VIATOR.
“There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,”When the heart's best affections are yielded to God,And the spirit that wandered, returns to the foldOf the Saviour who bought it by shedding of blood!One moment of rapture so holy, is worthFar more than whole ages of wandering bliss;And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,It is this, it is this!The pleasures of time are all fleeting and vain—The bubbles that sparkle o'er life's turbid stream,E'en the ties of affection are sundered in twain,When the dark clouds of sorrow portentously gleam.But the rapture that thrills through the soul at its birthInto favor with God, is ineffable bliss;And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,It is this, it is this!
“There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,”When the heart's best affections are yielded to God,And the spirit that wandered, returns to the foldOf the Saviour who bought it by shedding of blood!One moment of rapture so holy, is worthFar more than whole ages of wandering bliss;And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,It is this, it is this!The pleasures of time are all fleeting and vain—The bubbles that sparkle o'er life's turbid stream,E'en the ties of affection are sundered in twain,When the dark clouds of sorrow portentously gleam.But the rapture that thrills through the soul at its birthInto favor with God, is ineffable bliss;And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,It is this, it is this!
T. J. S.
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.
1The 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, aswe 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 wasHutten2and 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.
2Ulrich 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 theyhad 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.
WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.
WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.
It is a lovely spot they chose,This green and grassy dell!And here in death's long, last repose,Eudora now sleeps well:Escaped from all her mortal pain,She sleeps—and will not wake again.Oh! who that knew her can forgetThat highly polished mind?Those charms that Love must cherish yet,In that fair form enshrined?And that warm heart that felt the flameOf friendship—worthy of the name?Yes, she was one of those—the few—That decorate the earth;A diamond of the purest dew;Nor knew I half its worthTill death had stolen the precious gemThat would have graced a diadem.But why am I lamenting here,When she is now at rest;And, happy in her heavenly sphere,Her soul is with the blest?No, no, I will not, will not weep:Enjoy, sweet saint, thy sacred sleep.
It is a lovely spot they chose,This green and grassy dell!And here in death's long, last repose,Eudora now sleeps well:Escaped from all her mortal pain,She sleeps—and will not wake again.Oh! who that knew her can forgetThat highly polished mind?Those charms that Love must cherish yet,In that fair form enshrined?And that warm heart that felt the flameOf friendship—worthy of the name?Yes, she was one of those—the few—That decorate the earth;A diamond of the purest dew;Nor knew I half its worthTill death had stolen the precious gemThat would have graced a diadem.But why am I lamenting here,When she is now at rest;And, happy in her heavenly sphere,Her soul is with the blest?No, no, I will not, will not weep:Enjoy, sweet saint, thy sacred sleep.
* *
Norfolk.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
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?”
“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 worldDost thou esteem?
Gomez. Thy favor.
Philip. Hopest thou to keep it? By what means?
Gomez. By the self-same meansThat 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 heradvice 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'stOr hatest him.
Isabella. My lord——
Philip. I understand.If to thy inclinations—not the voiceOf virtue—thou didst listen, thou wouldst feelThyself his——step-dame.
Isabella. Nay, not so; the prince——
Philip. Is dear then to thee; virtue in thy heartSo 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 mannerI 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 yetPhilip 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 fattaNasce ov'io regno? e dov'io regno, ha vita?”
“Alma si fattaNasce 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, proofAnd certainty, I from thy paleness draw.
Carlos. Father! Oh, force me not, by fierce excess,That fearful bound to pass, which 'twixt the subjectAnd sovereign—'twixt the father and the son,Heaven, nature, and the laws have placed!
Philip. With footMost sacrilegious thou hast passed already,Long since, that bound. What do I say? UnknownIt ever was to thee. Lay by the wordsOf haughty virtue and severe; but illSuch words become thee. Speak now as thou art;Thy meditated treasons, and the manyAlready 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. TruthSevere thou forcest from me now. MyselfToo 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 confessionBase fear could lead me.Here my latest breathThou may'st behold me draw; long, cruel death,And infamous prepare for me; no deathDegrades me. Thou alone, sire—thou aloneWilt not weep tears of pity for my fate.
Philip. Rash youth! thus to thy sovereign lord dost offerExcuse for all thy crimes?
Carlos. Excuse? Thou hat'st me,That is mine only fault; thy thirst for bloodMine 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 steelI bare my breast. Wherefore delay? Dost nowBegin to soften? Day by day thy reignIs written in black characters of blood.
Philip. Bear him hence—from my sight. In the next tower,Unto the deepest dungeon. Wo to youIf any of you show compassion to him.
Carlos. Nay—fear not that. Thy ministers in crueltyDo 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 hereKnows all. Who dares to break his stern command?
Isabella. Gomez.
Carlos. What do I hear? What fatal name,Fearful, detestable!
Isabella. He is no foeOf yours—as you may think——
Carlos. If I could everBelieve he was my friend more shame would kindleMy cheek than e'er did wrath.
Isabella. Yet he aloneFeels pity now for you. 'Twas he revealedThe king's atrocious plot to me.
Carlos. Incautious!Alas, too credulous, what hast thou done?Why give to such compassion faith? If truthHe uttered—he—most impious ministerOf the most impious king—'twas with the truthTo 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 eyeUnmoistened, with intrepid front, must thouThe 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 offendedIn 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 concealedThe dire event from all. By silence thouShalt 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 asclose proximity as possible. InDon 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 SpainAdores her queen. Can you with eye of hateBehold 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 loveCan Carlos never hate; you cannot thusStrangely gainsay yourself. Be sure the queenKnows 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 admireThe king's gay confidant, so aptly versedIn 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 illIn this wide world, than in the murderer's handThe 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 onceDreamed of a prince of Spain, in whose proud cheekThe fiery blood would mount, if one did speakOf Liberty!—yet he is long since buried.Whom thou seest here—he is no more the CarlosWho in Alkala took his leave of thee,Who with the sweet and glorious vision burned.Creator of a new and golden ageFor 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 pourMy bitter tears, but this. O Roderick,By all that thou and I may hope in heavenOf future rest—drive me not hence!