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, expiredThe Son of God upon the cross.
King. Thou wiltThroughout all Europe this opinion spread?
Gr. Inq.Far as the Cross is honored.
King. I do violenceTo nature; her all-powerful voice wilt thouTo silence also bring?
Gr. Inq.Before BeliefAvails no voice of nature.
King. I resignMy 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 tearsMust the great dead be honored. Tears may flowFor smaller ills! He offered up himselfFor you!    *    *    *    O, Carlos,I spoke for you. On my securityHe left this place in joy. Will you my wordsMake false?
Carlos. A monument I'll build to him—No king had e'er the like. Above his dustShall 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 boundTo 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 breastIs now extinct—be you again his wife;His son is lost to him. Return to duty.I go to rescue my oppressed peopleFrom tyrant hands. Madrid sees me as king,Or never more. Now for our last farewell!*    *    *    Did you hear nought?
Queen. No, nothing—save the clockThat sounds our separation.
Carlos. Then good night,Mother; from Ghent you will receive the letterWhich shall the secret of this interviewMake public. I depart—henceforth with PhilipTo walk an open path. Henceforth between usThere's nothing secret. You shall never needTo 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 doneMy 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 theaccomplishment of his Utopian schemes of government, his friendship is secondary to this pervading and ruling desire. Hence his manner to Carlos on their first interview after his return to Spain. He has early accustomed himself to look upon his friend as the crown prince, and to anticipate the high destiny he is to fulfil. This idea gives constraint to his demeanor; and while Carlos opens his arms to welcome the friend of his bosom, the political dreamer and enthusiast kneels at his feet. It would have been the part of a true friend to discourage the unfortunate attachment between the prince and his mother-in-law, but it occurs to the Marquis that Flanders would have nothing to hope from Carlos, while he languished with hopeless love. Liberated from the thraldom of absorbing misery, he might be moulded to any thing his friend could desire; and with this view Posa himself undertakes to further his wishes. There is much that is noble in the character of the prince; with a tender and benevolent heart, enthusiasm for all that is great and good and beautiful, with delicacy and firmness of nature, and generosity amounting to a fault, his imprudence and want of foresight occasion all his misfortunes. The elements of future greatness are in his nature, but his fiery impatience of temperament prevent his obeying the dictates of an elevated judgment.
We have little to say upon the conduct of the plot and the style of these two plays. The last scenes in Schiller's tragedy are too long, and the catastrophe not striking; “Filippo†in this respect contrasts favorably with it; the closing scene, as in most of Alfieri's pieces, is brief, rapid and animated. We cannot admire the stratagem of the ghost's appearance in the German play. The style of two productions so different in character, the one adhering rigidly to the prescribed rules of the classic school, and the other admitting all the exuberant graces and dramatic effect belonging to another and more modern system, can hardly be compared. The diction of Alfieri is severe and harsh, and his extreme brevity might pass for affectation. That of the German dramatist is far more pleasing and poetical. The work of the latter is in almost every respect most to our taste, though Alfieri has decidedly the advantage in his delineation of Philip.
NO. V.
NO. V.
The following stanzas have never as yet been published. They are from the pen of a young friend of the transcriber, and written at his request. He now takes the same liberty with them as with others from divers sources hitherto, and inscribes them respectfully to the readers of the Messenger.
J. F. O.
Lady! we never met beforeWithin the world's wide space,—And yet, the more I gaze, the moreI recollect thy face.Each feature to my mind recallsAn image of the past,Which, where the shade of Memory falls,Is sacred to the last.But she, whose charms in thine I trace,Was not, alas! of earth:And yet of more than mortal grace,For Fancy gave her birth.She haunted me by sunlit streams,And burst upon my sight,When through the pleasant land of dreams,My spirit roved by night.Lost idol! why didst thou depart?Oh let thine earnest eyes,—Abstraction—vision though thou art,—Once more my soul surprise.She comes,—a gay and laughing girl!(Whom, happy, does she seek?)And raven curls their links unfurlAdown her blushing cheek.Her Grecian lineaments are brightWith beauty half divine:She is “a phantom of delight,â€Her dark eyes are—like thine!As music to a soul oppressed,As spring-flowers to the bee,As sunbeams to the Ocean's breast,Her presence is to me!I clasp her to my heart once more,—I am again a boy,—The past shows nothing to deplore,The future is all joy!We wander through deserted halls,We climb the wooded height,We hear the roar of water-falls,And watch the eagle's flight.We stand where sunset colors lieUpon a lake at rest,—And oh! what clouds of Tyrian dyeAre sloping down the west!And see! above the purple pileThe evening star appears,While she, who cheered me with her smiles,Now tries to hide her tears!Enough! the spell is at an end,—The pageant floats away,—And I no more may idly bendAt Mem'ry's shrine to day.I turn to thee, whose beauty firstThat shape of love renewed,And waked emotions, that were nursedLong since, in solitude.I turn to thee, and start to see,Again that face and mien,—Those glassy ringlets, floating free,Those eyes of sparkling sheen!Two visions have waylaid my heart,—An old one and a new;And, Lady! by my faith, thou artThe fairer of the two!
