Franz. (Reviving.) Away! away! Touch me not, horrible skeleton! The dead do not rise! Daniel.-Oh, heavenly powers! his senses wan der ! Franz.-(Raises himself feebly.) Where am I? Thou here, Daniel ? What have I said? Take no notice of it; it was all false, be it what it may. Come, help me up; this is only an attack of giddiness; because because 1-I have not slept well. Daniel.-Would that Johann were here. I will call for assistance-I will fetch the doctor. Franz.-Stay here; sit down by me on this sofa. So-thou art a discreet man-a good man: nizing expectation; when, suddenly, methought I heard my own name pronounced. The marrow congealed in my bones, and my teeth chattered; my life passed in review before me, and each quickly fleeting hour cast a fresh sin in the scale, until they were heaped on each other like a mountain; but still did the other scale, full of the blood of atonement, outweigh them; when, behold, there came an old man, bent with grief, his arms gnawed by the ravenous tooth of hunger. All eyes turned fearfully from this pitiable form but mine, and I— I knew him! He cut one silvery lock of hair from his venerable head, and cast it in among my sins. The scale sank-sank into an abyss, while the other kicked the beam, and scattered its priceless contents in the air. A voice of terror thunFranz.-No; I pray thee listen to me, and then dered in my ears- Mercy, mercy to every sinner laugh at me right heartily. Methought I had given on earth, and under the earth save thou-thou, a princely banquet; my heart was full of glad-alone, art doomed!' (A pause.) But you do not ness, and I lay dozing on the lawn in the castle gardens; when suddenly-it was noon-when suddenly-but laugh at me, laugh right heartily! Daniel.-Well, suddenly I will tell thee all. Daniel.-Not now; another time. Let me get you to bed: you need rest. Franz. A tremendous clap of thunder roared in my slumbering ears; I started tremblingly up, and behold, it appeared to me as if the whole horizon had burst forth in one crimson blaze; and mountains, towns, and woods were melting, like wax before the fire; while a howling hurricane swept away earth, sea, and skies! Then arose a sound as of voices shouting through brazen trumpets- Earth give up thy dead!—give up thy dead, O Sea!' And the naked plains began to heave as if they were in labour, and forth were cast skulls, jawbones, ribs, arms, and legs, which straightway did unite together, and a countless swarm of living skeletons streamed along. I looked upwards, and behold, I stood at the foot of Mount Sinai : above and around me was one dense multitude, and on the summit of the mountain sat three beings on flaming stools, before whose glance all creatures shrank trembling. Daniel. This is sure a living picture of the day of judgment! Franz.-Is it not absurd nonsense?-One of these three came forward; on his hand he bore an iron signet, which he held between the east and the west, and said- Eternal, Holy, Just, Un changeable, there is but one faith. There is nothing true but Virtue! Woe, woe unto the children of unbelief!' Then advanced a second, holding a glittering mirror, which he turned to wards the east and the west, exclaiming-Behold the mirror of truth! Hypocrisy and falsehood stand unveiled before it!' The assembled crowds started back in horror, as they beheld, not human features, but the faces of reptiles and beasts of prey, reflected on its bright surface. The third now arose, poising in his hand a brazen balance, which hung suspended between the east and west. 'Approach, ye children of Adam,' he cried; 'I weigh your thoughts in the scale of my anger, and your deeds do I measure in the balance of my justice.' Daniel.-Heaven have mercy upon me! Franz.-A ghastly paleness overspread each countenance, and every bosom thrilled with ago laugh! Daniel.--How can I? Cold shudders creep over my frame. Dreams come from God. Franz.-Pshaw! pshaw! You do not mean that! Call me a fool-a superstitious, silly fool! Do, dear Daniel, I implore you! Laugh atmock at me! Daniel.-Dreams are warnings from God! I will pray for you. Franz.-Thou liest, old man! Go, instantly; run-fly-fetch the chaplain to me! Bid him hasten; dost hear?-hasten. But I tell thee thou liest ! Daniel.-God be merciful unto you!" (Exit). "Fiesco; or, the Conspiracy of Genoa."