Chapter VI: Part 6

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.