Lady! we never met beforeWithin the world's wide space,—And yet, the more I gaze, the moreI recollect thy face.Each feature to my mind recallsAn image of the past,Which, where the shade of Memory falls,Is sacred to the last.But she, whose charms in thine I trace,Was not, alas! of earth:And yet of more than mortal grace,For Fancy gave her birth.She haunted me by sunlit streams,And burst upon my sight,When through the pleasant land of dreams,My spirit roved by night.Lost idol! why didst thou depart?Oh let thine earnest eyes,—Abstraction—vision though thou art,—Once more my soul surprise.She comes,—a gay and laughing girl!(Whom, happy, does she seek?)And raven curls their links unfurlAdown her blushing cheek.Her Grecian lineaments are brightWith beauty half divine:She is “a phantom of delight,â€Her dark eyes are—like thine!As music to a soul oppressed,As spring-flowers to the bee,As sunbeams to the Ocean's breast,Her presence is to me!I clasp her to my heart once more,—I am again a boy,—The past shows nothing to deplore,The future is all joy!We wander through deserted halls,We climb the wooded height,We hear the roar of water-falls,And watch the eagle's flight.We stand where sunset colors lieUpon a lake at rest,—And oh! what clouds of Tyrian dyeAre sloping down the west!And see! above the purple pileThe evening star appears,While she, who cheered me with her smiles,Now tries to hide her tears!Enough! the spell is at an end,—The pageant floats away,—And I no more may idly bendAt Mem'ry's shrine to day.I turn to thee, whose beauty firstThat shape of love renewed,And waked emotions, that were nursedLong since, in solitude.I turn to thee, and start to see,Again that face and mien,—Those glassy ringlets, floating free,Those eyes of sparkling sheen!Two visions have waylaid my heart,—An old one and a new;And, Lady! by my faith, thou artThe fairer of the two!
S.
THE SWISS HEIRESS.
THE SWISS HEIRESS.
The Swiss Heiress; or The Bride of Destiny—A Tale. Baltimore: Joseph Robinson.
The Swiss Heiress should be read by all who have nothing better to do. We are patient, and having gone through the whole book with the most dogged determination, are now enabled to pronounce it one of the most solemn of farces. Let us see if it be not possible to give some idea of the plot. It is the year 1780, and “the attention of the reader is directed, first, to a Castle whose proud battlements rise amidst the pines and firs of the Swiss mountains, while, at its base, roll the waters of Lake Geneva,†and, second, to the sun which is setting somewhat more slowly than usual, because he is “unwilling to terminate the natal day of the young heiress of the Baron de Rheinswald, the wealthy proprietor of Montargis castle, and its beautiful environs.†We are thus left to infer—putting the two sentences and circumstances in apposition—that the Montargis Castle where dwells the young heiress of the Baron de Rheinswald, is neither more nor less than the identical castle “with the proud battlements†et cetera, that “rises amid the pines and firs†and so forth, of the “Swiss Mountains and the Lake of Geneva†and all that. However this may be, the Baron de Rheinswald is a “Catholic of high repute†who “early in life marries a lady of great wealth, a member of his own church, actuated by ambitionâ€â€”that is to say, there was either something or somebody “actuated by ambition,†but we shallnotsay whether it was a lady or a church. The lady (or perhaps now the church) “lived but five years after the union, and at her death earnestly and solemnly implored that her only son might be devoted to the priesthood.†The lady, or the church (let us reconcile the difficulty by calling the thing “Mother Churchâ€) being thus deceased, the bereaved Baron marries a second wife. She being a protestant however, the high contracting parties sign an instrument by which it is agreed “that the eldest child shall be educated by the mother's direction, a protestant, the second be subject to the father's will and a catholic, and thus alternately with all their children.†This, it must be allowed is a contrivance well adapted for effect. Only think of the interesting little creatures all taking it “turn about!†What fights, too, they will have, when breeched, over their prayer-books and bread-and-butter! Our author pauses in horror at anticipated consequences, and takes this excellent opportunity of repeating what “a late writer†(a great friend of his by the bye) says in regard to “chemical combinations†and “opposite properties.â€
The first child is a son, and called William. The second is a daughter, Miss Laura, our heroine, the “Swiss Heiress,†and the “Bride of Destiny.†She is the “Swiss Heiress†in virtue of a certain “dispensation from the church of Rome, by which the estates of the Baron were to descend to his first catholic child by his second marriage†and she becomes the “Bride of Destiny†because the Baron has very properly selected for her a husband, without consulting her Heiress-ship about the matter. This intended husband is one Count Laniski, young, good-looking, noble, valiant, wise, accomplished, generous, amiable, and possessed of a thousand other good qualities—all of which, of course, are just a thousand better reasons why the Bride of Destiny, being a heroine, will have nothing to do with him. Accordingly, at eight years old, she grows melancholy and interesting, patronizes the gipsies, curses the Count Laniski, talks about “fate, fore-knowledge, and free-will,†and throws aside her bread-and-butter for desperation and a guitar. In spite of all she can do, however, the narrative gets on very slowly, and we are upon the point of throwing the lady (banjo and all) into the street, when the Count himself makes his appearance at the Castle, and thereby frightens her to such a degree that, having delivered a soliloquy, she runs off with her “Brother William†to America.