-This tragedy is so full of incident and event, that it is almost impossible to give a detailed account of the plot. Robertson, in his "History of Charles V.," relates the particulars of this conspiracy, the events of which Schiller has dramatized, altering the finale. In the opening scenes we find the Prince Gianettino, nephew of Andreas, the old Doge of Genoa, bribing an assassin to murder Fiesco, whom he fears and hates for his talents and popularity; and afterwards planning, with some of his debauched companions, the ruin of Bertha, the only child of Verrina, a noble old republican. All this takes place at a grand entertainment given by Fiesco, whom we see surrounded by gaiety, apparently immersed in the pleasures of dissipation, and flirting with Julia, the sister of the Prince; while his wife, the gentle Leonora, weeps his infidelity among her maidens; and Calcagno, a profligate courtier, who loves her, hopes so to work on her jealousy and indignation as to make her his. Several of the nobles try to awaken in Fiesco a feeling for his country's wrongs; but he answers lightly and frivolously, and they depart disgusted with his levity. The Moor now attempts his assassination, but Fiesco disarms him, learns from him who his employers are, and binds him over with threats and promises to his service. The conspiracy meanwhile proceeds, and all the chief members of it are still further exasperated by the conduct of the Prince Gianettino, who has come, like a thief in the darkness of the night, and stolen from Bertha, with ruffian violence, the rich jewel of her honour. Bourgognino, her lover, swears to avenge her wrongs, and then claim her as his bride. The people, oppressed by tyranny and exactions, come to Fiesco, and urge him to espouse their cause, and redress their wrongs and their country's grievances. He replies with parables and promises, but does not declare his opinions until his spy, the Moor, has put him so fully in possession of all the plans of the Prince and Doge, that he is enabled to circumvent them. Then does he throw off the mask of levity and love, return to the feet of his wife, and make her ample compensation for all the mortifications his apparent inconstancy has brought on her-join himself hand and heart with the band of patriots, and head the insurrection. Gianettino is slain by Bourgognino. Leonora, whose anxious affection will not permit her to remain quietly within the walls of the palace, comes forth in male attire to seek her husband, and finding Gianettino's hat and cloak, wraps herself in them, in order still further to disguise herself. Fiesco encounters her in the tumult, and recognizing the dress of the Prince, rushes forward and kills her, and then summons his companions to behold the tyrant slain, but starts back in fear and horror as he looks on the features of his victim, and becomes only too certain of the reality of his misfortune, when he encounters her attendant, wandering in search of her lady, who describes to him how she was disguised. His anguish is great, but the rapid course of events, and his own ambitious views, leave him but little time for its indulgence. The regal power is offered to him; his friend Verrina entreats him not to accept of it, but to unite with him in endeavouring to abolish royalty, and make Genoa a free republic. Fiesco persists in his determination, and Verrina stabs and pushes him into the water as he steps on board the ducal galley. This tragedy embraces great variety of character, many striking and pathetic situations, and a constant succession of stirring and interesting events. In point of style it is somewhat similar to "the Robbers," but the errors of that piece are all softened down here, the characters are less exaggerated, the situations more natural, and there is a fine vein of dramatic spirit running through the whole. The character of Fiesco is sketched by a masterly hand; but, however much we may admire it, we cannot approve of his trifling so recklessly with the feelings of his wife. If his passion for Julia was, as he asserts, feigned for political purposes, why not give Leonora some hint of it, instead of leaving her a prey to doubt, jealousy, and wounded affection, and exposed to the solicitations of a profligate lover. Verrina is a fine model of an old republican soldier and noble; his grief, rage, and affection, on learning how his daughter has been outraged, are truthfully developed; and, if we cannot fully sympathize with him in that inflexible adherence to his principles and patriotism, which leads him to sacrifice his friend, rather than see the power to tyrannize over his country again given into the hands of one individual, yet we cannot withhold our admiration. The weak vicious Gianettino, and his licentious colleagues; the noble, high-spirited Bourgognino; the subtle, wily Moor, first assassin and then spy-all are striking, and individual portraits. Leonora too, is beautiful in her gentle, womanly love, jealousy, and grief, in her scorn of Calcagno, and her joy at finding that her husband is still all her own, still the same noble affectionate Fiesco to whom she had so proudly given heart and hand. Nor can we refuse to sympathize with the innocent, child-like, and wronged Bertha, or to rejoice over the mortification of the vain, heartless Julia. The scenes are so connected together, that it is not easy to detach any without marring their effect, we therefore content ourselves with one extract. Act II. Scene III. Leonora and Calcagno. The Countess Leonora has just received a visit from Julia, who amuses herself by exhibiting Fiesco's presents to her, and exciting her jealousy in every way-Calcagno enters as Julia goes out. Calcagno.-The Imperiale departing in such excitement, and you so agitated, lady? Leonora.