Wherefore was I with such a creature mated? In concord with her heart's black loathsomeness, Language In me is fixt in inward contemplation, Till my drear mind is mad by staring at Grant me one full moment, Let the lost vigor of my deathlike life Centre in th' instant, my long-palsied tongue Burst its blank silence with core-blighting words, coil my Hurl me as here I stand into Hell's deep, The earth is tired of us: our graves are ready, They're side by side. Come, come, we're waited for. (Exit.)" We are not perfectly satisfied with the above passage. To our mind, the vehement strength of Julian's indignation at his wife's crime, and the terrible energy of his curse, are not congruous with his partnership in her first guilt; notwithstanding his lesser share in it, and his subsequent remorse, have established such a moral difference between them in our estimation. It does not belong to such a character of guilt and remorse as his to abhor and curse her in such terms; even Nor to though the mood of his mind lasts but for a moment. our feeling is the incongruity redeemed by the relenting that NO XII.- VOL. VI. 59 follows. To our feeling, also, the language of his disapprobation and of his curse is too rhetorical, strained, and overwrought. The last lines, however, are exquisitely conceived, the giving way of reason, namely, under the long pressure and the tremendous excitement. The Countess is momentarily overwhelmed by the terrible energy of her husband; but her thoughts of remorse are dispelled by the sudden appearance of Klebel, whom she thought dead. Fear, hate, pride, all re-awaken in her, and she sternly resumes all her purposes. She dismisses Klebel for the present, with cajoling promises, but resolves on his immediate destruction. Rupert, on his way to the promised appointment with Rudolf, meets with Ada; hears from her of the poor Count Julian's madness, and what terrible revelations are breaking from his frenzied mind; he tells her what he has so lately learned, and departs to meet Rudolf, full of generous purposes toward him: "He's weak of fence, and when I have disarm'd him,— Meantime Klebel, awaiting the Countess, begins to fear he has ventured too far within her power, by coming to the castle. Rudolf, passing him on his way to meet Rupert, utters some threat, which Klebel's fears misinterpret, as if directed against himself. Klebel thereupon seizes Rudolf's arm just as he is passing behind the scenes, requires an explanation, and says something criminating the Countess, which enrages Rudolf. They fight: Rudolf falls behind the scenes; Klebel is wounded, staggers in, and sinks upon the stage. The Countess, entering behind, finds her son dying, snatches his sword, and flying upon the stage, rushes upon Klebel with repeated stabs. He exclaims: "My curses on you. I have breath to tell you— The Countess then hurries back to her son. We give the last scene: "Enter RUPERT, ADA, NURSE, ALBRECHT, and Attendants. ALBRECHT. 'Tis he, 'tis Klebel. NURSE. Klebel! It must be he that slew Count Rudolf, And has in turn from him receiv'd his death. ALBRECHT. Ha! (He approaches Klebel.) (A shriek heard behind the scenes.) RUPERT. Whence came that cry? ATTENDANT. (Enter a female Attendant.) O! horror! O! the Countess ! RUPERT. What of her? ATTENDANT. She is dead. Ere we could stay her, She struck her bosom with a sword she held, And falling on Count Rudolf's corpse, she died. RUPERT. In this Heav'n speaks its doom with awful voice. Death strikes here like a wrath-enchaf'd avenger, Amazing our weak souls with ghastly sights!Unto these prostrate ones we will perform, With thoughts unquestioning, our human duties: And then, the rights of sepulture discharg'd, Of these raz'd walls we'll make to them a tomb; That jocund life the blood-stain'd spot may shun, And gloomy silence dwell here evermore. (Enter COUNT JULIAN.) COUNT JULIAN. The child!-the child!-where, where? RUPERT. Here, uncle, here. COUNT JULIAN. (Perceives the body of Klebel, and goes up to it inquiringly.) Klebel! RUPERT. O! Uncle, wilt thou not embrace me? COUNT JULIAN. (Turns to Rupert with a look of recognition.) Where he will stand for judgment; and if there (Curtain falls.)" ART. VII.