"It is safest to have two strings to one's bow," quoth he, and swallowed both the preparations. They did his business for him so effectually, that he was never called upon to pay note or bill again, although several became due shortly after the event. "ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE." BY J. J. REYNOLDS. Flowers, bright flowers, Children of earth; Sunshine and showers Bring ye to birth. Gaily ye bloom, 'Neath the blue sky; Alas that your doom Is to wither and die! Leaves, bright leaves, Hours, bright hours, Clouds, bright clouds, Floating on high; In beautiful crowds, Ye garnish the sky. Lit by a sunbeam, Glorious to-day; Soon like a day-dream, To vanish away. Eyes, bright eyes, In your glances bright. In death silent sleep. Things, bright things, Swiftly we sail, Down Time's rapid stream; Beauty is frail, And life but a dream. THE SEA KING. BY MISS M. H. ACTON. The Sea King am I, On my shining crystal throne; The ships that o'er me sweep, The masts are rent in twain, And my treasures laugh to scorn Give place, ye earth-born kings, But the golden sun has shone Youth and beauty, strength and pride, The rushing ocean foam Then quail, ye things of earth, For the sun's resplendent light And a chaos once again SKETCHES OF GERMAN LITERATURE. BY MARY ANN YOUATT. No. II. Schiller. Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller was born at Marbach, a small town in Würtemberg, on the banks of the Neckar. His father was an army surgeon. At a very early age he presented tokens of that intensity of feeling, deep sense of religion, and conscientiousness, which afterwards distinguished him. His first preceptor was a clergyman named Moser, whose son afterwards became his dearest friend; and it was from them that he doubtless imbibed that desire for a clerical life which ever haunted him. He was about nine years old, when the removal of his family to Ludwigsburg opened to him a new view of life; he then, for the first time, witnessed a theatrical representation. Its effect on his mind was wonderful, and his leisure hours were now devoted to the composing of plans and plots for tragedies, although his taste for the church still remained unaltered. Here he became the pupil of the celebrated Jahn, and under his superintendence read Ovid, Horace, and Virgil, and commenced the study of Greek. At length, in the year 1775, an opportunity occurred of avowing his dislike to the study of law; a new professorship, with its course of study, was added to the academy, namely that of medicine, and young Schiller resolved to follow his father's profession. This science appears to have been less distasteful to him, for we find that in 1780 he took his degree, and was shortly afterwards appointed surgeon to a grenadier troop. Being now in some measure his own master, he began to devote more time to literary pursuits, and in 1781 published "Die Räuber," which was performed at Manheim in 1782, and excited a very great sensation throughout Germany. The Duke of Würtemberg, however, exceedingly disapproved of some portions of it, and forbade the young author to write on any but medical subjects, and even went so far as to put him under arrest for going privately to Manheim, with the pardonable vanity of an author, to witness the representation of his own play. This prohibition was rendered more galling to Schiller, by the fact of his having been solicited by Professor Abel, of Stuttgart, to contribute to a periodical conducted by him, and having actually written some articles for it. He endeavoured to overcome the Duke's resolve, but finding the attempt vain, quitted Stuttgart privately, and after residing for nearly a year on the estate of a lady with whose sons he had been on terms of the closest friendship, proceeded to Manheim, where he was joyfully received by the manager of the theatre, who advanced him money for his present expenses, and procured for him the appointment of theatre-poet, a post of respectability and some profit. He now set himself steadily to work, and produced "Fiesco," and "Kabale und Liebe," besides translating Shakspeare's" Macbeth," and "Timon of Athens," and several French plays. In 1785 he began to edite a miscellany entitled "Thalia," in which appeared some portions of his "Don Carlos," and his Philosophical Letters." These writings attracted the notice of the Duke of Saxe Weimer, who invited him to his court, and became his friend and patron. Towards the end of the summer of 1785, Schiller went to reside at Dresden, and here he finished and published his play of "Don Carlos," and some few lyrical poems, and also commenced his "History of the Revolt of the Netherlands." In 1787, he removed to Weimar, where he became personally acquainted