamations of horror and surprise. The truth flashes upon her mind; and in an agony of shame she demands her key and letters. She had a few moments before shown him a letter to her from the king, which he retains in his possession. Carlos refuses to give up the letters, and leaves her to mortification and regret. Reasoning upon what she has seen and heard, she conjectures that the queen is her fortunate rival; nor can she imagine the love of the prince unreturned by its object, however elevated and passionless her royal mistress has hitherto appeared.

In the mean time, Duke Alba and Domingo are in conference. Alba relates his meeting and dispute with Carlos, the sudden change in his conduct at a glance from the queen, and his altered demeanor towards him. The cautious priest replies that he has long suspected the attachment hinted at, but uttered no suspicions so long as proof was wanting. Another incident is mentioned by the Duke; he had observed the countenance of the prince when he left his father,—it was sad and overcast, but in the queen's ante-room, mantled with an expression of triumphant joy. He had even expressed satisfaction at the appointment of Alba to the command of the army to the Netherlands. The Duke himself is disposed to consider this appointment more of a banishment than a mark of favor. The two artful courtiers arrange a plot for the ruin of the prince, who {708} is hateful to both on account of his independent spirit, and dreaded by reason of his right to the crown. Both agree that the suspicions of the king must be awakened; but to the fulfilment of their plans there wants one ally, the Princess of Eboli, who is beloved by the king. At this moment she appears; Alba retires, and she directs the priest, who had been the bearer of the king's letter to her, to signify to Philip her readiness to receive him. Her insinuations against the honor of the queen, and vows that she will expose her to the wrath of her husband, are answered with joy by Domingo, who calls the Duke to confirm their league. It is agreed that the princess shall first accuse the queen; as her majesty's companion and confidant her testimony will be accepted. Domingo suggests ingenious means of proof, and Alba mentions the page he had seen in close conversation with Carlos; but Eboli, alarmed, diverts their suspicion by hastily assuring them that no weight is to be attached to such evidence.

Scene fourteenth exhibits Carlos in a remote monastery with a Prior, with whom he awaits the arrival of the Marquis of Posa. The Prior retires, and the prince relates to his friend the ill success of his petition, and his further alienation from the king. He tells him also of the mysterious summons, and his interview with the lady of Eboli; shows the king's love-letter to her, and exulting, asserts that such a document is sufficient to free the queen from her matrimonial obligations. Posa warns him against the arts of the princess, and unfolds her character; reasons against the blind passion which still rages in the bosom of the prince, arouses his sense of shame, rebukes him for his madness, and overwhelms him with the consciousness of guilt. He obtains possession of the letter, and having listened to the expressions of remorse and warm trust in him, which fall from the lips of his repentant friend, rewards him by permitting him to seek an audience with Elizabeth. The zealous politician perceives that the only way to lead the prince to the fulfilment of his far-reaching designs, is to take advantage of the queen's influence over him.

The third act opens in the king's sleeping chamber. Philip is alone; a table, with a burning lamp, is near him, on which he leans in deep thought, gazing upon a letter and a medallion lying before him. These have been taken recently from a casket belonging to the queen, and sent as proof of her guilt to the jealous sovereign, whose first words show that the poison is working. He calls Count Lerma from the adjoining chamber, and addresses him; but the unsuspicious old man cannot comprehend the mysterious hints of the agitated monarch.

_Count Lerma_. My greatest—my best king——

_Philip_. King—only king! And ever king! No better answer this Than the dull solemn cavern's empty echo! Upon this rock I strike, and will have water— Water, to quench my burning fever's thirst— He gives me glowing gold!

Lerma is dismissed and Duke Alba summoned; the letter is shown to him, and he says he recognizes the prince's hand writing; encouraged to speak freely, he mentions the fact of the presence of Carlos with the queen in the garden at Aranjuez. After this information the king suddenly changes his manner; haughtily dismisses the duke, and calls his confessor. Domingo's evidence is in substance the same with that of his fellow conspirator, but his doubts are more cautiously and artfully expressed. Having heard him through, Philip recalls Alba, and charges both with a plot for the destruction of his son: alluding to Alba's hostility, he remarks—

How gladly would the innocent man now arm His petty spite with my wrath's giant arm! I am the bow, ye think in your wild fancies, That may be bent for service at your will! Yet have I mine own pleasure, &c.

After reflection, the king declares his intention to command a public trial of the queen, and reminding them that her doom will be death if found guilty—asks if they, as her accusers, will embrace the alternative, and submit to the same sentence, if she is proved innocent. Duke Alba consents to support his charge on these terms, and is ordered to wait further commands in the audience chamber.

In the hall of audience are assembled the prince and grandees of Spain, waiting the arrival of the sovereign. Medina Sidonia, the admiral, has just returned from an unsuccessful expedition.

_Medina Sidonia_. I lost him a brave fleet Such as ne'er yet did crown the seas. What is A head like this, against full seventy, Seventy sunken gallies! But, my prince, Five sons I lost—hopeful as you—that breaks My heart——

The unfortunate commander has sealed his own doom in the opinion of those around him; for none are ignorant that there is a cloud on the royal brow. The admiral would rather face English cannon than the displeasure of his master, but is comforted by Carlos, who exhorts him to hope the best from the king's grace and his own innocence. When he kneels to relate his misfortunes to Philip, he is graciously pardoned for the faults of storms and rocks, and welcomed to Madrid. The king then inquires the reason of the absence of the Marquis of Posa, who has failed to pay his duty at the feet of his sovereign since his return from his journey. The Count Lerma, Duke Alba and the Duke of Feria in turn praise the Marquis, and relate the noble deeds he has accomplished.

_Philip_. I am amazed. And what must be the man Hath done all this, yet among three, thus questioned, Hath not a single foe? Be sure, this man Must have a character most singular, Or none at all; if but to wonder at, I must speak with him. (_to Duke Alba_) After mass is heard, Conduct him to my cabinet.

The boldness and dignity displayed by the Marquis in the subsequent interview with the king, develop his character, and unfold the project to which he had devoted his life. Bent on the accomplishment of his object, the deliverance of the Netherlands from oppression, he hesitates not to condemn Philip's policy in the government of his distant provinces. The king seems not displeased at his boldness, and from grave remonstrance the enthusiast soon passes to the most impassioned pleading. With earnest eloquence he paints the spirit of independence that is abroad, and warns the monarch not to oppose his will to this growing power.

_Marquis_. You hope to end, as you have now begun! {709} Hope to retard the change o'er Christendom Already ripe—the universal spring, The world to bring again to pristine childhood. You will, alone throughout all Europe, throw Yourself against the wheel of a world's fate, Which unimpeded in full course doth roll.

Again,

You, who would fain plant for eternity, Sow death! A work thus forced can ne'er endure Beyond its maker's breath!

Although the king listens without anger to such declamation, he soon after coldly dismisses the subject, and expressing a wish to engage the disinterested Posa in his service, sounds him upon the subject of Carlos and the queen. The Marquis is silent at Philip's first allusion to his domestic troubles.

_King_. I understand you. Yet if among all fathers I must be The most unhappy—as a husband, may I not Call myself blest?

_Marquis of Posa_. If the possession of A hopeful son, a wife most virtuous, Can give a mortal right to be thus deemed, You are most blest in both.

_King_. No—I am not! And that I am not—have I never felt So deeply as even now!

_Marquis of Posa_. The prince is noble And good. I never found him otherwise.

_King_. But I have. What he hath despoiled me of, No sceptre can restore—a noble queen——

_Marquis of Posa_. Who dares to say so, Sire?

_King_. Who? Calumny! The world! Myself! Here lie the proofs that both Condemn, incontrovertibly—and others Are close at hand, which make me fear the worst. Yet, Marquis, it is sad if I believe Only one side! Who is't accuses her? If _she_ could e'er be thought to stoop so low, So deeply to imbrue her soul in crime, How readily may I believe, in sooth, An Eboli can slander!—And the priest, Doth he not hate my son—and her? Duke Alba— Know I not that he meditates revenge? My wife is worth them all.

* * * * *

To fall into such crime, as they do charge Upon the queen, costs much. So easily, As they would fain persuade me, is not broken The holy tie of honor. Men I know, Marquis—and such a man I long have lacked. You are noble and free-hearted—know mankind— And therefore have I chosen you.

_Marquis of Posa_. Me—Sire?

_King_. You stand before your lord—and yet have nought— Nought for yourself to beg. That's new to me. You shall be just; emotion from your glance Can ne'er conceal itself. Watch well my son: Search the queen's heart. I will permission give you To speak with her in private. Leave me now.

_Act III, Scene 10_.