-(Overpowered by emotion.) Never, never was such conduct heard of before! Cal. Heavens and earth! Surely you are not weeping? Leo. A friend of the inhuman monster! Quit my sight! me. Cal.-What inhuman monster? You terrify Cal.-I swear to you Leo. It would be perjury-no more-your oaths weary the angel who registers them. Oh, men, men! were your vows transformed into so many devils, they would be numerous enough to take heaven by storm, and carry off the angels of light as prisoners. Cal. You wander, countess. Your anger makes you unjust. Must the whole sex be made answerable for the faults of one? Leo.-(Looking proudly at him.) Man! I worshipped the whole sex in the person of one. May I not also abhor it in him? Cal. Try again, countess. You threw away your affections the first time. I could point out to you where they would be well bestowed and valued. Leo. You could out-lie the foul fiend himself. I wish to hear no more. Cal. You must retract that condemnation, lady, ay, and this very day, in my arms. Leo.-(Attentively.) I pray you, speak out. In your arms? Cal.-Yes, in my arms, which are opened receive a forsaken wife, and atone to her for the | Louisa, points out to her that she has brought all neglect of others by my love. Leo.-(Scornfully.) Love! Cal.-Yes, I have spoken, lady-love! Life and death are in your words. If my passion be sinful, then may the ends of virtue and vice be united, and heaven and hell co-operate together to form my purgatory. Leo.—(Drawing proudly back.) This then is the key to thy sympathy, villain! Thus dost thou betray both friendship and love! Out of my sight for ever! Detestable sex! until now I thought ye betrayed only women; I had to learn that ye were traitors towards each other. Cal-Rises hastily and in astonishment.) Gracious lady? Leo.-Ye are not content with breaking the sacred seal of confidence, but must also breathe the pestilential vapour of treachery and sin on the bright mirror of virtue, and endeavour to seduce an innocent woman to vice and perjury. Cal.-Lady, in your case it would be retaliation, not perjury. Leo.-I comprehend your vile scheme. You thought that my wounded affections would have induced me to listen to your suit. But (proudly) you knew not that the sublime misfortune of breaking for Fiesco ennobles a woman's heart. Go! Fiesco's errors can never cause Calcagno to rise in my estimation, but humanity to fall. (Exit hastily.) Cal.-(Looks after her like one stunned, and then striking his forehead with his hands, exclaims) Fool! fool!" "Kabale und Liebe," or Love and Intrigue, is a domestic tragedy. The prince of some petty state in Germany has long been attached to Lady Milford, a talented and beautiful English woman, but is now about to contract a marriage of policy; and she, in consequence, is deemed a very desirable alliance by some scheming courtiers, who foresee that her influence over her old lover will remain but little diminished. Herr von Kalb, an elderly dandy, is one of the aspirants; and the president von Walter endeavours to secure her hand for his son Ferdinand, a fiery, romantic, high-spirited youth, who is devotedly attached to, and fondly beloved by, Louisa, the daughter of Miller, a poor musician. Wurm, secretary to the president, a mean-spirited toady, weak, vicious, and malicious, also loves Louisa, and is avoided and disliked by her; in revenge, he betrays to the president the cause of his son's opposition to his wishes, and the latter visits Miller and his family, and threatens them with heavy vengeance if they dare encourage the visits of his son. Ferdinand enters during this scene, and defends his beloved and her family so vehemently, that the exasperated father threatens to throw old Miller and his wife into prison; and so disgrace Louisa, that she shall become a mock and bye-word, unless his son instantly promises obedience to his will. The malicious suggestions of Wurm cause the president actually to imprison the old man ; and the secretary then proceeds to this suffering upon her father, and having worked on her filial affection to the utmost, promises to obtain his release immediately if she will write a letter which he dictates, and swear never to reveal one word of this transaction. She complies, and pens a note to Herr von Kalb, whom she has never seen, appointing a meeting with him, and alluding to previous happy hours spent together. This letter is placed in Ferdinand's hands, who has had an interview with Lady Milford, in which he has told her that he loves another, and implored her to co-operate with him in endeavouring to induce his father to permit him to wed Louisa. Lady Milford is not, however, inclined to do this; she admires the handsome major, and sending for Louisa, eninto resigning her lover. Louisa, heart-broken as deavours first to bribe, and then to frighten her she is by the situation of her father, and the act Wurm has just induced her to commit, resists both threats and bribes with firm gentleness, but in the end freely renounces all claims on him, and quits the place. She returns home intent on