with Herder, and Wieland, and wrote "Die Götter Griechenlands," "Die Künstler," a fragment of the history of the Netherlands, and several other prose works, for a periodical entitled "Der Mercur." In 1789, he was appointed to the Professorship of History at Jena through the instrumentality of Goethe; there he married a lady to whom he had been attached for some time, and there was his "History of the Thirty Years' War" written, as well as several splendid essays, and translations of the "Iphiginia in Aulis," and the "Phoenissæ" of Euripides, the "Agamemnon" of Eschylus, and the "Eneid" of Virgil. But the keen mountainous breezes of Jena were too much for his naturally delicate constitution: he had a severe attack of inflammation of the chest, in the beginning of the year 1791, from which The Duke of Würtemberg, who had been employed in converting one of his hunting castles into a military academy, and who sought among the sons of his officers for those on whom he meant to confer the advantages arising from it, selected young Schiller among others. The father respectfully represented to his prince that the boy's wish was to become a clergyman, and, consequently, the course of instruction pursued at the academy would not be adapted for him; but the Duke, who had heard much of the talents of young Schiller, and was desirous of having him among the pupils, advised his father to persuade him to alter his choice of a profession. It was with great difficulty that the father succeeded, and induced his son to" enter the academy as a student of law. But his dislike to this science was unconquerable, and the hours which should have been devoted to it were dedicated to the study of literature and poetry. These forbidden pursuits were cherished with enthusiastic fervour, and the obstacles which lay in the way to them served but to inflame his passion. Nor did he find the strict regulations and methodical routine of the academy more bearable: he often secretly escaped from its tedious formalities to take a peep at the gay, bustling, and to him, forbidden world; or feigned illness, in order to keep his chamber and write poetry, or read his favourite authors, Plutarch, Shakspeare, Klopstock, Lessing, Goethe, Herder, Gerstenberg, and others. The "Messias" of Klopstock, and the "Ugolino" of Gerstenberg, were among his earliest and most favourite studies, and these, combined with his own religious tendencies, had early created in him a taste for sacred poetry. He was scarcely fourteen when he drew up the plan for an epic poem, which in after years he worked out, and published. His first dramatic attempts were induced by the perusal of Goethe's "Götz von Berlichingen." he never entirely recovered. This so weakened his constitution, that it became impossible for him to fulfil the duties of his office, and already were his friends and admirers uniting together to offer him the means of living without the necessity of any exertion, when the crown prince of Denmark conferred on him a merely nominal office, with the salary of one thousand Thalers, for three years, to give him time to recruit his health. It never became thoroughly re-established, but a period of rest from all his labours restored it in some measure, and completely invigorated his mind. About this time he conceived the idea of his dramatic poem "Wallenstein," but it was not completed until several years after. In 1793 he travelled towards his ancient home, and visited his parents and youthful friends, and wrote to the Duke of Würtemberg, requesting permission to visit Stuttgart. The Duke returned no answer, but stated in the hearing of Schiller's friends, that should he come, he would not take any notice of it; thus encouraged, the poet proceeded onwards, and found that he had nothing to fear; and subsequently returned to Jena, where in 1795, he produced some of his most beautiful poems. In 1799, however, he wholly resigned the Professorship of History there, and returned to Saxe Weimar, where his acquaintance with Goethe ripened into a close intimacy, and these two great men shared together the superintendence of the theatre. "Wallenstein" appeared in 1779, "Maria Stuart" in 1800, "Die Jungfrau von Orleans" in 1801, "Die Braut von Messina" in 1803, and his last, and, as some say, best play, "Wilhelm Tell" in 1804; nor did all these works prevent him from translating Gozzi's "Turandot," Racine's " Phadra," and several French comedies. He had commenced another dramatic poem, when a fatal attack of his old complaint seized him, and he died at Berlin in 1805, and in the forty-fifth year of his age. His last days were marked by a calm serious resignation of spirit, far removed from indifference or superstition; and almost