Posa takes advantage of this permission speedily to demand an audience of the queen. Act fourth opens in her apartment, where she welcomes to her presence the princess of Eboli, who has been for some days indisposed. Agitated from the consciousness of guilt, the unhappy girl implores leave to retire, and passes out as the Marquis enters, bearing as he alleges a message from the king. At his special request, the ladies withdraw; and not noticing the extreme surprise of Elizabeth at seeing him employed as a royal messenger, he proceeds to the real object of his visit—warns her of danger, and gives her a letter from Carlos, imploring an interview. Posa warmly seconds this request, and overcomes the queen's scruples by assuring her that the measure is necessary, not only to the private happiness of the prince, but to the weal of the state. The liberty of Flanders is sacrificed; and Alba's appointment as leader of the royal army has struck a death blow to the hopes of the people. But one way remains to prevent the destruction impending over those provinces, and their loss by the Spanish crown; it must be undertaken by the prince—who must be persuaded to the enterprise by her.

_Marquis of Posa_. He must Be disobedient to the royal will, Must privately betake himself to Brussels; With open arms the Flemings there await him. The Netherlands will to his standard throng, A good thing is made strong by the alliance Of a king's son. He makes the Spanish throne Tremble before his arms. That which the king Refused in Madrid, he constrained will grant In Brussels.

After some hesitation, the queen consents to what she imagines a measure of necessity, and writes a few lines to Carlos, recommending him to follow the advice of the Marquis. Their interview is ended by the appearance of the Duchess of Olivarez.

Meanwhile Count Lerma, with good intent, but injudicious zeal, warns Carlos against the Marquis of Posa; acquaints him with his long audience and close confidence with the king; and mentions that he heard from the door his own name and Elizabeth's uttered. The prince thanks him for his caution, which excites in his bosom no distrust of his friend, as is proved by their subsequent interview. Posa gives him the queen's note, then asks for it, as it is more safe in his custody. With evident reluctance, Carlos confides the precious paper to his hands, than as if ashamed of his suspicion, throws himself trembling with agitation upon his neck.

The next scene is in the royal cabinet, when Philip is alone with the Infanta, his daughter. The medallion and letter are before him; he has thrown the former in a transport of jealousy upon the floor. The queen enters and throws herself at his feet, strongly agitated, demanding justice against the felon who has robbed her casket. The offender, she suggests, must be of rank, for a pearl and diamond of immense value were left untouched, and only a letter and medallion taken away. To the king's stern questions she answers without hesitation, that both were gifts from the prince, sent before her marriage with the king. Her openness and unevasive answers convey to the mind of the reader the most perfect conviction of her entire innocence; the slightest wavering or shadow of fear would have marred all. The child finds the medallion on the floor and brings it to her mother; who then in a strain of beautiful remonstrance rebukes the king for his unjust suspicions {710} and unfair trial of her. Philip acknowledges that the casket was opened at his command, and haughtily asks if she has never deceived him, reminding her of the scene in the garden at Aranjuez. The queen candidly confesses her disingenuous evasion of his inquiries at that time; but excuses herself by charging her lord with unwarrantable harshness of manner, before her domestics. She would not be judged then as a culprit before the assembled courtiers, and therefore suffered him to suppose she had been alone. She censures also his cruel injustice towards his son, and avows the warmest esteem for the prince, who had once been her affianced husband. As a near relative, and one who has borne a name yet nearer, tenderness is due to him. As might be expected the king reproves this unusual boldness; becoming more violent he pushes the child away; the queen, offended at his invectives, takes her daughter by the hand, and with dignified composure walks to the door of the cabinet. She can proceed no further, but overcome by her feelings falls in a swoon on the threshold; the alarm is given; she is carried to her apartment by her women, but not till the news of so ominous an incident is spread through the court. Philip dismisses his courtiers, but welcomes eagerly the Marquis of Posa, who demands a private audience, and gives the king a pocket-book, which he says he took from the prince's chamber. Among the papers it contains, is the letter from the princess of Eboli to Carlos; at sight of this paper a light flashes upon the mind of the king, who perceives her motive for traducing her mistress. The Marquis receives permission to control the movements of the prince, and a full warrant for his arrest and imprisonment, should he at any time deem such a measure necessary.

In the gallery Carlos meets again the boding Count Lerma. The old man describes his pocket-book, of blue velvet wrought with gold, and tells him he saw it in the king's hand, while Posa stood beside him, and received the royal thanks for “the discovery.” The prince cannot disbelieve a story so well attested, but fears not for himself; his whole soul is bent to secure the safety of the queen, which he conceives endangered by the unfortunate note sent to him by Posa, that was in the pocket-book when he gave it to the Marquis. It is a beautiful trait in the character of this youth, that under no circumstances does it enter his head to doubt the nobleness of his friend. Even in the face of this damning evidence, his only exclamation is, “I have lost him!” He knows the Marquis to be actuated by motives higher than those affecting the private safety or happiness of any man in the realm; and if he imagines that he is to be offered up for the good of a nation, he thinks not of charging with treachery or cruelty the man who, he is convinced, is impelled by necessity to the course he pursues.

Duke Alba and Domingo, burning with envy and jealousy towards Posa, repair to the queen, and warn her against him. She receives their protestations of loyal devotion with haughty coldness.

_Queen_. Most worthy sir, and you, my noble Duke, You do surprise me, truly. Such devotion From the Duke Alba—from Domingo—sooth, I ne'er expected. And I know full well How I must value it. You speak of plots Which threaten me—may I inquire——

_Alba_. We pray you Look well unto the lord of Posa, he, Private commission from his Majesty Who holds.

_Queen_. I hear with pleasure, sirs, unmixed, The king hath chosen so well. I long have heard The Marquis, as a noble knight, reported— As a great man. Never was royal favor— The highest grace—more righteously bestowed.

_Domingo_. More righteously bestowed? Nay—we know better.

We are next introduced to the apartment of the princess of Eboli. The repentant lady is surprised by Carlos, who in despair of assistance from any other source, comes to beseech her, by her past tenderness for him, to help him to an audience with his mother. In her extreme surprise and confusion, she scarcely comprehends his request; they are interrupted by the Marquis of Posa, followed by two officers of the guard. Displaying the royal warrant, he arrests Carlos, and hurries him away before he has time to utter another word; then endeavors to learn from the lady how much he has already communicated. He holds a dagger to her breast, threatening to murder her if she will not disclose the secret; then struck by a sudden thought, releases her. Eboli rushes to the queen's presence and falls at the feet of her mistress, to announce the prince's arrest by the Marquis.

_Queen_. Now, God be praised, it was by Posa's hand He was made prisoner.

_Princess of Eboli_. And say you that So calmly, queen? So coldly? Righteous Heaven! You think not—Oh! you know not——

_Queen_. Wherefore he's A prisoner? For some error, I suppose, Which to the headlong character of youth Was natural.

_Princess of Eboli_. Oh no—no! I know better! O queen! An infamous, a devilish deed! For him there is no safety more! He dies!

_Queen_. He dies?

_Princess of Eboli_. And I—I am his murderess!

_Queen_. He dies? Insane—consider you.

_Princess of Eboli_. And wherefore, Wherefore dies he? Oh, could I but have known That it would come to this!

_Queen_. (_taking her hand_.) Princess, your senses Have quite forsaken you. Collect your spirits, Compose yourself—that without looks of horror That so affright me, you may tell me all. What know you? What has happened?

_Princess of Eboli_. Oh, not thus, Not with such heavenly condescension—not So graciously—my mistress! Flames of hell Rage in this conscious breast. I am not worthy To raise my look profane up to that summit Of purity and glory. Crush, oh, crush The wretch who at your feet lies bowed by shame, Repentance—self-abhorrence!

_Queen_. Unhappy girl, What have you to confess?

_Princess of Eboli_. Angel of light! Pure being! Yet you know not—you suspect not The demon whom you smile upon so sweetly. {711} Now learn to know him. I—I was the felon Who robbed your casket.

_Queen_. You?

_Princess of Eboli_. And who delivered That letter to the king.

_Queen_. You?

_Princess of Eboli_. And who dared Accuse you.

_Queen_. You—you could——

_Princess of Eboli_. Revenge—love—madness— I hated you—I loved the prince.

_Queen_. You loved him?

_Princess of Eboli_. I told him of my passion—and I found No answering love.

_Queen_. (_after a pause_) Oh now—is all unriddled! Stand up: you loved him—I forgive you all— All is forgotten now; arise! (_takes her by the arm_.)

_Princess of Eboli_. No—no! A horrible confession yet remains. Not yet, great queen!