self-destruction, and meets her father, who gradually learns her purpose, and wins her from it. Ferdinand comes, inflamed by jealousy, heaps reproaches upon her, which her oath prevents her from showing the injustice of, and at length asks her to make him some lemonade, into which he puts poison, drinks, and gives the glass to her. He watches her swallow it, and then informs her of what he has done. Believing herself to be released from her oath by the approach of death, Louisa tells him all, forgives him, and dies; he only survives her long enough to reproach his father, who seeks him there, with being the cause of all this. The catastrophe here comes upon us unawares. The aims of the chief characters seem too poor to lead us to expect that life will be staked upon them, and we rather anticipated a melo-dramatic conclusion. One or two of the scenes possess much pathos, and especially that in the last act, in which Miller dissuades his daughter from suicide. The character of Louisa is very beautiful, and, with a little more firmness, would be perfect; her filial affection, her devoted womanly love, her meekness, her self-sacrificing spirit, all conspire to win upon our interest. Ferdinand is a fine spirited portraiture; but a little more common sense, and a little less romance and heroics, would have rendered him far more agreeable to us. proud, ambitious, worldly President, affords a striking contrast to the poor, broken-spirited musician, whose only treasure is his child. There are some very natural touches in the commonplace Madame Miller. Lady Milford, too, with all her faults, is not deficient in womanly feeling; the well-spring is frozen over, not dried up. Wurm is a grovelling, malicious sycophant; and von Kalb occasionally amusing with his garrulity, egotism, and vanity. The And here we must pause for the present; next month we will continue our sketches of the works of this great poet, which are as numerous as they are interesting, and cannot with justice to him or to ourselves be passed lightly over. H I saw a sweet spirit with azure wings, That ever a spirit was seen to bear. I knew that the links of that chain were made I saw wherever she passed along, The flowers took a deeper, a lovelier hue; To dream the bright dreams of a fairy-loved boy. That came to the earth so merrily singing; Her way through the azure so daintily winging, Who but the spirit of love was she? Twining a wreath of the flowers that be In the human soul, wherever she comes, Kindly and lovingly over our homes; Bidding all nature at heart to rejoice, In the beautiful joy of her angel voice? RAIN. BY MRS. JAMES GRAY. Beautiful Rain! thou art come at last, And Heaven hath opened its heart again. The roses that opened too soon fell fast; The pleasant screen the woodbine weaves Was stunted and shrunk in the eastern blast; And there was not a mist the hope to beguile With a promise of rain in the cloudless air, And the heavens looked down with a brightened smile, Like the look of a beauty on Love's despair. But welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain! We trust that the days of drought are o'er; An angel of mercy hath pitied our pain, And we feel that the heavens can weep once more. Thou art life to the buds on their slender stems, And life to the poet's heart and brain : Oh, gift of mercy-shower of gems! Welcome, thrice welcome, beautiful Rain! MY PORTRAIT GALLERY. BY CALDER CAMPBELL. No. VIII. FIORDILISA. My harp is hushed, and now for thine Whose tides have their time of ebb and flow, But now my heart is the sullen tide For the wild, wild night in the dreary day! My heart is now a vacant spot, It hath nor weed nor flower; And its loves-tho' they never can be forgot- The first Spring-flower from a snowdrift springs, There's a beam to brighten the darkest wave; There's a bud to bloom on the lowliest grave; There are words to soothe e'en a heart like mine, And turn it to life again-such are thine! LINES, (Written by Torquato Tasso, during his second confinement by the Duke of Ferrara, in the Hospital of Santa-Anna.) Tu che ne vai in Pindo, Ivi pende mia cetra ad un cipresso, Ch'io son, dagli armi e da fortuna, oppresso. TRANSLATION. When thou to Pindus goest, where hangs ELIZA LESLIE. "THUNDERING TOM" AND "SNEAKING JACK." 99 "THUNDERING TOM" AND "SNEAK- | fered flask of wine. Not so Valerius-not so ING JACK." (The veritable History of a Day on Windermere. Chronicled by the Captain of "Thundering Tom.") BY MRS. PONSONBY (LATE MISS SKELTON). Gentle reader, pray do not imagine that I am going to introduce to your notice, under the above names, two new heroes of romance, to supersede in your imagination those that now reign pre-eminent. No: for aught that I can offer to the contrary, Jack Sheppard may still be the first of all Jacks in thine eyes; and, if you have a pet hero rejoicing in the cognomen of Tom, nothing that you may meet with in the perusal of this paper shall disturb the image of the beau ideal; for "Thundering Tom" and "Sneaking Jack" are boats, and not men. Once upon a time, Thundering Tom was