“Brother William,†however, is luckily killed at the siege of Yorktown, and the “Bride of Destiny†herself is recaptured by her family, the whole of whom, having nothing better to do, have set out in pursuit of her—to wit—her half brother Albert, (who is now Baron de Rheinswald, the old Baron being dead) Clermont a croaking old monk, and Madam de Montelieu a croaking old somebody else. These good people, it seems, are still determined that the “Swiss Heiress†shall be the “Bride of Destinyâ€â€”that is to say, the bride of the Count Laniski. To make matters doubly sure too on this head, the old Baron has sworn a round oath on his death-bed, leaving the “Swiss Heiress†his “eternal curse†in the event of her disobedience.
Having caught and properly secured the young lady, the new Baron de Rheinswald takes up his residence for a time “on the borders of Vermont and Canada.†Some years elapse, and so forth. The “Bride of Destiny†is nearly one and twenty; and the Count Laniski makes his appearance with a view of urging his claim. The Heiress, we are forced to say, now behaves in a very unbecoming and unaccountable manner. She should have hung herself as the only rational course, and—heigho!—it would have saved us a world of trouble. But, not having forgotten her old bad habits, she persists in talking about “fate, foreknowledge, and free will,†and it is not therefore to be wondered at that matters in general assume a truly distressing complexion. Just at this crisis, however, a Mr. Frederick Mortimer makes his interesting debût. Never certainly was a more accomplished young man! As becomes a gentleman with such an appellation as Frederick Mortimer, he is more beautiful than Apollo, more sentimental than De Lisle, more distingué than Pelham, and, positively, more mysterious than the “mysterious lady.†He sympathizes with the woes of the “Bride of Destiny,†looks unutterable threats at the Count Laniski, beats even the “Swiss Heiress†at discoursing of “free will,†and the author of the “Swiss Heiress†at quoting paragraphs from a “late writer.†The heart of the “Bride of Destiny†is touched—sensibly touched. But Love, in romance, must have impediments, and the Loves of the “Bride of Destiny†and Mr. Frederick Mortimer have two. The first is some inexpressible mystery connected with a certain gold ring, of which the Heiress is especially careful, and the second is that rascally old BaronRheinswald's “eternal curse.†Nothing farther therefore can be done in the premises, but as we have now only reached Chapter the Sixth, and there are to be seventeen chapters in all, it is necessary to do something—and what better can be done than to talk, until Chapter the Fifteenth, about “fate, foreknowledge, and free will?†Only imagine a string of delightful sentences, such as the following, for the short space of three hundred and ninety-six pages!
“How rapidly time flies,†said the Count, “I have been here weeks, and they seem but days.â€
“I am not surprised, my lord,†said Mrs. Falkner, smiling.
“Nor I,†he returned, also smiling. “This place, such society, wraps the senses in such blissful illusion that I ‘take no note of time.’ The clock strikes unheeded, unheard.â€
“Why do you smile, Miss Montargis?†asked Mrs. Falkner.
“I was just thinking,†she replied, “that Count Laniski had unconsciously given a ‘local habitation and a name’ to the fabled region where cold is so intense as to congeal sound.â€
Mrs. Falkner bowed, but could not comprehend what such a region had to do with Count Laniski's compliment to the heiress.
“Take care, Mr. Mortimer,†said Miss Montargis, still smiling, “you are in dangerous vicinity. Have you no fear of cold?â€
“It is not sufficientlypositive,†he replied, “to destroy my belief that it exists with muchlatentwarmth, which it requires but a little address to render quitesensible.â€
Mortimer spoke with mingled playfulness and seriousness, but the latter prevailed, and Miss Montargis felt it a reproof, and blushed, she scarcely knew why.
“To be sensible,†she said, “it must affect others. Who ever felt its influence? notsheat least who has painfully realized itsnegativeness.â€
“I am sure you speak mysteries to me,†said Mrs. Falkner, laughing, “what can you mean?†&c. &c.