After the disclosure which ensues, the queen, in silence, retires to her closet. She can forgive duplicity and malice towards herself, but her nature revolts from such infamy as is revealed to her. The Duchess of Olivarez enters from the closet, and demands from the prostrate princess her cross and key; she delivers them up, listens a few moments in vain for the queen's return, then despairing, rushes out.

In the presence of Elizabeth, the Marquis of Posa speaks in a tone of the greatest despondency, announcing the loss of the game in which he had staked his life. Yet he quiets her apprehensions on the prince's account; the cause demanded one victim, and he has devoted himself. With melancholy presentiment of his own approaching fate, he commits his friend to the queen, whom he beseeches to regard him with unalterable affection, that he may yet fulfil the high destiny reserved for him and be a benefactor to his people.

In the mean time the king's ante-room is crowded by the nobles of Spain, and the royal ministers, waiting to see the monarch, who has forbid all access to his person. Don Raimond von Taxis brings an intercepted letter to the Prince of Orange, that he must deliver to Philip without delay. He enters the royal cabinet; Alba and Domingo remain without in suspense, trembling for their own fate; the other courtiers busy themselves in conjectures respecting the strange conduct of the king—the imprisonment of his son, and the ominous aspect of affairs. Count Lerma comes into the ante-chamber, apparently shocked, and summons Alba to the presence. The princess of Eboli hastily enters from without and is rushing to the king, but is held back by Domingo; at length Alba returns and announces their complete triumph.

The explanation of these events is reserved for the last act, which discovers Carlos in a dungeon, into which the Marquis enters. Though the unfortunate youth can no longer doubt the perfidy of his friend, he does not dream of reproaching him for an act he is convinced sprang from necessity, but only regrets that the queen should have been involved in his destruction. Convinced that both are victims deliberately sacrificed, his surprise is extreme when Posa gives him again the queen's letter that he had committed to his safe keeping, and had imagined in the hands of Philip. An eclaircissement ensues; in the midst of which Duke Alba enters to announce his freedom, and apologize on the part of the king for the mistake that led to his imprisonment. The prince refuses to take back his sword, or leave the dungeon till his father comes in person to restore him to liberty. Alba departs with this message to the king, and the Marquis, exulting in the success of his scheme, explains fully all his past conduct. He has seemed to be the prince's enemy only that he may serve him better. When deceived by Count Lerma's officious representations, Carlos had thrown himself at the feet of the princess of Eboli, and Posa had arrived too late to prevent a confession, which in the hands of that envious woman might ruin all, the Marquis had suddenly resolved upon a bold manœuvre. This was no less than to divert the king's suspicions to himself, and thereby secure time for the prince's escape to Brabant. For this purpose he wrote the letter to the Prince of Orange, stating that he (the Marquis) was in love with the queen; that he sought to fix the sovereign's suspicion upon his son, who was not only innocent of the offence, but had endeavored, through the princess of Eboli, to warn his mother-in-law against the arts of Posa. This letter, as the writer intended, was intercepted by Taxis, and carried to the king; and, in consequence, the prince was restored to favor. The Marquis implores the prince to escape into Flanders, where his duty lies; Carlos refuses to leave him; at the same instant a shot is heard through the prison door, and the gallant Posa falls and expires. The king and nobles enter; Philip offers to embrace his son, who repels him indignantly, and discloses the fact that Posa was his friend.

Here your approach is death—I'll not embrace you. (_to nobles_) Why stand ye thus embarrassed round? What deed Of horror have I done? Have I assailed The Lord's anointed? Fear ye nought. I lay No hand on him. Behold ye not the brand Upon his brow? Him God hath marked!

None of the reproaches of Carlos are so bitter to his father, as his taunting allusions to the fraud practised upon the king by the deceased.

Your favor you bestowed On him—he died for me. Your confidence, Your friendship you did urge—nay, force upon him; Your sceptre was the play-thing of his hands; He cast it forth, and died for me! And was It possible? Could you give credit—you— To such a dull deceit? How slightly he Must have esteemed you, that he ever dreamed With this poor mockery to overreach you!

* * * * *

He was no man for you! He knew it Himself right well—as he, with all your crowns, Rejected you. This holy heart was crushed Beneath your iron hand. You could do nought But murder him! * * Even you he could have made Most fortunate! His heart was rich enough In its o'erflow to have contented you. A fragment of his spirit would have made you A God! * * O you, who stand assembled here {712} With wonder and with terror mute, condemn not The youth who dared reproachful words to utter Against his father and his king. Lo, here! For me he died! Have you yet tears? Flows blood, Not molten brass, within your veins? Look here— Condemn me not! (_To the King_.) And you, perhaps, await The close of this unnatural history. Here is my sword: you are my king again. Think you I tremble at your sovereign vengeance? Slay me, as you have slain the best and noblest. My life is forfeited. I know it well. What now is life to me? All I renounce That in this world awaits me. Seek henceforth 'Mong strangers for your son. Here lies my kingdom!

A tumult is heard without, and an officer of the guard enters in haste.

_Officer_. Rebellion! Where is the king?—All Madrid is in arms! In countless crowds the raging populace Surround the palace. They exclaim—the prince Is in arrest, his life in mortal peril. The people will behold him living, safe, Or Madrid will be soon in flames!

_Nobles_ Save—save The king!

_Alba_. Fly, sire—there's danger—hasten hence; We know not yet who arms the populace.

_King_. (_waking from a stupor_.) Stands my throne firm? Am I yet sovereign here? I am no longer king——These cowards weep, Made tender by a boy. They only wait The signal, from my side to fall away. I am betrayed by rebels.

_Alba_. Sire—my king! What dreadful fantasy——

_King_. Lo! yonder—haste, Prostrate yourselves! Before a promising And youthful king kneel down! I now am nothing But an old powerless man!

_Alba_. Is't come to this? Spaniards!

_King_. Go—clothe him in the royal robes! Lead him o'er my crushed corpse!

The attendants bear off his majesty, and Carlos, left alone, is joined by Merkado, physician to the Queen, who brings her request for an interview, that she may communicate to him his deceased friend's last charge. The prince is to be in the vault at midnight, in the habit of a monk, that he may be taken for the ghost of the dead emperor by the superstitious guards.

The Dukes of Feria and Alba meet in the king's ante-chamber waiting for an audience. Alba has a new discovery to make; a monk has been arrested, who had found private access to the prince's apartment. In the fear of death, he produced a paper, consigned to his care by the Marquis of Posa, and addressed to Carlos, appointing his proposed interview with the Queen at midnight, his subsequent departure from Madrid for the Netherlands, and his rebellion, at the head of those provinces, against the Spanish yoke. Philip enters, but evidently in no condition to hear the communication of his ministers. His passionate grief for the death of Posa, and his lamentations, strikingly display the pride which is the ruling passion of his nature.

_King_. Give the dead back to me; I must possess him Again.

_Domingo_. (_to Alba_.) Speak you to him.

_King_. He thought so poorly Of me, and died i' the error. I must have him Again; he must think otherwise of me!

_Alba_. Sire——

_King_. Who speaks here? have you forgotten whom You stand before? Why kneel you not—bold man? I am your king, and I will have submission. Must all neglect, because there's one has dared Despise me?

_Alba_. O, no more of him, my lord! Another foe, important as he was, Is in your kingdom's heart!

_Feria_. Prince Carlos——

_King_. He had a friend, who has met death for him; For him—with me he had a kingdom shared! How looked he down on me! So haughtily None look down from a throne.

* * * * *

The dead is here no more. Who dares to say That I am happy? In the grave dwells one Who did withhold esteem from me! What worth Are all the living to me? One high spirit, One freeborn man, lived in this century; One—he despised me—and died!

_Alba_. So we Have lived in vain! Let us, too, Spaniards, go Down to the grave! Even in death, this man Of the king's heart doth rob us!

The reflections of Philip show that he also discerned the lofty character of the deceased:

To whom brought he This offering?—to the boy my son? No—never! I'll ne'er believe it. For a boy dies not A Posa. Friendship's sordid flame fills not A Posa's heart. It stretched itself to embrace Humanity. * * * Not Philip he disdained for Carlos—but The old man to the youth, his hopeful scholar. The father's setting sun could not enlighten His new day's work. The task he but deferred For the son's rising light!

_Act V, Scene 9_.

An officer enters with the intelligence of the ghost seen in the vault. The king having at length been made to comprehend the new danger, sends for the Grand Inquisitor, and orders the entrances to the vault to be stopped. The ensuing interview of Philip with the aged dignitary, and the humility with which the haughty sovereign receives the rebuke of the church, shows the superstition often attendant upon cruelty. The king informs him of his designs respecting his son, and asks,

Canst thou a new belief establish, That shall excuse us a son's bloody death?