- Visits to Remarkable Places: Old Halls, Battle Fields, and Scenes illustrative of Striking Passages in English History and Poetry. By WILLIAM HOWITT. London: 1840. Longman, Orme, Browne, Green, and Long mans. MR. HOWITT has undertaken a series of literary and historical pilgrimages through the counties of England, the first fruits of which lie here before us in a large octavo volume, filled with anecdote, description, and the ordinary adventures of tourists. He cannot travel far in that microcosm of England without alighting upon something to appeal to his taste or reflection; and, as our writer is a poet, and of course a man of ready sympathies, we anticipate much honest enthusiasm from him. No prose title could well promise more of poetry in the leaves within, than such romance of biography and history in the traditions and relics of these old halls, battle fields, and visits to remarkable places. Nor are we at all disappointed when we get into the midst of this luxurious volume. Mr. Howitt is one of the most pleasant men among the travellers to be in company with we have met this many a day. He has a quick eye for the better class of objects, at least a cheerful and agreeable, if not always original, vein of reflection; he seems, indeed, to be writing alongside of Mary Howitt, for we may detect a woman's nicety of observation and general enthusiasm on many pages. There is no little original research, and a fair proportion of new matter, mixed up with some book-making-but this is a fault of the day. Writers now are composers, compilers, magazine scribblers, three volume men, book manufacturers, anything but authors. However, if much of this is, as we suspect, easy writing, it is also easy reading, and is worthy to rank much higher than the usual class of ladies' parlor books, where we see painting and engraving betrayed into an effeminacy they would have blushed at in the early manly stages of those arts. The engravings in the present book are not altogether free from a few of the impertinences recently practised in this shape. In some new editions of the classics, the text is vilely interpolated with such abuses in the shape of smiling, smirking flourishes of the pencil, that come in at the very moment you wish to be alone with the author. This is, however, only a hint to the publishers, and an appeal to the taste of some readers, that does not apply to the professedly ornamental book before us, to which we now turn. The first visit of Mr. Howitt is to Penshurst, a name that at once recalls to us the description of Ben Jonson, and the life of Sir Philip Sydney. This old pile has indeed a venerable story to tell of the daily habits of a family that will live alone in English history. There is no surer piece of biography than an old family mansion: its silent halls and gardens have been the companions of its occupants during more hours than the most frequent visitors. We could take off our hat to the Sydney oak with much the same feeling that we would regard an old family servant. Who knows how often the gateway, with its inscription commemorating the gift of Edward VI., may have fed the noble thoughts of this honorable pattern of chivalry? Next to Shakspeare, Sir Philip Sydney has had more eulogists than any name in our literature. Every subsequent poet has planted a few flowers on his grave, keeping his memory fresh and fragrant with a portion of the enthusiasm of his own day. He is "the courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword." The statesman admires the worthy son of Sir Henry Sydney, the poet mourns for Astrophel, and gains new life in the sweet protection of the Defence of Poesy; the courtier survives in the winged phrases of the Arcadia, and the soldier and humanist remember the hero and good Samaritan at Zutphen. Old as is the story, the name of Sydney should never be mentioned, without repeating the incident of his relieving the poor soldier. When he left the battle, faint and wounded, he asked for water to relieve his thirst, and when it was brought to him, as he raised it to his lips, he saw a dying soldier to whom he immediately sent it, saying, "This man's necessity is still greater than mine." This is biography, epitaph, inscription enough for a man though the rest had perished. While he lay suffering on his bed of pain, he talked of the Christian doctrine and the immortality of the soul, and on the day of his death called for music to refresh his parting spirit. He had previously composed an ode, which is now lost, thus dying, as he had lived, a poet. Disgusted At Penshurst, Algernon Sydney, too, lived. with the usurpation of Cromwell, he retired thither to indulge his dream of a republic, and discourse of government. He appears in history the pure minded lover of liberty, too inde |