his latest words were, on being asked by a friend how he felt, "Calmer and calmer still;" and he presently added, "Many things are becoming clear and plain to me now." He has bequeathed a noble heir-loom to posterity in the numerous works of which we will now endeavour to give some short account. "The Robbers." The old Count von Moor has two sons, Karl and Franz. The formeris absent; and the latter, jealous of his father's fondness, and his cousin Amelia's love for his favoured brother, vilifies his character to the old man, magnifies every youthful foible, produces forged letters corroborating his words, and so works upon the father's feelings that he induces him to disinherit and cast off his once-loved child. Franz himself announces this to his brother; he then intercepts all his brother's letters, woos Amelia, and at length produces an accomplice, who pretends to have witnessed Karl's death, and heard his last wishes that Amelia might become his brother's bride. Amelia refuses belief to all, treats Franz with contempt, and continues faithful to the memory of her first love. Karl, driven to desperation, joins a band of | robbers, and becomes their captain. But longing once more to behold his father and beloved Amelia, he returns home in disguise, finds his father dead, and Amelia about to enter a convent. He has an interview with her, and she vainly strives to account for the interest she feels in the supposed stranger. Franz recognises and resolves to murder him, but his designs are defeated by Daniel, an old servant, who also recognises his young master; and from him Karl learns that his father loved him even until death, mourned and wept for him, bitterly repented having authorized the sending of that cruel letter, and lived but in the hope of once more embracing him. Karl's soul is torn with regrets and affection; but crime-stained as he now is, he resolves not to discover himself to Amelia. They meet again; he breaks his resolution, and rushes from the spot to avoid the temptation; she follows him, finds him among his band, and offers to live and die with him be he what he may; the robbers claim their right to so fair a prize. Karl, who has discovered that Franz has imprisoned and nearly starved their old father, releases him; stabs Amelia to save her from pollution and from himself, and delivers himself up to a poor man who has eleven children, in order that the reward offered for his apprehension may do good. Franz, overcome by remorse, fear, and horror, destroys himself. This play is full of action, passion, feeling, and suffering; but all represented under exaggerated forms. It is a strange mélange of bombast and grandeur, and partakes more of the nature of a melodrama, than that of a tragedy. The characters are over-wrought, and the situations want relief; many of the scenes are nevertheless striking, and here and there are touches of pathos, but they want simplicity and truth to make them effective. It must, however, be remembered that the greater part of it was written during Schiller's boyish days, when his romantic enthusiasm was uncorrected by experience or knowledge of the world; and, curbed down by the strictness of the life which he was compelled to lead, vented itself in these extravagant ideal creations. He himself, when speaking of it in after years, says: Unacquainted with the actual world, from which I was separated by iron trammels, ignorant of mankind, and unused to the society of women, my pencil missed the intermediate line between the sublime and ridiculous, and produced only moral monsters. My great fault was in presuming to delineate men before I had known one.' We extract one or two scenes, which will serve as fair specimens of the whole. Act 1. Scene III. Amelia's Room. Franz and Amelia, Franz.-Thou turnest from me, Amelia. Am I less worthy than he whom our father has cursed? Amelia.-Yes! the affectionate tender father, who gives up his son to despair; who pampers himself at home with rich and costly wines, and indulges his palsied limbs on downy cushions, while he abandons his noble son to starvation! Shame on you, monsters! Shame on you, base serpents! Ye disgrace human nature. His only son, too! Franz.-I thought he had had two sons. Amelia.-He deserves to have many such sons as thou art. Vainly on his death-bed shall he stretch out his trembling hands towards his Karl, and recoil with a shudder as he clasps the icecold fingers of Franz. Oh, it is sweet-ah, how sweet-to be cursed by a father. Speak, Franz, thou pattern of brotherly love-what must one do to be so cursed by him? Franz.-You are raving, my love. You are to be pitied. Amelia.-Oh! I pray thee, dost thou pity thy brother? No, monster, thou hatest him. So dost thou also hate me. Franz. I love thee as myself, Amelia. Amelia.