_Grand Inquisitor_. To appease eternal righteousness, expired The Son of God upon the cross.

_King_. Thou wilt Throughout all Europe this opinion spread?

_Gr. Inq._ Far as the Cross is honored.

_King_. I do violence {713} To nature; her all-powerful voice wilt thou To silence also bring?

_Gr. Inq._ Before Belief Avails no voice of nature.

_King_. I resign My office as his judge into thy hands. May I do this?

_Gr. Inq._ Give him to me.

The cold and brief manner in which this arrangement is concluded is appalling. The plot hastens to its catastrophe. In a remote apartment the queen's last meeting with the doomed prince takes place. Our last extract shall be a part of the final scene.

_Carlos_. (_sinking on one knee before her_.) Elizabeth!

_Queen_. And thus we meet again!

_Carlos_. And thus we meet again!

_Queen_. Arise; we will not, Carlos, grow weak. Not with unworthy tears Must the great dead be honored. Tears may flow For smaller ills! He offered up himself For you! * * * O, Carlos, I spoke for you. On my security He left this place in joy. Will you my words Make false?

_Carlos_. A monument I'll build to him— No king had e'er the like. Above his dust Shall bloom a paradise.

_Queen_. So have I wished! That was the mighty meaning of his death! He chose me his last will to execute; I claim the debt of you. I hold you bound To the fulfilment of this oath!

Carlos has awakened from his former madness; devoted only to the accomplishment of his friend's dying request, he disclaims the entertainment of any other feelings for the queen than an affection founded on the circumstance that she was the confidant and friend of the Marquis. At this juncture the King, Grand Inquisitor, and Nobles appear in the back-ground, unperceived by the Prince or Elizabeth.

_Carlos_. Now I depart from Spain, And see my father in this life no more; I cannot love him—nature in my breast Is now extinct—be you again his wife; His son is lost to him. Return to duty. I go to rescue my oppressed people From tyrant hands. Madrid sees me as king, Or never more. Now for our last farewell! * * * Did you hear nought?

_Queen_. No, nothing—save the clock That sounds our separation.

_Carlos_. Then good night, Mother; from Ghent you will receive the letter Which shall the secret of this interview Make public. I depart—henceforth with Philip To walk an open path. Henceforth between us There's nothing secret. You shall never need To shun the world's eyes. This is my last deceit. (_Attempts to put on his mask—the king steps between them_.)

_King_. It is your last! (_Queen falls senseless_.)

_Carlos_. (_catches her in his arms_.) Is she dead? Oh, heaven and earth!

_King_. Cardinal! I have done My part—do yours!

We have occupied so much space in the details of this long and intricate play, that we are compelled to curtail our remarks, and as much as possible. Schiller has undoubtedly rendered his tragedy the more interesting, from the glowing picture he presents of the manners of the times. In the character of the Queen we think he has succeeded better than Alfieri; in that of Philip, not so well. Schiller's Philip is a tyrant; but the tyrant in Alfieri is painted in colors infinitely stronger. Perhaps we are shown too uniformly the darker side of the picture, but it is in all respects a powerful one. It was a bold and fine thought in the Italian poet, to represent the monarch of Spain as keeping himself aloof from all confidence or support from others, and shrouding his designs ever in the inscrutable veil of hypocrisy. Even in the presence of Gomez, his tried counsellor and servant, Filippo maintains the same guarded and haughty reserve. His commands are brief and laconic to a studied degree, and his follower in cruelty rather divines his meaning, from his long habits of sharing in the schemes of his master, than gathers the full import of the words uttered, from the king's language. On no occasion does the king express openly what we might suppose his feelings; it is only by his actions, and by penetrating through his habitual deceit, that we are able to judge of his plans. In the council scene, his hypocrisy deceives all his courtiers; and in the catastrophe, the half-spoken expression of rising remorse is checked on the instant, while he imposes silence, under the penalty of death, on his accomplice in crime. This character is one which it well suited the austere genius of Alfieri to depict; one touch of relenting, or of a communicative spirit towards his servant, and the whole had been marred. He walks with unfaltering step towards the goal of his intent, wrapped in cold and impenetrable reserve. Far different is the King that Schiller has painted. He is comparatively open-hearted; and exhibits a confidence and candor towards the Marquis of Posa, a being whose nature could never accord with his, that seems to us quite misplaced in the character of a tyrant like Philip. His jealousy is also that of pride, and pride is his master passion; but the author has not done well to make him indulge in such lengthened soliloquies. The Queen is a beautiful creation; ingenuousness, dignity, and tenderness are finely displayed in her lovely character. In aristocratic and feminine reserve, she is much superior to Isabella in Alfieri, whose passion and devotedness are more undisguised than is becoming to her sex and station. We do not admire the readiness with which she discloses her still lingering preference for Carlos; and her hesitation and embarrassment in presence of the King, are unfavorably contrasted with the boldness, founded on the consciousness of innocence, in Schiller's Elizabeth. Alfieri has but sketched his other personages; Gomez is a reflection of his master, and Perez appears but once to any purpose. The minor persons in the German drama are, on the other hand, highly interesting. The princess of Eboli is natural; her jealous attachment to the prince urging her into a conspiracy which ends in his destruction, her subsequent remorse and confession of guilt, and vain efforts to save him, are all natural and dramatic. The character of the Marquis of Posa might itself form the subject of an essay. A citizen of the world, and devoted to the {714} accomplishment of his Utopian schemes of government, his friendship is secondary to this pervading and ruling desire. Hence his manner to Carlos on their first interview after his return to Spain. He has early accustomed himself to look upon his friend as the crown prince, and to anticipate the high destiny he is to fulfil. This idea gives constraint to his demeanor; and while Carlos opens his arms to welcome the friend of his bosom, the political dreamer and enthusiast kneels at his feet. It would have been the part of a true friend to discourage the unfortunate attachment between the prince and his mother-in-law, but it occurs to the Marquis that Flanders would have nothing to hope from Carlos, while he languished with hopeless love. Liberated from the thraldom of absorbing misery, he might be moulded to any thing his friend could desire; and with this view Posa himself undertakes to further his wishes. There is much that is noble in the character of the prince; with a tender and benevolent heart, enthusiasm for all that is great and good and beautiful, with delicacy and firmness of nature, and generosity amounting to a fault, his imprudence and want of foresight occasion all his misfortunes. The elements of future greatness are in his nature, but his fiery impatience of temperament prevent his obeying the dictates of an elevated judgment.

We have little to say upon the conduct of the plot and the style of these two plays. The last scenes in Schiller's tragedy are too long, and the catastrophe not striking; “Filippo” in this respect contrasts favorably with it; the closing scene, as in most of Alfieri's pieces, is brief, rapid and animated. We cannot admire the stratagem of the ghost's appearance in the German play. The style of two productions so different in character, the one adhering rigidly to the prescribed rules of the classic school, and the other admitting all the exuberant graces and dramatic effect belonging to another and more modern system, can hardly be compared. The diction of Alfieri is severe and harsh, and his extreme brevity might pass for affectation. That of the German dramatist is far more pleasing and poetical. The work of the latter is in almost every respect most to our taste, though Alfieri has decidedly the advantage in his delineation of Philip.

LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.

NO. V.

The following stanzas have never as yet been published. They are from the pen of a young friend of the transcriber, and written at his request. He now takes the same liberty with them as with others from divers sources hitherto, and inscribes them respectfully to the readers of the Messenger.

J. F. O.

* * * * *

TO A NAMELESS ONE.

Lady! we never met before Within the world's wide space,— And yet, the more I gaze, the more I recollect thy face. Each feature to my mind recalls An image of the past, Which, where the shade of Memory falls, Is sacred to the last.

But she, whose charms in thine I trace, Was not, alas! of earth: And yet of more than mortal grace, For Fancy gave her birth. She haunted me by sunlit streams, And burst upon my sight, When through the pleasant land of dreams, My spirit roved by night.

Lost idol! why didst thou depart? Oh let thine earnest eyes,— Abstraction—vision though thou art,— Once more my soul surprise. She comes,—a gay and laughing girl! (Whom, happy, does she seek?) And raven curls their links unfurl Adown her blushing cheek.

Her Grecian lineaments are bright With beauty half divine: She is “a phantom of delight,” Her dark eyes are—like thine! As music to a soul oppressed, As spring-flowers to the bee, As sunbeams to the Ocean's breast, Her presence is to me!

I clasp her to my heart once more,— I am again a boy,— The past shows nothing to deplore, The future is all joy! We wander through deserted halls, We climb the wooded height, We hear the roar of water-falls, And watch the eagle's flight.

