ly features in the long wrappings of her sepulchral veil. Bertha is afraid that Jaromir has taken the dagger for the purpose of self-destruction; but to shew her that not such were his intentions, he draws from his bosom a phial of poison, which he tosses at her feet. She lifts the fatal present-Jaromir retires into his own apartment-and here closes the third act. At the commencement of Act IV. the old Count Borotin is brought in wounded; and when they propose to bear him to his chamber, he refuses. The last of the Borotins, he says, must die in the hall of the Borotins, and a couch is spread for him in the midst of the floor -the armour and the portraits of his ancestors hanging on every side around him. While he is taking leave of his daughter, the Captain comes in and informs him, that one of the robbers, whom they have seized, has a piece of intelligence, which he is anxious, above all things, to communicate to him before he dies. The robber, an old man, Boleslav, is introduced. His story is, that the son of theCount was not drowned,as had been believed, but stolen from the castle gate by himself in his infancy. And where and what is he? (cries the dying man) A robber?-Heaven! he answers not my question. Count. Here? Bol. My lord, Unknown to you that stranger, who, to-night, Wearied and pale, came here to seek protectionBer. (Interrupting him.) How? Jaromir? Bol. The same. Count. Thou demon! Hold! Count. He goes and leaves his words yet unretracted: So bury me ye walls! Destruction come! Fall down, ye pillars, that this earth uphold! The son has slain his father! It is thus that Borotin dies: Bertha is left lying on the floor in a stupor of agony, from which she, after a pause of several minutes, awakes wildly, and speaks. And am I called for? Yes, my name is Bertha.... I know that many things have come to pass, said they not that my father was a robber? So was the robber named; and from the bosom Even while she deem'd it most secure, and left, And then there was a son who kill'd his father! (Joyfully.) My brother, too, came back! my drown'd, lost brother! And he, my brother-hold, hold !-down, I say— (Her hand convulsively press'd on her breast.) Back to thy cell again, thou poisonous reptile! There gnaw and tear my vitals--But be silent! (She takes a light. Aye, now I'll go to sleep-to sleep! The dreams Her wandering looks now happen to notice on the table the phial, which (in the third act) she had insisted on taking from Jaromir. But what is this So glittering on the table? Oh, I know thee, Take back those horrid words! Thou fiend from hell, Softly. I say, recall them! Bol. Nay, my lord, 'tis true. Count. Recall thy words. Bol. My lord, in truth, I cannot. Count. (Raising himself with his whole strength from the couch.) Thou shalt, by Heaven! Capt. (In a soothing tone to the Count.) My lord! (Then pointing to Boleslav.) Away with him! Bol. (To the Captain.) Pray, noble sir!— [With the intention here expressed she endeavours to walk on tiptoe towards the table: but at every step, being now quite exhausted by the conflict she has undergone, she totters more and more, till without obtaining the phial, she falls to the ground; and here the Fourth Act is terminated.] The beginning of the fifth act represents Boleslav, who has been set at lib erty, as seeking Jaromir in his lurking place. The unhappy boy, before this man joins him, is tormented by a thousand mysterious revulsions of thought at the deed by which his own safety had been purchased. Jar. And if what I have done be right, then where- Has this dark horror seiz'd me? Wherefore thus Almost his hands had reach'd me ; and just then To quell that moaning voice. In hollow murmurs If to myself I say, 'twas but my foe By the sharp dagger of a runaway. Jar. Thou fiend! Malicious fiend! And with one word Wouldst thou destroy me? Art thou so presuming, Because I bear no arms? Nature, 'tis true, Does little: Yet she gave me teeth and talons; Hyena weapons with Hyena rage, Bol. He is mad! Jar. And must I then believe [He runs out, This demon's words? Ha! were they true: This tale, His son! his only son! and-Ha! who spoke there? [Suddenly covering his face with both his hands. Most precious, holy, venerable, dear, Balm from his tongue distils; for he who gains Thro' life's rough waves, and at the tempest smile! That I have slain, then Hell with scorn reminds me, Aye! I can hear, with trembling horror now, The following is part of the conversation that passes between Boleslav and Jaromir. The old robber is communicating to the boy the true secret of his birth. How speaks the Eternal Judge," All other crimes But our limits prevent us from being able to give any more of the terrible lamentations and ravings of the unhappy boy. Sensible as he now is of all the Bol. This castle's halls first heard thy voice in accumulated horrors in which he has childhood; Here first thine eyes beheld the light; and here, Unconsciously in its possessor's