-If thou so lovest me, canst thou refuse me one poor request? Franz.-No, no, even if thou wert to ask my life. Amelia.-Well, if that be true, this request is easily, will be willingly, complied with (Proudly). Hate me! I should blush with shame whenever I thought on Karl, if I were to believe thou didst not hate me. Thou dost promise-so-now go, leave me. I would be alone. Franz.-Dearest enthusiast! How much do I admire thy gentle, affectionate heart! There did Karl sit enthroned like a god in his temple. Thy waking thoughts were of Karl; his image filled thy dreams; the whole world appeared to thee absorbed in him; for thee it held but him, and each echo repeated his loved name. Amelia (excited).—Yes, indeed, I confess it; despite of you, barbarians, I confess it before all the world. I love him. Franz (half aside).-Inhuman, cruel! To reward such love so-to forget such a being! Amelia (starting).-What! Forget me? Franz now endeavours to convince her that Karl is false, and has bestowed a ring which she gave him on a favourite mistress; but Amelia's confidence in her lover rejects the tale, and she exclaims, "It is all a lie-wretch! Full well dost thou know that it were impossible for Karl to become such a being." He then feigns pity for his brother, and severely blames his father's harshness; and Amelia is deceived by his hypocrisy, until he, after describing his last interview with Karl, continues thus: "He took my hand, and sobs choked his utterance as he said, "I quit my Amelia. I know not wherefore, but my heart forebodes that I shall behold her no more. My brother, never forsake her-be her friend-be to ber all that Karl was-should he never return. (Franz throws himself at her feet, and kisses her hand passionately). He has never returned, Amelia, and I solemnly vowed to obey his request." Amelia (starting back).-Traitor! now dost thou betray thyself. In that very bower did he implore me never to love another, even-even should he die. How despicable thou art! Hence, quit my sight! Franz.-Thou dost not know me, Amelia. Thou dost not know me. | Amelia.-I know thee but too well, and from this moment better than ever. And thou wouldst be his equal! Would he have wept about me before thee? No! sooner would he have inscribed my name on the public pillory. Begone instantly. Franz.-Thou wrongest me. Amelia.-Begone, I tell thee. Thou hast robbed me of a precious hour; may it be subtracted from thy life! Franz.-Thou dost hate me! Amelia.-I despise thee. Hence! Franz (stamping with fury).-Patience and thou shalt tremble before me. What, sacrifice me to a beggar! [Exit.] Amelia.-Go, villain. Now am I once more with Karl. Did he say, Beggar? Then is the world turned upside down-beggars are kings, and kings beggars. Not for the purple of monarchs would I exchange the rags with which he is clothed. The look with which he begs must be great and princely; a look which annihilates the splendour of the great, the pomps and triumphs of the rich. To the dust with thee, thou glittering baubles! (she tears the ornaments from her neck). Be ye doomed to wear gold, silver, and jewels, ye rich and great. Be ye condemned to banquet luxuriously, to stretch your limbs on the downy couches of voluptuousness. Karl! Karl! thus am I worthy thee. [Exit.] Act III. Scene II.—The robbers encamped on a shady eminence; their horses are grazing on the hill. Karl Moor. (Throwing himself on the ground.) Here must I remain. How wearied my limbs are; and my tongue is as dry as a chip. (Schweizer slips out unobserved.) I would ask one of you to fetch me a draught of water from yonder stream, but you are all tired to death. Schwarz. All the wine too is below in the skins. K. Moor.-Look! how beautiful the corn isthe trees too are bending beneath their load of fruit. The vines seem to promise a plentiful vintage. Grimm.-Yes, this is a fruitful year. K. Moor.-But one hailstorm might blast all this fair promise. Schwarz.-Very true. Every thing may fail. K. Moor.-And every thing will fail. Why should man succeed only in those things wherein he resembles the ant, while he fails in all that might liken him to the gods? or, is this the sole intention of his being? K. Moor.-(Presses his hat down over his face.) There was a time-leave me alone, comrades! Schwarz.-Moor! Moor! why, what the devil! How he changes colour! K. Moor. There was a time I could not have slept if I had omitted my evening prayers. Grimm.-Are you mad? Why thus suffer boyish recollections to affect you? K. Moor-Lays his head on Grimm's breast.) Brother! brother! Grimm. Why, how now? Do not be so childish-cheer thee, I pray. K. Moor.-Would that I were that I were once inore a child. Grimm.