We stand where sunset colors lie Upon a lake at rest,— And oh! what clouds of Tyrian dye Are sloping down the west! And see! above the purple pile The evening star appears, While she, who cheered me with her smiles, Now tries to hide her tears!

Enough! the spell is at an end,— The pageant floats away,— And I no more may idly bend At Mem'ry's shrine to day. I turn to thee, whose beauty first That shape of love renewed, And waked emotions, that were nursed Long since, in solitude.

I turn to thee, and start to see, Again that face and mien,— Those glassy ringlets, floating free, Those eyes of sparkling sheen! Two visions have waylaid my heart,— An old one and a new; And, Lady! by my faith, thou art The fairer of the two!

S.

{715}

_Editorial._

CRITICAL NOTICES.

THE SWISS HEIRESS.

_The Swiss Heiress; or The Bride of Destiny—A Tale. Baltimore: Joseph Robinson._

The Swiss Heiress should be read by all who have nothing better to do. We are patient, and having gone through the whole book with the most dogged determination, are now enabled to pronounce it one of the most solemn of farces. Let us see if it be not possible to give some idea of the plot. It is the year 1780, and “the attention of the reader is directed, first, to a Castle whose proud battlements rise amidst the pines and firs of the Swiss mountains, while, at its base, roll the waters of Lake Geneva,” and, second, to the sun which is setting somewhat more slowly than usual, because he is “unwilling to terminate the natal day of the young heiress of the Baron de Rheinswald, the wealthy proprietor of Montargis castle, and its beautiful environs.” We are thus left to infer—putting the two sentences and circumstances in apposition—that the Montargis Castle where dwells the young heiress of the Baron de Rheinswald, is neither more nor less than the identical castle “with the proud battlements” et cetera, that “rises amid the pines and firs” and so forth, of the “Swiss Mountains and the Lake of Geneva” and all that. However this may be, the Baron de Rheinswald is a “Catholic of high repute” who “early in life marries a lady of great wealth, a member of his own church, actuated by ambition”—that is to say, there was either something or somebody “actuated by ambition,” but we shall _not_ say whether it was a lady or a church. The lady (or perhaps now the church) “lived but five years after the union, and at her death earnestly and solemnly implored that her only son might be devoted to the priesthood.” The lady, or the church (let us reconcile the difficulty by calling the thing “Mother Church”) being thus deceased, the bereaved Baron marries a second wife. She being a protestant however, the high contracting parties sign an instrument by which it is agreed “that the eldest child shall be educated by the mother's direction, a protestant, the second be subject to the father's will and a catholic, and thus alternately with all their children.” This, it must be allowed is a contrivance well adapted for effect. Only think of the interesting little creatures all taking it “turn about!” What fights, too, they will have, when breeched, over their prayer-books and bread-and-butter! Our author pauses in horror at anticipated consequences, and takes this excellent opportunity of repeating what “a late writer” (a great friend of his by the bye) says in regard to “chemical combinations” and “opposite properties.”

The first child is a son, and called William. The second is a daughter, Miss Laura, our heroine, the “Swiss Heiress,” and the “Bride of Destiny.” She is the “Swiss Heiress” in virtue of a certain “dispensation from the church of Rome, by which the estates of the Baron were to descend to his first catholic child by his second marriage” and she becomes the “Bride of Destiny” because the Baron has very properly selected for her a husband, without consulting her Heiress-ship about the matter. This intended husband is one Count Laniski, young, good-looking, noble, valiant, wise, accomplished, generous, amiable, and possessed of a thousand other good qualities—all of which, of course, are just a thousand better reasons why the Bride of Destiny, being a heroine, will have nothing to do with him. Accordingly, at eight years old, she grows melancholy and interesting, patronizes the gipsies, curses the Count Laniski, talks about “fate, fore-knowledge, and free-will,” and throws aside her bread-and-butter for desperation and a guitar. In spite of all she can do, however, the narrative gets on very slowly, and we are upon the point of throwing the lady (banjo and all) into the street, when the Count himself makes his appearance at the Castle, and thereby frightens her to such a degree that, having delivered a soliloquy, she runs off with her “Brother William” to America.

“Brother William,” however, is luckily killed at the siege of Yorktown, and the “Bride of Destiny” herself is recaptured by her family, the whole of whom, having nothing better to do, have set out in pursuit of her—to wit—her half brother Albert, (who is now Baron de Rheinswald, the old Baron being dead) Clermont a croaking old monk, and Madam de Montelieu a croaking old somebody else. These good people, it seems, are still determined that the “Swiss Heiress” shall be the “Bride of Destiny”—that is to say, the bride of the Count Laniski. To make matters doubly sure too on this head, the old Baron has sworn a round oath on his death-bed, leaving the “Swiss Heiress” his “eternal curse” in the event of her disobedience.

Having caught and properly secured the young lady, the new Baron de Rheinswald takes up his residence for a time “on the borders of Vermont and Canada.” Some years elapse, and so forth. The “Bride of Destiny” is nearly one and twenty; and the Count Laniski makes his appearance with a view of urging his claim. The Heiress, we are forced to say, now behaves in a very unbecoming and unaccountable manner. She should have hung herself as the only rational course, and—heigho!—it would have saved us a world of trouble. But, not having forgotten her old bad habits, she persists in talking about “fate, foreknowledge, and free will,” and it is not therefore to be wondered at that matters in general assume a truly distressing complexion. Just at this crisis, however, a Mr. Frederick Mortimer makes his interesting debût. Never certainly was a more accomplished young man! As becomes a gentleman with such an appellation as Frederick Mortimer, he is more beautiful than Apollo, more sentimental than De Lisle, more distingué than Pelham, and, positively, more mysterious than the “mysterious lady.” He sympathizes with the woes of the “Bride of Destiny,” looks unutterable threats at the Count Laniski, beats even the “Swiss Heiress” at discoursing of “free will,” and the author of the “Swiss Heiress” at quoting paragraphs from a “late writer.” The heart of the “Bride of Destiny” is touched—sensibly touched. But Love, in romance, must have impediments, and the Loves of the “Bride of Destiny” and Mr. Frederick Mortimer have two. The first is some inexpressible mystery connected with a certain gold ring, of which the Heiress is especially careful, and the second is that rascally old Baron {716} Rheinswald's “eternal curse.” Nothing farther therefore can be done in the premises, but as we have now only reached Chapter the Sixth, and there are to be seventeen chapters in all, it is necessary to do something—and what better can be done than to talk, until Chapter the Fifteenth, about “fate, foreknowledge, and free will?” Only imagine a string of delightful sentences, such as the following, for the short space of three hundred and ninety-six pages!

“How rapidly time flies,” said the Count, “I have been here weeks, and they seem but days.”

“I am not surprised, my lord,” said Mrs. Falkner, smiling.

“Nor I,” he returned, also smiling. “This place, such society, wraps the senses in such blissful illusion that I ‘take no note of time.’ The clock strikes unheeded, unheard.”

“Why do you smile, Miss Montargis?” asked Mrs. Falkner.

“I was just thinking,” she replied, “that Count Laniski had unconsciously given a ‘local habitation and a name’ to the fabled region where cold is so intense as to congeal sound.”

Mrs. Falkner bowed, but could not comprehend what such a region had to do with Count Laniski's compliment to the heiress.

“Take care, Mr. Mortimer,” said Miss Montargis, still smiling, “you are in dangerous vicinity. Have you no fear of cold?”

“It is not sufficiently _positive_,” he replied, “to destroy my belief that it exists with much _latent_ warmth, which it requires but a little address to render quite _sensible_.”

Mortimer spoke with mingled playfulness and seriousness, but the latter prevailed, and Miss Montargis felt it a reproof, and blushed, she scarcely knew why.

“To be sensible,” she said, “it must affect others. Who ever felt its influence? not _she_ at least who has painfully realized its _negativeness_.”

“I am sure you speak mysteries to me,” said Mrs. Falkner, laughing, “what can you mean?” &c. &c.

We would proceed, but are positively out of patience with the gross stupidity of Mrs. Falkner, who cannot understand what the other ladies and gentlemen are talking about. Now we have no doubt whatever they are discoursing of “fate, foreknowledge, and free will.”