called the "Wild Duck;" Sneaking Jack was known as the "Nonpareil;" but within the last few days an occurrence has taken place, which has changed these peaceful names into those more significant denominations by which they will henceforth be known. It happened thus:-The Wild Duck started from Rayton Bay to sail to the water-head; the wind was S. W., and she went merrily along, she and her cargo. Firstly, her Captain-myself, gentle reader-took his place at the helm; next, the gay Ridenta placed his plump person on the windward side of the boat; then Valerius our good Valerius-found room for himself and his long legs amid-ships; while the sober Marianne-as was her wont-seated herself comfortably before the mast, her back to the company. Then we had cushions for all parties: we had stores of cloaks, plaids, and shawls: we had a large family of umbrellas, varying in sizes, extending from the youngest of parasols to the oldest of brown cottons. We had a basket containing a good stock of edibles, and a flask of wine; and last, not least, we had food for the mind. had the last number of the "Chuzzlewit," for the gay Ridenta loved much to laugh over Mrs. Gamp; we had the "Times" for the day-Marianne the sober was a great politician; and we had "Ainsworth's Magazine," for our simple-hearted, dear Valerius gave his whole mind and spirit to the story of the great Marlbrook. The wind was fair, and without a tack we reached the water-head. We let go our anchor, and hailing the fisher Robinson, and receiving suitable reply, in due time his gaily-painted skiff landed us all in safety. We So far so good; but on our return home the interest and the troubles of the day commenced. Our business in Ambleside concluded, we returned to the water-head, where the Wild Duck was riding gallantly at anchor. Robinson and his skiff were again in requisition, and we resumed our places in the yacht. Our first care was the luncheon. The decks were cleared for action; all took part in this portion of the business of the day; even Marianne confessed she was hungry, though she refused, with a slight toss of the head, the of Ridenta-not so, gentle reader, thy humble servant. We were some little distance from the shore, and we must have presented a singular appearance to the natives who gazed at us thence. Still at anchor, sitting calmly in the midst of a roaring wind, we four, forming a sort of double vis-à-vis, must have appeared to have been playing a rubber at whist-few would have had sharpness enough to discover or conjecture the true reason of our stationary situation. Luncheon over, we turned our attention to the condition of the Wild Duck, and it was judged expedient to lessen her sails; the wind had changed to the south-dead against us-and a heavy sea was rolling. The Wild Duck is a graceful cutter, with low black hull, tall, tapering mast, and snow-white canvas; but now the gaff-topsail must be lowered, the storm-foresail set, and the mainsail double-reefed. All hands turned to the reefing of the mainsail. Now, no one who has not tried to take in reefs in the midst of a gale of wind, can have any idea of what an operation it is. The sail flaps, the boom swings violently from side to side, the sheets and halyards fly wildly about; every one's head is thumped, every one's eyes are in danger of being knocked out; and Ridenta always laughs, and makes others laugh so much, that twice the time is consumed in this performance when it takes place on board the Wild Duck than it does in any other vessel. But at last all was made snug, and Ridenta, retiring from her labours, and arranging her bonnet, which had assumed a three-cornered shape during the turmoil, exclaimed with energy, "Well, this boat should never go by the name of the Wild Duck again; it ought to be called Thundering Tom !'" "And why, Ridenta," asked Valerius, "should it bear that denomination?” "Because," replied Ridenta, "Thundering' is the most appropriate epithet that can be applied to such an uproarious vessel; and 'Tom' was the name that occurred to me at the time." And though Valerius shook his head, as if not acknowledging the justice of her reasoning, and though the grave Marianne glanced towards her a look of reproval, the name bestowed by Redenta was adopted thenceforth without another observation being made upon it. But, lo and behold, before we had worked our way beyond the waterhead bay, the breeze slackened, the lake grew calmer, and again we were all employed in unreefing, while the storm-foresail was lowered, and the large foresail hoisted. There was less wind, certainly, but still the boom behaved in its ordinarily rude manner-still the huge mainsail flapped its heavy wings-still everybody was thumped-still Ridenta's bonnet suffered; and again, as the released boat sprang forward on its way, she exclaimed-" Ah, Thundering Tom, you well deserve that name." Thundering Tom played his part well: the breeze had shifted again; it was west, and we spun merrily along, beneath the influence of a side wind. The sober Marianne, during all these arrange |