-Pshaw! pshaw! Schwarz-Cheer up! Look at this lovely landscape-this beautiful evening. K. Moor.-Yes, friend; this world is very beautiful. Schwarz.-Very justly observed. K. Moor.-This earth is full of good. Grimm. True, true. I like to hear you say so. K. Moor. And I am such a blot in this beautiful world-such a wretch, a monster, defacing the earth. Grimm.-Alas! alas! K. Moor.-My innocence! my innocence! Behold how everything around seems to enjoy the kindly beams of the setting sun! Why is it that I alone inhale the breath of hell instead of the joys of heaven? All speaks of happiness, of concord. The whole earth is one family, with one universal Father above. I alone am an outcast: to me he is no father: I am driven from the ranks of the pure: the sweet name of child is not for me! Never shall I receive the tender look of affection-the embrace of love and friendship. Surrounded by murderers-by hissing serpents; riveted to vice by chains of iron-tottering towards the grave of perdition along the giddy precipice of vice-like a fiend amid the blossoms of paradise. Schwarz. (to the others).-Amazing! I have never seen him so before. K. Moor. (sadly).-Would that I could return to my mother's womb!-that I could be born a beggar. I would ask nothing more of heaven, but to be born the lowliest peasant; and be content to labour, ay, even until the blood poured as sweat from my brows, to earn the luxury of a few hours' calm and innocent slumber-the blessing of one single tear. Grimm. (to the others.)-Patience! the paroxysm is already subsiding. K. Moor.-There was a time when I could weep freely. Oh, ye days of peace! thou dwelling-place of my father! ye green romantic valleys ! ye Elysian scenes of my childhood! will ye never return? never cool my burning breast with your balmy breath? They are past! gone! irrecoverably gone! (Enter Schweizer with water.) Schweizer.-Drink, captain; here is water enough, cool and fresh as ice." | forth their inmates!-the kingdom of death, let loose from its eternal sleep, shrieks in my ears, Murderer! Murderer! Ah! who moved there? Daniel. (Anxiously.) Help! Holy mother of God! Is it you, my gracious master, whose cries resounded so horribly through the building, that the sleepers started from their beds in terror? Franz.-Sleepers! who bade you sleep? Go fetch a light. (Daniel goes, another servant_enters.) No one should sleep at this hour. Dost hear? All should be up in arms-the guus loaded. Didst thou not see them moving about in yonder avenue? Serv.-Who, gracious sir? Franz.-Who, blockhead-Who! Canst thou ask so coldly, so indifferently, Who? The sight of them has almost crazed me-Who!-stupid ass!-Who!-Spirits and devils! How goes the night? Serv.-The night-watch has just proclaimed the hour of two. Franz.-How? This night will surely last until doomsday! Hast heard no tumult in the neighbourhood-no cries of victory-no trampling steeds?—Where is Ka-the Count, I mean? Serv.-I know not, my lord. of Franz.-Thou dost not know! Thou art also one of his gang. I will trample thy heart out of thy ribs, if thou repliest with thine accursed 'I know not.' Hence! fetch the chaplain. Serv.-Gracious sir ! Franz.-Dost murmur?-dost pause? (Exit servant hastily.) What! even beggars conspire against me! Heaven, hell-all is conspired against me! Daniel.-(Enters with a light.)-Sir! Franz.-No; I do not tremble; it was only a dream. The dead cannot rise-who says I tremble, or am pale? I am quite calm-quite well. Daniel. You are as pale as death, and your voice is faint and hollow! Franz.-I am feverish. Tell the chaplain when he comes that I am only feverish. I will be bled to-morrow. Daniel.-Shall I give you a few drops of your elixir on sugar? Franz.-Yes, yes, do so; the chaplain will not be here yet. My voice is faint and hollow; give me some of the elixir on sugar. Daniel. Give me your keys, and I will go down and fetch it from the closet. Franz.-No, no, stay; or I will go with thee. I am not fit to be alone. I might, thou seestI might faint, if I were alone. Never mind, never mind; it is past now; stay where thou art. Daniel.-Oh, you are seriously ill! Franz.-Just so, just so; that is all; and illness disorders the brain, and produces strange and wonderful dreams. Dreams signify nothing: is it not so, Daniel? Dreams are the result of indigestion, and signify nothing. I had a droll dream just now. (He faints.) Daniel.-Jesu “Act V. Scene I.—Daniel.-Franz rushes in, George! Konrad! in his night-dress. Daniel.-Mercy on me !-my master! some sign of life. It will be senses. Franz.-Betrayed! betrayed! The graves cast him! Heaven have Bastian! (shakes him). Show Maria! what means this? Holy Virgin! preserve your said that I have murdered mercy upon me! |