About chapter the fifteenth it appears that the Count Laniski is not the Count Laniski at all, but only Mr. Theodore Montelieu, and the son of that old rigmarole, Madam Montelieu, the housekeeper. It now appears, also, that even that Count Laniski whose appearance at Montargis Castle had such effect upon the nerves of our heroine, was not the Count Laniski at all, but only the same Mr. Theodore Montelieu, the same son of the same old rigmarole. The true Count, it seems, in his younger days, had as little partiality for the match ordained him by fate and the two fathers, as the very “Bride of Destiny” herself, and, being at college with Mr. Theodore Montelieu at the time appointed for his visit to Montargis Castle, had no scruple in allowing the latter gentleman to personate his Countship in the visit. By these means Mr. M. has an opportunity of seeing his mother, the old rigmarole, who is housekeeper, or something of that kind, at the Castle. The precious couple (that is to say the old rigmarole and her son) now get up a plot, by which it is determined that the son shall personate the Count to the end of the chapter, and so marry the heiress. It is with this end in view, that Mr. Theodore Montelieu is now playing Count at the residence of the Baron in Vermont. Mr. Frederick Mortimer, however, is sadly in his way, and torments the poor fellow grievously, by grinning at him, and sighing at him, and folding his arms at him, and looking at him asquint, and talking him to death about “fate and foreknowledge and free will.” At last Mr. Mortimer tells the gentleman flatly that he knows very well who he is, leaving it to be inferred that he also knows very well who he is not. Hereupon Mr. Theodore Montelieu calls Mr. Frederick Mortimer a liar, a big liar, or something to that effect, and challenges him to a fight, with a view of either blowing out his already small modicum of brains, or having the exceedingly few blown out, which he himself (Mr. Theodore Montelieu) possesses. Mr. Mortimer, however, being a hero, declines fighting, and contents himself, for the present, with looking mysterious.

It will now be seen that matters are coming to a crisis. Mr. Mortimer is obliged to go to Philadelphia; but, lest Mr. Montelieu should whisk off the heiress in his absence, he insists upon that gentleman bearing him company. Having reached, however, the city of brotherly love, the ingenious young man gives his keeper the slip, hurries back to Vermont, and gets every thing ready for his wedding. Miss Montargis is very angry and talks about the inexplicable ring, fate, fore-knowledge and free will—but old Clermont, the Baron, and Mr. Montelieu, on the other hand, get in an absolute passion and talk about nothing less than the old Baron Rheinswald and his “eternal curse.” The ceremony therefore proceeds, when just at the most proper moment, and all as it should be, in rushes—Mr. Frederick Mortimer!—it will be seen that he has come back from Philadelphia. He assures the company that the Count Laniski, (that is to say Mr. Theodore Montelieu,) is not the Count Laniski at all, but only Mr. Theodore Montelieu; and moreover, that he himself (Mr. Frederick Mortimer) is not only Mr. Frederick Mortimer, but the bonâ fide Count Laniski into the bargain. And more than this, it is very clearly explained how Miss Laura Montargis is not by any means Miss Laura Montargis, but only the Baroness de Thionville, and how the Baroness de Thionville is the wife of the Baron de Thionville, and how, after all, the Baron de Thionville is the Count Laniski, or else Mr. Frederick Mortimer, or else—that is to say—how Mr. Frederick Mortimer is'nt altogether the Count Laniski, but—but only the Baron de Thionville, or else the Baroness de Thionville—in short, how every body concerned in the business is not precisely what he is, and is precisely what he is not. After this horrible development, if we recollect, all the dramatis personæ faint outright, one after the other. The inquisitive reader may be assured, however, that the whole story ends judiciously, and just as it ought to do, and with a very excellent quotation from one of the very best of the “late writers.”

Humph! and this is the “Swiss Heiress,” to say nothing of the “Bride of Destiny.” However—it is a valuable “work”—and now, in the name of “fate, fore-knowledge and free will,” we solemnly consign it to the fire.

ROSZEL'S ADDRESS.

_Address delivered at the Annual Commencement of Dickinson College, July 21, 1836, by S. A. Roszel, A.M. Principal of the Grammar School. Published by Request of the Board of Trustees. Baltimore: John W. Woods._

Mr. Roszel, we have good reason for knowing, is a scholar, of classical knowledge more extensive, and far more accurate than usual. In his very elegant Address on Education now before us, he has confined {717} himself to the consideration of “tutorial instruction as embraced under the divisions of the subjects to be taught, and the manner of teaching them.” Of the first branch of his theme, the greater portion is occupied in a defence of the learned tongues from the encroachments of a misconceived utilitarianism, and in urging their suitableness as a study for the young. Here, Mr. R. is not only forcible, but has contrived to be in a great measure, original. We are especially pleased to see that, in giving due weight to the ordinary ethical and merely worldly considerations on this topic, he has most wisely dwelt at greater length on the loftier prospective benefits, and true spiritual uses of classical attainment. We cite from this portion of the address a passage of great fervor and beauty.

But are there not translations? If there were, a perusal of them would be profitless, for it is to be borne in mind, that the tenor of the preceding remarks has been uniformly to demonstrate the advantages, not only of a perusal, but of the study of the dead languages. And so this question is destitute of pertinence. But there never was a translation of an ancient author. Versions there are, a majority of them dull and spiritless, lifeless and jejune, but they are not translations. And so are there odorless roses, and there might be beamless suns. As in religion we aspire to drink from the fountain head so let it be in literature. Let us be imbued with its spiritual influences; for no one that has pondered them well can remain unimpressed by the magnificent divulgement of quenchless, illimitable intellect, by the resplendency of thought which bursts forth and glows with a steady fervor, in the pages of the blind bard of Greece, and the keen-sighted orator of Rome, with a vigor and intensity so powerful, that the typographical characters themselves seem to stand out, vivid and lustrous, like sentient gems, myriads of sparkling emanations, burning and lucent, flashing a sentiment in every word, an axiom in every line, a corollary in every paragraph. There is an inborn inexpressible satisfaction to the mind well attuned, in being able to appreciate the beauty and the strength, the essence and vitality of those inimitable and indestructible periods of the Athenian orator which called the ruddy blush of shame to the pallid cheek of the coward, stirred the elements of enthusiastic honor to tempestuous agitation, and excited the irrepressible shout, To battle! there is a chaste delight in perusing the cutting satire, the splendid objurgations, and the brilliant invectives of that eloquence, which startled the world's victor from his unsteady throne, and speaking in the bold terms of unquailing freedom, compelled the submission of arms to the toga. But there is a still deeper, more serene and holy rapture, in meditating on the accents of the Redeemer in the very dialect in which they fell from his sacred lips; in meditating with an awe ineffable, on the presumptuous sentence of an earth-born worm, which consigned to a death of ignominy and shame, the august God of the universe.

In Mr. R's remarks “on the manner of teaching”—on the duties of a teacher—there is much to command our admiration and respect—a clear conception of the nature and extent of tutorial duties, and a stern sense of the elevated moral standing of the tutor.

We see, or we fancy we see, in the wording of this Address, another instance of that tendency to _Johnsonism_ which is the Scylla on the one hand, while a jejune style is the Charybdis on the other, of the philological scholar. In the present case we refer not to _sesquipedalia verba_, of which there are few, but to the too frequent use of primitive meanings, and the origination of words at will, to suit the purposes of the moment. But to these sins (for the world will have them such) a fellow-feeling has taught us to be lenient—and, indeed, while some few of Mr. Roszel's inventions are certainly not English, there are still but _very_ few of them “_qui ne le doivent pas etre_.”

WRAXALL'S MEMOIRS.

_Posthumous Memoirs of his Own Time. By Sir N. W. Wraxall, Bart. author of “Memoirs of My Own Time.” Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea & Blanchard._