We would proceed, but are positively out of patience with the gross stupidity of Mrs. Falkner, who cannot understand what the other ladies and gentlemen are talking about. Now we have no doubt whatever they are discoursing of “fate, foreknowledge, and free will.â€
About chapter the fifteenth it appears that the Count Laniski is not the Count Laniski at all, but only Mr. Theodore Montelieu, and the son of that old rigmarole, Madam Montelieu, the housekeeper. It now appears, also, that even that Count Laniski whose appearance at Montargis Castle had such effect upon the nerves of our heroine, was not the Count Laniski at all, but only the same Mr. Theodore Montelieu, the same son of the same old rigmarole. The true Count, it seems, in his younger days, had as little partiality for the match ordained him by fate and the two fathers, as the very “Bride of Destiny†herself, and, being at college with Mr. Theodore Montelieu at the time appointed for his visit to Montargis Castle, had no scruple in allowing the latter gentleman to personate his Countship in the visit. By these means Mr. M. has an opportunity of seeing his mother, the old rigmarole, who is housekeeper, or something of that kind, at the Castle. The precious couple (that is to say the old rigmarole and her son) now get up a plot, by which it is determined that the son shall personate the Count to the end of the chapter, and so marry the heiress. It is with this end in view, that Mr. Theodore Montelieu is now playing Count at the residence of the Baron in Vermont. Mr. Frederick Mortimer, however, is sadly in his way, and torments the poor fellow grievously, by grinning at him, and sighing at him, and folding his arms at him, and looking at him asquint, and talking him to death about “fate and foreknowledge and free will.†At last Mr. Mortimer tells the gentleman flatly that he knows very well who he is, leaving it to be inferred that he also knows very well who he is not. Hereupon Mr. Theodore Montelieu calls Mr. Frederick Mortimer a liar, a big liar, or something to that effect, and challenges him to a fight, with a view of either blowing out his already small modicum of brains, or having the exceedingly few blown out, which he himself (Mr. Theodore Montelieu) possesses. Mr. Mortimer, however, being a hero, declines fighting, and contents himself, for the present, with looking mysterious.
It will now be seen that matters are coming to a crisis. Mr. Mortimer is obliged to go to Philadelphia; but, lest Mr. Montelieu should whisk off the heiress in his absence, he insists upon that gentleman bearing him company. Having reached, however, the city of brotherly love, the ingenious young man gives his keeper the slip, hurries back to Vermont, and gets every thing ready for his wedding. Miss Montargis is very angry and talks about the inexplicable ring, fate, fore-knowledge and free will—but old Clermont, the Baron, and Mr. Montelieu, on the other hand, get in an absolute passion and talk about nothing less than the old Baron Rheinswald and his “eternal curse.†The ceremony therefore proceeds, when just at the most proper moment, and all as it should be, in rushes—Mr. Frederick Mortimer!—it will be seen that he has come back from Philadelphia. He assures the company that the Count Laniski, (that is to say Mr. Theodore Montelieu,) is not the Count Laniski at all, but only Mr. Theodore Montelieu; and moreover, that he himself (Mr. Frederick Mortimer) is not only Mr. Frederick Mortimer, but the bonâ fide Count Laniski into the bargain. And more than this, it is very clearly explained how Miss Laura Montargis is not by any means Miss Laura Montargis, but only the Baroness de Thionville, and how the Baroness de Thionville is the wife of the Baron de Thionville, and how, after all, the Baron de Thionville is the Count Laniski, or else Mr. Frederick Mortimer, or else—that is to say—how Mr. Frederick Mortimer is'nt altogether the Count Laniski, but—but only the Baron de Thionville, or else the Baroness de Thionville—in short, how every body concerned in the business is not precisely what he is, and is precisely what he is not. After this horrible development, if we recollect, all the dramatis personæ faint outright, one after the other. The inquisitive reader may be assured, however, that the whole story ends judiciously, and just as it ought to do, and with a very excellent quotation from one of the very best of the “late writers.â€
Humph! and this is the “Swiss Heiress,†to say nothing of the “Bride of Destiny.†However—it is a valuable “workâ€â€”and now, in the name of “fate, fore-knowledge and free will,†we solemnly consign it to the fire.
ROSZEL'S ADDRESS.
ROSZEL'S ADDRESS.
Address delivered at the Annual Commencement of Dickinson College, July 21, 1836, by S. A. Roszel, A.M. Principal of the Grammar School. Published by Request of the Board of Trustees. Baltimore: John W. Woods.