arms, Bast thou first gain'd the embraces of a father! become involved-he is still anxious to see Bertha once more, and lingers near that window of the castle vault at which (Upon which Jaromir shrieks out,“No! No!" and she has promised to meet him. the robber continues. It is as I have said: Come now, And go with me to him. The law that deals Too hardly with a robber will be milder Against the son of one so rich and noble. While he lingers, a light from another range of windows in the same part of the building attracts his attention-he climbs up, and, looking in, sees the chapel filled Come with me, while 'tis time. He lies there wounded. with priests and mourners surrounding And who can tell how short his life may be ? Only just now, when in pursuit of us, Round this old gloomy castle, he was struck the hearse of his father. Nothing can be conceived more awful than this situ Jar. So here I am at last. Now, courage! courage! A long black line of blood; and though my heart [His own hands meet by accident. Yes! it was mine. And art thou now so numb'd [The Ancestress then steps from the monument.] An. Who calls? Jar. What, art thou there? Then all is well. Wherefore so mournful? Courage, dearest, courage! I am so glad and joyous-look at me! And as I feel, so too should'st thou. Pray, mark me. Jer. Thou say'st it still So mournfully. My sister, laugh, I say! And then my father, [He pauses.] Come, but we waste time No more of this! All is prepared for flight. An. Where is thy father? Far. Silence! Silence, I say! An. Where is thy father? Far. Wife, Be silent, and no more torment me thus ! 'Thou hast beheld me but in milder words; An. (With increasing energy.) Where is thy father? To call me to account? Where is my father ? Ungrateful! Is it thus that thou rewardest The pains of hell that gnaw my heart in sunder, Nor thus deny me now! An. Begone! Away! far. What I begone! No never without thee! We go together; and if even thy father Himself withheld thee, with that ghastly wound, Whose bloody lips wide-yawning call me murderer, Thou should'st not from my arms escape. An. Begone! In pronouncing the two last lines, he runs after the Ancestress, who says, Then come thou lost one! And opens her arms, into which he immediately throws himself, but starts back with a cry of horror—he staggers a few paces, and then sinks down on Bertha's coffin. At this monent, the doors are burst open, and Gunther, the Captain with his band, and Boleslav the robber rush in. The Captain says, Murderer, yield thyself, thy hour is come. The Ancestress then stretches out her arm, and they remain staring at her with astonishment and terror. She then leans over Jaromir, and with the words, Thou hopeless victim, part in peace! She kisses him on the forehead, then lifts up the shroud, and spreads it mourn fully over both the dead bodies, (for her kiss proves instantly mortal to Jaromir) then with lifted hands, she exclaims, Now then, is all fulfilled! Thro' fate's dark night of horror, Be prais'd Eternal Power! Receive me now, Thou silent cell! The Ancestress comes home! She moves with solemn pace back to the monument; and when she has yanished into its gloomy recess, the Captain's party come forward intending to seize Jaromir. Capt. Ha! now we hold him certain. Gunther, the old steward, hastens to the bier, lifts up the covering, and says, weeping, He is dead. the sister is love conceived in ignorance -love, which not to have been conceived between such personages so situated, would have appeared an absurdity, or rather an impossibility to such a poet as Grillparzer. It is a love, pure and ethereal, unconsciously, as it were, melted away into heavenly purity-by that very law of heaven that forbids the union of the unhappy, but, in so far as their love is conceived, the not guilty lovers. It seems as if we felt the mysterious breath of nature, playing coolly and calmly over their burning brows-not extinguishing the passion, but purging all dross from the flame. We know, indeed, and feel that the disappointment of such a passion is a thing not to be survived by creatures so young--so ardent -so entirely living in their love. But the death which we foresee, comes before us not in the shape of a punishment, but of a predetermined expiation of guilt long since punished on her that committed it,-demanding no pardon for those that die that it may be forgotten. We see Jaromir laid upon the virgin hearse of Bertha without a shudder-with a calm and acquiescing reverence for the horror that has laid him there. Such indeed is the entire mas-tery of his love in his breast, and in the fable of the poet, that the other, the yet darker, because completed, horror-the parricide-is almost forgotten in its conwiped out all his other guilt; when he templation. The tears of Jaromir have dies, we regard him as dying only for his love. There is one remark only which we cannot forbear making ere we conclude our sketch of this most beautiful and