The “Memoirs of My Own Time” were published in 1815. They excited the greatest commotion, and if we are to believe the Baronet, no literary work ever procured for its author “a more numerous list of powerful and inveterate enemies.” The queen, the regent, and the princesses of the royal family disliked the portrait drawn of George the Third, which every reasonable person will allow to be by no means a caricature. They disapproved too, of the somewhat free comments on the peace of 1763, and were highly incensed at certain _personal_ disclosures in regard to the king. The first Lord of the Treasury, son of Charles Jenkinson, was offended at the “just and impartial” character given his father. The partisans, respectively, of Pitt and Fox, arose in arms at what they considered the gross abuse of their leaders. The relatives of Lord North were enraged at the account of his junction with Fox in 1783, notwithstanding the Baronet himself considers that “he had done justice to that most accomplished and amiable nobleman.” But this was not all. The Earl of Bute would not be appeased. The Marquis of Lansdowne spoke of a prosecution in the court of King's Bench on account of the reflections (unavoidable, we are told) made on the resignation of the Earl of Shelburne. The “Quarterly Review” in an article written, we are assured, by “men” in official situations, held the “Memoirs” up to general reprobation as an “imbecile and immoral work,” while the “Edinburg” joined in the hue and cry with still greater virulence, and even more disgusting personal abuse. Lastly, and much more than all to the purpose, Count Woronzow, in consequence of the mention made of him by the Baronet, in his relation of the circumstances connected with the marriage of the Princess Royal to the late Duke of Wirtemberg, instituted a prosecution, in order to vindicate his own official diplomatic conduct. Garrow, then Attorney-General, was retained for the prosecution, and it is to be observed that, passing over in few words the particular passage for which the suit was commenced, he dwelt with the greatest severity against the “Memoirs” at large. The disposition of the government towards the defendant may, however, be fully estimated by the fact, that although the court repeatedly disclaimed having authorized the Attorney-General to call for a _vindictive_ judgment, declaring his sole object to be the clearing up of his own character; and although the Baronet, for an offence which he declared to be unintentional, made at once the most ample, prompt and public apology, still the vindictive judgment of six months imprisonment, and a fine of five hundred pounds, was ordered into execution, a part of the imprisonment actually carried into effect, and the fine remitted only through the most energetic and persevering exertions of Woronzow himself. “Such,” says the author of the Memoirs, “was the combination of assailants which my inflexible regard to truth assembled from the most opposite quarters.” These clamors and difficulties, however, he considered as more than sufficiently counterbalanced by the testimony, now first communicated to the world, of the late Sir George Osborn—a testimony indeed which should {718} be considered of authority. This gentleman, a near relative of Lord North's, was of ancient descent, high character, and large property; and from 1775, until the king's final loss of reason, was one of the grooms of his bed-chamber. In a letter to the Baronet shortly after his commitment to the King's Bench, he thus writes: “I have your first here, and have perused it again with much attention. I pledge my name that I personally know nine parts out of ten of your anecdotes to be perfectly correct. You are imprisoned for giving to future ages a perfect picture of our time, and as interesting as Clarendon.” For ourselves, we had as soon depend upon the character here given of the “Memoirs” as upon that more highly colored portrait of them painted by the Attorney-General.

Thus persecuted, the Baronet took a lesson from experience, and declined to publish the work now before us during his life-time. He adopted also the necessary measures to guard against its issue during the life-time of George the Fourth. In so doing, he has, of course, secured his own personal convenience, but the delay has deprived his reminiscences of that cotemporary interest which is the chief seasoning of all similar works. Still the Baronet's pages will excite no ordinary attention, and will be read with unusual profit and pleasure. The book may be regarded as a series of parliamentary sketches, in which are introduced, at random, a thousand other subjects either connected or unconnected with the debates—such as historical notices of the measures introduced,—personal anecdotes and delineations of the speakers—political facts and inferences—attempts at explaining the hidden motives of ministers or their agents—rumors of the day—and remarks upon public events or characters abroad. The Baronet is sadly given to scandal, and is peculiarly _piquant_ in the indulgence of his propensity. At the same time there should be no doubt (for there assuredly is no reason for doubting) that he is fully in earnest in every word he says, and implicitly relies in the truth of his own narrative. The lighter portions of his book, therefore, have all the merit of vraisemblance, as well as of _haut gout_. His style is occasionally very minute and prosy—but not when he has a subject to his fancy. He is then a brilliant and vivid writer, as he is at all times a sagacious one. He has a happy manner, when warmed with an important idea, of presenting only its characteristic features to the view—leaving in a proper shadow points of minor effect. The reader is thus frequently astonished at finding himself fully possessed of a subject about which very little has been said.

Among the chief characters that figure in the “Memoirs,” and concerning each of whom the Baronet has a world of pithy anecdote, we note Pitt, Burke, Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, Louis the Sixteenth, George the Third, the Queen and royal family, Sir James Lowther, Lord Chesterfield, the late Marquis of Abercorn (John James Hamilton,) Lady Payne (Mademoiselle de Kelbel,) Lord North, Sir Philip Francis the reputed author of Junius, Sir William Draper the defeated antagonist of that writer, George Rose, (the indefatigable and faithful factotum of Pitt,) the Duke of Queensbury, Harry Dundas, Hastings with his agent Major Scott, Lord Eldon, Grey, Sidmouth, Thurlow, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord Liverpool, Marie Antoinette, the Duchess of Devonshire, the Duchess of Gordon, and (we should not have forgotten him) the late dirty Duke of Norfolk, then Earl of Surrey. Of this illustrious personage a laughable account is given. On one occasion—at a great whig dinner at the Crown and Anchor, (in February 1798, while all England was threatened with revolution, and when Ireland was on the brink of open rebellion,) his Grace, inspired as usual with wine, was fool enough to drink “The sovereign majesty of the people.” “Assuredly,” says the Baronet drolly enough, “it was not in the ‘Bill of Rights,’ nor in the principles on which reposes the revolution of 1688, that the Duke could discover any mention of such an attribute of the people. Their liberties and franchises are there enumerated; but their _majesty_ was neither recognized or imagined by those persons who were foremost in expelling James the Second.” His Grace accompanied the toast with some pithy observations relating to “the two thousand persons who, under General Washington, first procured reform and liberty for the thirteen American colonies.” Of course it is not very singular that his remarks were considered as savoring of sedition. Growing sober, next morning, he became apprehensive of having proceeded too far. Accordingly, a day or two afterwards, hearing that his words had excited much wrath at St. James's, he waited on the Duke of York with an excuse and an apology, concluding with a request that, in the event of invasion, his regiment of militia might be assigned the post of danger. His Royal Highness listened to him with much attention, and assured him that his desire should be made known to the king—breaking off the conversation abruptly, however, with “Apropos, my lord, have you seen Blue-Beard?” (the popular pantomime of the day.) In _two days_ after this interview the “dirty Duke” received his dismission both from the lord-lieutenancy and from his regiment.

There are several connected narrations of some length and great interest in the volume before us. One of these concerns the noted Westminster election, when the charms and address of the Duchess of Devonshire aided Fox so largely in defeating the governmental influence—another the accusations of Hastings and Impey—another the debates on the Regency Bill. The “Diamond Necklace” affair, in which Madame de la Motte performed so important a part, is related clearly and pointedly, but with some little diffuseness. We abridge the Baronet's account of this extraordinary matter.

Prince Louis de Rohan, second brother of the Duke de Montbazon, was fifty-one years of age at the epoch in question. He was a prelate of elegant manners, of restless ambition, and of talents, although ill-regulated. It appears that he was credulous and easily duped by the designing. Previous to his attainment of the episcopal dignity, and while only coadjutor of Strasburg, he had been employed in diplomacy, and acted, during a considerable time, as Ambassador from the Court of France at Vienna, in the reign of Maria Theresa. Returning home, he attempted to reach the ministerial situation left vacant by Maurepas. But Louis the Sixteenth had imbibed strong prejudices against him, and the queen held him in still greater aversion. Yet he was resolutely bent upon acquiring her favor, and indeed entertained, it seems, the hope of rendering himself personally acceptable to her. At this time she {719} was very beautiful, loved admiration, was accessible to flattery, and not yet thirteen years of age.

Among the numerous individuals who then frequented Versailles with the view of advancing their fortune, was Mademoiselle de la Valois. She became an object of royal notice, through the accidental discovery of her descent from Henry the Second, by one of his mistresses, St. Renny, a Piedmontese lady of noble birth. A small pension was bestowed on her, and she soon afterwards married a gentleman of the name of La Motte, one of the Count de Provence's body guards. His duties retaining him at Versailles near the person of the Count, Madame de la Motte became well known to the Cardinal de Rohan, whose character she appears to have studied with great attention. She herself was totally devoid of moral principle, and her habits of expense induced her to resort to the most desperate expedients for recruiting her finances. About this time, one Boehmer, a German jeweller well known at the court of France, had in possession a most costly diamond necklace, valued at near seventy thousand pounds sterling, and obtained permission to exhibit it to her majesty. The queen, however, declined buying it. Madame de la Motte receiving information of the fact, resolved to fabricate a letter from the queen to herself, authorizing her to make the purchase. In this letter Marie Antoinette was made to express a determination of taking the necklace at a certain indicated price—under the positive reserve, however, that the matter should remain a profound secret, and that Boehmer would agree to receive his payment by instalments, in notes under her own hand, drawn on her treasurer at stipulated periods.

Furnished with this authority, Madame de la Motte repaired to the Cardinal de Rohan. Submitting to him, as if in confidence, the queen's pretended letter, she dwelt on the excellent opportunity which then presented itself to him, of acquiring her majesty's favor. She urged him to see Boehmer, and to assure him of the queen's desire—the proof of which lay before him. The Cardinal, however credulous, refused to embark in the affair, without receiving from Marie's own mouth the requisite authority. Madame de la Motte had foreseen this impediment and already provided against it. There lived at that time in Paris an actress, one Mademoiselle D'Oliva, who in her figure bore great resemblance to the queen. This lady they bribed to personate her majesty—asserting that a frolic only was intended.