Mr. Roszel, we have good reason for knowing, is a scholar, of classical knowledge more extensive, and far more accurate than usual. In his very elegant Address on Education now before us, he has confinedhimself to the consideration of “tutorial instruction as embraced under the divisions of the subjects to be taught, and the manner of teaching them.†Of the first branch of his theme, the greater portion is occupied in a defence of the learned tongues from the encroachments of a misconceived utilitarianism, and in urging their suitableness as a study for the young. Here, Mr. R. is not only forcible, but has contrived to be in a great measure, original. We are especially pleased to see that, in giving due weight to the ordinary ethical and merely worldly considerations on this topic, he has most wisely dwelt at greater length on the loftier prospective benefits, and true spiritual uses of classical attainment. We cite from this portion of the address a passage of great fervor and beauty.
But are there not translations? If there were, a perusal of them would be profitless, for it is to be borne in mind, that the tenor of the preceding remarks has been uniformly to demonstrate the advantages, not only of a perusal, but of the study of the dead languages. And so this question is destitute of pertinence. But there never was a translation of an ancient author. Versions there are, a majority of them dull and spiritless, lifeless and jejune, but they are not translations. And so are there odorless roses, and there might be beamless suns. As in religion we aspire to drink from the fountain head so let it be in literature. Let us be imbued with its spiritual influences; for no one that has pondered them well can remain unimpressed by the magnificent divulgement of quenchless, illimitable intellect, by the resplendency of thought which bursts forth and glows with a steady fervor, in the pages of the blind bard of Greece, and the keen-sighted orator of Rome, with a vigor and intensity so powerful, that the typographical characters themselves seem to stand out, vivid and lustrous, like sentient gems, myriads of sparkling emanations, burning and lucent, flashing a sentiment in every word, an axiom in every line, a corollary in every paragraph. There is an inborn inexpressible satisfaction to the mind well attuned, in being able to appreciate the beauty and the strength, the essence and vitality of those inimitable and indestructible periods of the Athenian orator which called the ruddy blush of shame to the pallid cheek of the coward, stirred the elements of enthusiastic honor to tempestuous agitation, and excited the irrepressible shout, To battle! there is a chaste delight in perusing the cutting satire, the splendid objurgations, and the brilliant invectives of that eloquence, which startled the world's victor from his unsteady throne, and speaking in the bold terms of unquailing freedom, compelled the submission of arms to the toga. But there is a still deeper, more serene and holy rapture, in meditating on the accents of the Redeemer in the very dialect in which they fell from his sacred lips; in meditating with an awe ineffable, on the presumptuous sentence of an earth-born worm, which consigned to a death of ignominy and shame, the august God of the universe.
In Mr. R's remarks “on the manner of teachingâ€â€”on the duties of a teacher—there is much to command our admiration and respect—a clear conception of the nature and extent of tutorial duties, and a stern sense of the elevated moral standing of the tutor.
We see, or we fancy we see, in the wording of this Address, another instance of that tendency toJohnsonismwhich is the Scylla on the one hand, while a jejune style is the Charybdis on the other, of the philological scholar. In the present case we refer not tosesquipedalia verba, of which there are few, but to the too frequent use of primitive meanings, and the origination of words at will, to suit the purposes of the moment. But to these sins (for the world will have them such) a fellow-feeling has taught us to be lenient—and, indeed, while some few of Mr. Roszel's inventions are certainly not English, there are still butveryfew of them “qui ne le doivent pas etre.â€
WRAXALL'S MEMOIRS.
WRAXALL'S MEMOIRS.
Posthumous Memoirs of his Own Time. By Sir N. W. Wraxall, Bart. author of “Memoirs of My Own Time.†Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea & Blanchard.