soul-subduing tragedy. It is a tale of incestuous love-but it is the only tale of that kind which was ever presented, either in a dramatic or in any other form, without wounding the ear of the hearer, or the eye of the spectator. There is one tragedy, indeed, (the Mirra of Alfieri,) founded on the same species of interest, which is in one respect no less pure-but those who remember the structure of that magnificent tragedy, will be at no loss to see the reason for the preference we have given to the Ancestress. The love of the brother and The creation of the character of Bertha is another thing, in praise of which too much could not be said; but we believe we might safely leave that to the imagination and the hearts of our readers. What beautiful use is made of the resemblance between her and the guilty spectre mother-how that resemblance subdues all feelings of horror for the sins of the departed, into sympathy with the sufferings of those that tread in life before us-how it raises also, into a mysterious sublimity, those living lineaments which might otherwise have expressed only the mild tenderness and mild ardour of young and hoping love. The horror which we feel for the shroud of the one, (when the unhappy youth mistakes her for his mistress,) is soon communicated to the bridal garland of the other and we revolt, with an instinctive tremour, from the idea of that very love which excites, at the same moment, our admiration, and our reverence, and our sympathy. she is no less admirably conceived and preserved than any of the others. This is not a subject for speaking about; but every thing in the words and gestures of this wandering spectre bespeaks the utmost perfection and entireness of imagination. Whenever she appears, the atmosphere around the living creatures among whom she walks is changed The miserable ghostlike face of the universe, described in the very first her breath stops theirs, and chills speech of this unfortunate maiden, pre- their blood with the damp and icy vapares us to look on all around her and pours of the tomb. The words she us as wrapped in snow and ice. Life speaks are few-" Whither go you, seems all like the forest on which she Bertha ?"-" HOME," and truly that gazes-dreary-frozen-benumbed- HOME was desolate enough; but she black-trod only by footsteps of guilt points to it with her waving finger, in and misery-echoing only the shouts assurance, that in its desolation she shall of bloodshed, revenge, and death. Even amidst all the beautiful feelings called out by Bertha's confession of her love to her father, the predominating darkness of her destiny hangs out distinct and visible. The vision she sees in the mirror is an omen that cannot be mistaken, True from the beginning do we feel to be the words of Borotin, My poor, poor child, you have been born for sorrow. The composure of expectation with which the old man throughout contemplates the coming extinction of his hopes and his house-the calmness with which he meets even the poniard blow of his son-his dying words so full, not of forgiveness, but of something that supersedes and excels all forgiveness;-all things, in son, in daughter, and in father, partake of the same universal tinge of foreseen misery not to be contended with, not to be averted, claiming and receiving only a desperate meekness and a terrible resignation. But the Ancestress herself is one of the characters of the piece, and surely soon have rich companionship. There is not a more holy, nor a more awful thought than that of the unity created and nourished among those of the same blood, and never was this thought brought before us in more appropriate and mysterious power, than in the tragedy of the Borotins. The pictures that moulder upon their walls, the green and time-worn forms sculptured over the resting-places of departed knights and ladies-all seem to be imbued with a sort of dim "life in death ;"-it seems as if even their decay were not to move beyond its commencement until the last fragments of the line had been swept into the same vault-and all the long series of ancestry and progeny been shut up together within "those ponderous and marble jaws," there to mingle forever in repose the blood and dust that had so often been bequeathed and inherited. It is thus that the axe is at last laid to the root of the blighted oakand that all the Borotins are gathered to their fathers. ORIGINAL ANECDOTES OF EMINENT PERSONS. SPENCE'S ANECDOTES.* OF Spence and his Polymetis, which as much for the latter. Dr. Johnson described him as " a man whose learning was not very great, and whose mind was not very powerful;" but he acknowledges that his criticism was com Anecdotes, Observations, and Characters of Books and Men. Collected from the Conversations of Mr. Pope, and other eminent Persons of his time. By the Rev. Joseph Spence. Now first published from the original Papers. With Notes and a Life of the Author. By Samuel Weller Singer. London 1820. |