Matters being thus arranged, Madame de la Motte acquainted the Cardinal that Marie Antoinette felt the propriety of his eminence's scruples, and with a view of removing them, and at the same time of testifying her sense of his services, had resolved to grant him an interview in the gardens of Versailles—but that certain precautions must be adopted lest the transaction should come to the knowledge of the king. With this end the Cardinal was told her majesty had fixed upon a retired and shady spot, to which she could repair muffled up in such a manner as to elude notice. “The interview,” Madame de la Motte added, “must be very short, and the queen resolutely refuses to speak a single word lest she may be overheard.” Instead of verbally authorizing De Rohan to pledge her authority to Boehmer, it was therefore settled that she hold in her hand a flower, which, on the Cardinal's approaching her, she would immediately extend to him as a mark of her approval.

This blundering plot, we are told, succeeded. Mademoiselle D'Oliva personated the queen à merveille, and the Cardinal, blinded by love and ambition, was thoroughly duped. Convinced that he had now received an unquestionable assurance of Marie Antoinette's approbation, he no longer hesitated to pledge himself to Boehmer. A deduction of above eight thousand pounds on the price demanded, having been procured from him, promissory notes for the remainder, exceeding sixty thousand pounds, drawn and signed in the queen's name, payable at various periods by her treasurer, were delivered to the jeweller by Madame de la Motte. She then received from him the necklace. Her husband having obtained leave of absence, under the pretence of visiting the place of his nativity, carried off the diamonds, and, arriving safe in London, disposed of some of the finest stones among the dealers of that city. Madame de la Motte herself, we cannot exactly understand why, remained at Paris. The Cardinal, also, continued in unsuspecting security at court. But the day arriving when her majesty's first promissory note became due, the fraud was of course discovered. As soon as the part which de Rohan had performed in it was fully ascertained, the whole matter was laid by her majesty before the king. Louis, after consulting with some of his ministers, finally determined upon the Cardinal's arrest. “Such an event,” says our author, “taking place in the person of a member of the Sacred College, an ecclesiastic of the highest birth and greatest connections, related through the kings of Navarre to the sovereign himself, and grand almoner of France, might well excite universal amazement. Since the arrest of Foucquet, superintendant of the finances, by Louis the Fourteenth, in 1661, no similar act of royal authority had been performed: for we cannot justly compare with it the seizure and imprisonment of the Duke of Maine in 1718, by order of the Regent Duke of Orleans. The Cardinal de Rohan's crime was private and personal, wholly unconnected with the state, though affecting the person and character of the queen. He was conducted to the Bastile, invariably maintaining that he had acted throughout the whole business with the purest intentions; always conceiving that he was authorized by her majesty, and was doing her a pleasure. Madame de la Motte, Mademoiselle D'Oliva, and some other suspected individuals were also conveyed to the same fortress. Notwithstanding the queen's evident innocence in this singular robbery, a numerous class of Parisians either believed or affected to believe her implicated in the guilt of the whole transaction.”

This account is followed up by the relation of a private and personal adventure of the Baronet, of the most romantic and altogether extraordinary character. He gives the detailed narrative of a plot, in which he acted a conspicuous part as secret agent, for the restoration of the imprisoned queen Caroline Matilda of Denmark, and to which George the Third had given his approbation and promised his assistance. Had this revolution been carried into effect it would have brought about the most important changes in the political aspect of the north of Europe. The sudden death of the queen put an end to the attempt, however, just when all preparations were completed, and success was beyond a reasonable doubt. In the spring of 1784, a similar {720} exertion placed the young prince royal, then only sixteen years of age, in possession of the Regency, which his mother's death alone prevented her from attaining in 1775. After the queen's decease, some of her most active friends interested themselves with George the Third to procure the Baronet a proper remuneration for his services. For nearly six years, however, the attempt was unsuccessful. The final result is thus related by the author himself.

In 1780 I came into Parliament; and some months afterwards as I was seated nearly behind Lord North in the House of Commons, only a few members being present, and no important business in agitation, he suddenly turned round to me. Speaking in a low tone of voice so as not to be overheard, “Mr. Wraxall,” said he, “I have received his majesty's command to see and talk to you. He informs me that you rendered very important services to the late queen of Denmark, of which he has related to me the particulars. He is desirous of acknowledging them. We must have some conversation together on the subject. Can you come to me to Busby Park, dine, and pass the day?” I waited on him there in June 1781, and was received by him in his cabinet alone. Having most patiently heard my account of the enterprise in which I engaged for the queen Matilda's restoration, he asked me what remuneration I demanded. I answered, one thousand guineas, as a compensation for the expense which I had incurred in her majesty's service, and an employment. He assured me that I should have both. Robinson, then Secretary to the Treasury, paid me the money soon afterwards; and I confidently believe Lord North would have fulfilled his promise of employing me, or rather of giving me a place of considerable emolument, if his administration had not terminated early in the following year, 1782.

The volume concludes with an appendix embodying a variety of correspondence in relation to this singular matter, under the heading of “Letters and Papers respecting the Queen of Denmark.” Altogether, these “Posthumous Memoirs” afford a rich fund of entertainment—and in especial to the lovers of political gossip we most heartily recommend their perusal.

AMERICAN ALMANAC.

_The American Almanac, and Repository of Useful Knowledge, for the year 1837. Boston: Published by Charles Bowen._

This is the eighth number of a work more justly entitled to be called “A Repository of Useful Knowledge” than any with which we are acquainted. From its commencement it has been under the editorial management of Mr. J. E. Worcester, for more than twenty years known to the American public as an able and most indefatigable author and compiler. If we are not mistaken, this period at least has elapsed since the publication of his “Gazetteer of the United States.” Besides that work, of whose great merit it is of course unnecessary now to speak, Mr. W. has written “The Elements of Geography”—“The Elements of History”—an Edition of Johnson's Dictionary as improved by Todd and abridged by Chalmers—an Abridgment of the American Dictionary of Doctor Webster—and a “Comprehensive Pronouncing and Explanatory Dictionary of the English Language, with Pronouncing Vocabularies of Classical, Scripture, and Modern Geographical Names.” All these publications are of high reputation and evince unusual perseverance and ability.

A glance at the “American Almanac” will suffice to assure any one that no ordinary talent, and industry, have been employed in bringing it to its present condition. An acute judgment has been necessary in the selection of the most needful topics, to the exclusion of others having only a comparative value—in the condensation of matter—in the means of acquiring information—and in the estimation of the degree of credit which should be given it when received. The variety of themes handled in the volume, the perspicuity and brevity with which they are treated, their excellent arrangement, and the general accuracy of the statistical details, should secure for the work a circulation even more extensive than at present. With the exception of the astronomical department, for which we are indebted to Mr. Paine, it is understood that _all_ the contents of the volume (a thick and closely printed octavo of 324 pages, abounding in intricate calculations) have been prepared by the indefatigable editor himself.

The “Almanac” for 1837 contains the usual register of the National and State Governments, an American and Foreign obituary and chronicle of recent events, a valuable “Treatise on the use of Anthracite Coal,” by Professor Denison Olmsted of Yale, an account of “Public Libraries,” a “Statistical View of the Population of the United States,” a series of Tables relating to the “Cultivation, Manufacture, and Foreign Trade of Cotton,” and Meteorological notices of Seasons and the Weather. In the account of each individual State pains have been taken to give accurate intelligence respecting all matters of Internal Improvement—more especially in regard to Canals and Rail-Roads. In the next volume some further details upon this head are promised—some account also of Pauperism in the United States, and a wider variety of statistical notices in relation to foreign countries. We have before stated our conviction, and here repeat it, that no work of equal extent in America embodies as much really important information—important to the public at large—as the eight published volumes of Mr. Worcester's Almanac. We believe that complete sets of the work can still be obtained upon application to the publisher, Mr. Charles Bowen of Boston. Its mechanical execution, like that of all books from the same press, is worthy of the highest commendation.

COOPER'S SWITZERLAND.

_Sketches of Switzerland. By an American. Part Second. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

The London Spectator has very justly observed of this, Mr. Cooper's last work, that two circumstances suffice to distinguish it from the class of sketchy tours. He has contrived to impart a _narrative_ interest to his journey; and, being an American, yet intimately conversant with all the beauties of the Old World, he looks at Switzerland with a more instructed eye than the mass of travellers, and is enabled to commit its landscapes to a comparison which few of them have the means of making—thus possessing an idiosyncracy giving freshness to what otherwise would be faded. In our notice of