The “Memoirs of My Own Time†were published in 1815. They excited the greatest commotion, and if we are to believe the Baronet, no literary work ever procured for its author “a more numerous list of powerful and inveterate enemies.†The queen, the regent, and the princesses of the royal family disliked the portrait drawn of George the Third, which every reasonable person will allow to be by no means a caricature. They disapproved too, of the somewhat free comments on the peace of 1763, and were highly incensed at certainpersonaldisclosures in regard to the king. The first Lord of the Treasury, son of Charles Jenkinson, was offended at the “just and impartial†character given his father. The partisans, respectively, of Pitt and Fox, arose in arms at what they considered the gross abuse of their leaders. The relatives of Lord North were enraged at the account of his junction with Fox in 1783, notwithstanding the Baronet himself considers that “he had done justice to that most accomplished and amiable nobleman.†But this was not all. The Earl of Bute would not be appeased. The Marquis of Lansdowne spoke of a prosecution in the court of King's Bench on account of the reflections (unavoidable, we are told) made on the resignation of the Earl of Shelburne. The “Quarterly Review†in an article written, we are assured, by “men†in official situations, held the “Memoirs†up to general reprobation as an “imbecile and immoral work,†while the “Edinburg†joined in the hue and cry with still greater virulence, and even more disgusting personal abuse. Lastly, and much more than all to the purpose, Count Woronzow, in consequence of the mention made of him by the Baronet, in his relation of the circumstances connected with the marriage of the Princess Royal to the late Duke of Wirtemberg, instituted a prosecution, in order to vindicate his own official diplomatic conduct. Garrow, then Attorney-General, was retained for the prosecution, and it is to be observed that, passing over in few words the particular passage for which the suit was commenced, he dwelt with the greatest severity against the “Memoirs†at large. The disposition of the government towards the defendant may, however, be fully estimated by the fact, that although the court repeatedly disclaimed having authorized the Attorney-General to call for avindictivejudgment, declaring his sole object to be the clearing up of his own character; and although the Baronet, for an offence which he declared to be unintentional, made at once the most ample, prompt and public apology, still the vindictive judgment of six months imprisonment, and a fine of five hundred pounds, was ordered into execution, a part of the imprisonment actually carried into effect, and the fine remitted only through the most energetic and persevering exertions of Woronzow himself. “Such,†says the author of the Memoirs, “was the combination of assailants which my inflexible regard to truth assembled from the most opposite quarters.†These clamors and difficulties, however, he considered as more than sufficiently counterbalanced by the testimony, now first communicated to the world, of the late Sir George Osborn—a testimony indeed which shouldbe considered of authority. This gentleman, a near relative of Lord North's, was of ancient descent, high character, and large property; and from 1775, until the king's final loss of reason, was one of the grooms of his bed-chamber. In a letter to the Baronet shortly after his commitment to the King's Bench, he thus writes: “I have your first here, and have perused it again with much attention. I pledge my name that I personally know nine parts out of ten of your anecdotes to be perfectly correct. You are imprisoned for giving to future ages a perfect picture of our time, and as interesting as Clarendon.†For ourselves, we had as soon depend upon the character here given of the “Memoirs†as upon that more highly colored portrait of them painted by the Attorney-General.
Thus persecuted, the Baronet took a lesson from experience, and declined to publish the work now before us during his life-time. He adopted also the necessary measures to guard against its issue during the life-time of George the Fourth. In so doing, he has, of course, secured his own personal convenience, but the delay has deprived his reminiscences of that cotemporary interest which is the chief seasoning of all similar works. Still the Baronet's pages will excite no ordinary attention, and will be read with unusual profit and pleasure. The book may be regarded as a series of parliamentary sketches, in which are introduced, at random, a thousand other subjects either connected or unconnected with the debates—such as historical notices of the measures introduced,—personal anecdotes and delineations of the speakers—political facts and inferences—attempts at explaining the hidden motives of ministers or their agents—rumors of the day—and remarks upon public events or characters abroad. The Baronet is sadly given to scandal, and is peculiarlypiquantin the indulgence of his propensity. At the same time there should be no doubt (for there assuredly is no reason for doubting) that he is fully in earnest in every word he says, and implicitly relies in the truth of his own narrative. The lighter portions of his book, therefore, have all the merit of vraisemblance, as well as ofhaut gout. His style is occasionally very minute and prosy—but not when he has a subject to his fancy. He is then a brilliant and vivid writer, as he is at all times a sagacious one. He has a happy manner, when warmed with an important idea, of presenting only its characteristic features to the view—leaving in a proper shadow points of minor effect. The reader is thus frequently astonished at finding himself fully possessed of a subject about which very little has been said.
Among the chief characters that figure in the “Memoirs,†and concerning each of whom the Baronet has a world of pithy anecdote, we note Pitt, Burke, Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, Louis the Sixteenth, George the Third, the Queen and royal family, Sir James Lowther, Lord Chesterfield, the late Marquis of Abercorn (John James Hamilton,) Lady Payne (Mademoiselle de Kelbel,) Lord North, Sir Philip Francis the reputed author of Junius, Sir William Draper the defeated antagonist of that writer, George Rose, (the indefatigable and faithful factotum of Pitt,) the Duke of Queensbury, Harry Dundas, Hastings with his agent Major Scott, Lord Eldon, Grey, Sidmouth, Thurlow, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord Liverpool, Marie Antoinette, the Duchess of Devonshire, the Duchess of Gordon, and (we should not have forgotten him) the late dirty Duke of Norfolk, then Earl of Surrey. Of this illustrious personage a laughable account is given. On one occasion—at a great whig dinner at the Crown and Anchor, (in February 1798, while all England was threatened with revolution, and when Ireland was on the brink of open rebellion,) his Grace, inspired as usual with wine, was fool enough to drink “The sovereign majesty of the people.†“Assuredly,†says the Baronet drolly enough, “it was not in the ‘Bill of Rights,’ nor in the principles on which reposes the revolution of 1688, that the Duke could discover any mention of such an attribute of the people. Their liberties and franchises are there enumerated; but theirmajestywas neither recognized or imagined by those persons who were foremost in expelling James the Second.†His Grace accompanied the toast with some pithy observations relating to “the two thousand persons who, under General Washington, first procured reform and liberty for the thirteen American colonies.†Of course it is not very singular that his remarks were considered as savoring of sedition. Growing sober, next morning, he became apprehensive of having proceeded too far. Accordingly, a day or two afterwards, hearing that his words had excited much wrath at St. James's, he waited on the Duke of York with an excuse and an apology, concluding with a request that, in the event of invasion, his regiment of militia might be assigned the post of danger. His Royal Highness listened to him with much attention, and assured him that his desire should be made known to the king—breaking off the conversation abruptly, however, with “Apropos, my lord, have you seen Blue-Beard?†(the popular pantomime of the day.) Intwo daysafter this interview the “dirty Duke†received his dismission both from the lord-lieutenancy and from his regiment.
