CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 11 (continued 3)

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

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.

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.

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 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 Hutten² 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.

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 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.

* *

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 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 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 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 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 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 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! 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 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. 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 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 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 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.