There are several connected narrations of some length and great interest in the volume before us. One of these concerns the noted Westminster election, when the charms and address of the Duchess of Devonshire aided Fox so largely in defeating the governmental influence—another the accusations of Hastings and Impey—another the debates on the Regency Bill. The “Diamond Necklace†affair, in which Madame de la Motte performed so important a part, is related clearly and pointedly, but with some little diffuseness. We abridge the Baronet's account of this extraordinary matter.
Prince Louis de Rohan, second brother of the Duke de Montbazon, was fifty-one years of age at the epoch in question. He was a prelate of elegant manners, of restless ambition, and of talents, although ill-regulated. It appears that he was credulous and easily duped by the designing. Previous to his attainment of the episcopal dignity, and while only coadjutor of Strasburg, he had been employed in diplomacy, and acted, during a considerable time, as Ambassador from the Court of France at Vienna, in the reign of Maria Theresa. Returning home, he attempted to reach the ministerial situation left vacant by Maurepas. But Louis the Sixteenth had imbibed strong prejudices against him, and the queen held him in still greater aversion. Yet he was resolutely bent upon acquiring her favor, and indeed entertained, it seems, the hope of rendering himself personally acceptable to her. At this time shewas very beautiful, loved admiration, was accessible to flattery, and not yet thirteen years of age.
Among the numerous individuals who then frequented Versailles with the view of advancing their fortune, was Mademoiselle de la Valois. She became an object of royal notice, through the accidental discovery of her descent from Henry the Second, by one of his mistresses, St. Renny, a Piedmontese lady of noble birth. A small pension was bestowed on her, and she soon afterwards married a gentleman of the name of La Motte, one of the Count de Provence's body guards. His duties retaining him at Versailles near the person of the Count, Madame de la Motte became well known to the Cardinal de Rohan, whose character she appears to have studied with great attention. She herself was totally devoid of moral principle, and her habits of expense induced her to resort to the most desperate expedients for recruiting her finances. About this time, one Boehmer, a German jeweller well known at the court of France, had in possession a most costly diamond necklace, valued at near seventy thousand pounds sterling, and obtained permission to exhibit it to her majesty. The queen, however, declined buying it. Madame de la Motte receiving information of the fact, resolved to fabricate a letter from the queen to herself, authorizing her to make the purchase. In this letter Marie Antoinette was made to express a determination of taking the necklace at a certain indicated price—under the positive reserve, however, that the matter should remain a profound secret, and that Boehmer would agree to receive his payment by instalments, in notes under her own hand, drawn on her treasurer at stipulated periods.
Furnished with this authority, Madame de la Motte repaired to the Cardinal de Rohan. Submitting to him, as if in confidence, the queen's pretended letter, she dwelt on the excellent opportunity which then presented itself to him, of acquiring her majesty's favor. She urged him to see Boehmer, and to assure him of the queen's desire—the proof of which lay before him. The Cardinal, however credulous, refused to embark in the affair, without receiving from Marie's own mouth the requisite authority. Madame de la Motte had foreseen this impediment and already provided against it. There lived at that time in Paris an actress, one Mademoiselle D'Oliva, who in her figure bore great resemblance to the queen. This lady they bribed to personate her majesty—asserting that a frolic only was intended.
Matters being thus arranged, Madame de la Motte acquainted the Cardinal that Marie Antoinette felt the propriety of his eminence's scruples, and with a view of removing them, and at the same time of testifying her sense of his services, had resolved to grant him an interview in the gardens of Versailles—but that certain precautions must be adopted lest the transaction should come to the knowledge of the king. With this end the Cardinal was told her majesty had fixed upon a retired and shady spot, to which she could repair muffled up in such a manner as to elude notice. “The interview,†Madame de la Motte added, “must be very short, and the queen resolutely refuses to speak a single word lest she may be overheard.†Instead of verbally authorizing De Rohan to pledge her authority to Boehmer, it was therefore settled that she hold in her hand a flower, which, on the Cardinal's approaching her, she would immediately extend to him as a mark of her approval.
This blundering plot, we are told, succeeded. Mademoiselle D'Oliva personated the queen à merveille, and the Cardinal, blinded by love and ambition, was thoroughly duped. Convinced that he had now received an unquestionable assurance of Marie Antoinette's approbation, he no longer hesitated to pledge himself to Boehmer. A deduction of above eight thousand pounds on the price demanded, having been procured from him, promissory notes for the remainder, exceeding sixty thousand pounds, drawn and signed in the queen's name, payable at various periods by her treasurer, were delivered to the jeweller by Madame de la Motte. She then received from him the necklace. Her husband having obtained leave of absence, under the pretence of visiting the place of his nativity, carried off the diamonds, and, arriving safe in London, disposed of some of the finest stones among the dealers of that city. Madame de la Motte herself, we cannot exactly understand why, remained at Paris. The Cardinal, also, continued in unsuspecting security at court. But the day arriving when her majesty's first promissory note became due, the fraud was of course discovered. As soon as the part which de Rohan had performed in it was fully ascertained, the whole matter was laid by her majesty before the king. Louis, after consulting with some of his ministers, finally determined upon the Cardinal's arrest. “Such an event,†says our author, “taking place in the person of a member of the Sacred College, an ecclesiastic of the highest birth and greatest connections, related through the kings of Navarre to the sovereign himself, and grand almoner of France, might well excite universal amazement. Since the arrest of Foucquet, superintendant of the finances, by Louis the Fourteenth, in 1661, no similar act of royal authority had been performed: for we cannot justly compare with it the seizure and imprisonment of the Duke of Maine in 1718, by order of the Regent Duke of Orleans. The Cardinal de Rohan's crime was private and personal, wholly unconnected with the state, though affecting the person and character of the queen. He was conducted to the Bastile, invariably maintaining that he had acted throughout the whole business with the purest intentions; always conceiving that he was authorized by her majesty, and was doing her a pleasure. Madame de la Motte, Mademoiselle D'Oliva, and some other suspected individuals were also conveyed to the same fortress. Notwithstanding the queen's evident innocence in this singular robbery, a numerous class of Parisians either believed or affected to believe her implicated in the guilt of the whole transaction.â€
This account is followed up by the relation of a private and personal adventure of the Baronet, of the most romantic and altogether extraordinary character. He gives the detailed narrative of a plot, in which he acted a conspicuous part as secret agent, for the restoration of the imprisoned queen Caroline Matilda of Denmark, and to which George the Third had given his approbation and promised his assistance. Had this revolution been carried into effect it would have brought about the most important changes in the political aspect of the north of Europe. The sudden death of the queen put an end to the attempt, however, just when all preparations were completed, and success was beyond a reasonable doubt. In the spring of 1784, a similarexertion placed the young prince royal, then only sixteen years of age, in possession of the Regency, which his mother's death alone prevented her from attaining in 1775. After the queen's decease, some of her most active friends interested themselves with George the Third to procure the Baronet a proper remuneration for his services. For nearly six years, however, the attempt was unsuccessful. The final result is thus related by the author himself.
In 1780 I came into Parliament; and some months afterwards as I was seated nearly behind Lord North in the House of Commons, only a few members being present, and no important business in agitation, he suddenly turned round to me. Speaking in a low tone of voice so as not to be overheard, “Mr. Wraxall,†said he, “I have received his majesty's command to see and talk to you. He informs me that you rendered very important services to the late queen of Denmark, of which he has related to me the particulars. He is desirous of acknowledging them. We must have some conversation together on the subject. Can you come to me to Busby Park, dine, and pass the day?†I waited on him there in June 1781, and was received by him in his cabinet alone. Having most patiently heard my account of the enterprise in which I engaged for the queen Matilda's restoration, he asked me what remuneration I demanded. I answered, one thousand guineas, as a compensation for the expense which I had incurred in her majesty's service, and an employment. He assured me that I should have both. Robinson, then Secretary to the Treasury, paid me the money soon afterwards; and I confidently believe Lord North would have fulfilled his promise of employing me, or rather of giving me a place of considerable emolument, if his administration had not terminated early in the following year, 1782.
The volume concludes with an appendix embodying a variety of correspondence in relation to this singular matter, under the heading of “Letters and Papers respecting the Queen of Denmark.†Altogether, these “Posthumous Memoirs†afford a rich fund of entertainment—and in especial to the lovers of political gossip we most heartily recommend their perusal.