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thought proper to trouble your highness with questions about it. The precognition and all the proceedings are lying in chancery. Let the writings be brought,' said the prince; and let the fellow himself appear, as soon as dinner is over.'

"The register of process went 'all round the table: when it came to me, I observed with consternation, that you, my dear Limbach, were the unfortunate prisoner; all the rest is known to yourself. What think you now of the lady? Can a person who exposes a worthy man to imprisonment for sport,-who then coolly gazes at him, as at a wild beast for show, who does not say a word to apologize for the sufferings she has caused, -can we call such a silly creature good-natured? Has she a compassionate heart? Can we call her an angel of Heaven? No, she is a monster, she is destitute of all the finer feelings of the soul.’

"I stood silent, and sunk in a deep reverie on my wonderful fate, which was spun by the hands of the women. The Count roused me, as from a dream, and said, 'Don't dwell any longer upon it, the thing is now over. Come to my house, my old honest friend. Refresh yourself there as long as you please, after all your hardships in prison, and, when you are in spirits, do me the favour to write me your life.'

"I accepted my friend's invitation, passed several comfortable weeks in his house, and, to please the generous Ossek, have become my own biographer. I am now about to set out on my return to, and heartily rejoice at the thought of seeing my good Jacob again.

"The worthy man never saw him

more.

When he arrived at the door of his house, a neighbour, with his face turned away, and with tears in his eyes, gave him the key, and quietly disappeared, without stopping to speak. Limbach went in and found the house as deserted and bare, as thirty years before he had found that of Rosa. Jacob, Jacob,' he cried in all the apartments. No Jacob appeared. In the mean time, some of the neighbours had, from curiosity, come in. He asked them if they knew what was become of his servant. "O he is gone!' My Jacob

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No,

gone! Dead do you mean? not dead, he ran off!" Good people, do not say so of my Jacob, he never could treat me so ill.' It is perfectly true; he ran off and took with him all he could carry away. O Jacob, Jacob, on whose faith and honesty I could have built a second Petersburgh. How is it possible? it cannot be ! how is it possible?' Yes, indeed, as we tell you; an infamous woman seduced him.' A woman!!' said Limbach; and fell to the ground, as if struck by a thunderbolt, and never rose more.'

Whenever Jannes had stopt reading, we awoke with "What were you saying about the old professor of astronomy ?"

Jannes. O he is gone to bed an hour since.

Editor. Well, then, we had better all follow his example.

day

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.

The crowds below are now dispersed, and you can get to your own garrets without molestation. Ah! it was just on such a morning as this that we saw, as we were taking our early rounds, poor Porteous dangling at the dyester's door! The streets were as quiet, and the dawn of day as serene. We remember it as well as yesterday, though it is nearly a century ago. Aye, aye-fugit hora sine mora,―sic transit gloria mundi. Go home now, you dogs; but come and give us some more German stories another evening.

ITALIAN LITERATURE.

No. II.-The Alcestis of Alfieri. THE Alcestis of Alfieri is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness, of which his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a restingplace. Most of his earlier writings

bear witness to that "fever at the core," that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of Alcestis must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish, nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the main-spring of the action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy.

The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery must render it dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the original language.

Act I.-Scene 2. Alcestis, Pheres.

Alc. Weep thou no more-O monarch! dry thy tears,

For know, he shall not die; not now shall

Fate

Bereave thee of thy son.

Phe. What mean thy words? Hath then Apollo--is there then a hope? Alc. Yes! hope for thee hope, by the voice announced

From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield

To other lips the tidings, meet alone
For thee to hear from mine.

Phe. But say! oh! say,
Shall then my son be spared?

VOL. VII.

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The cherish'd hope and glory of my age; And, unimpair'd by time, within my, breast,

High, holy, and unalterable love,
For her, the partner of my cares and joys,
Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink
thee, then,

In what suspense, what agony of fear,
I wait thy words; for well, too well, I see
Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries,
To some one of my race.

Alc. Death hath his rights,

Of which not e'en the great Supernal

Powers

3 T

May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand,

Already seized, the noble victim lay,
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime
And noon-day, struck :-Admetus, the re-
ver'd,

The bless'd, the lov'd, by all who own'd his sway,

By his illustrious parents, by the realms Surrounding his, and oh! what need to add,

How much by his Alcestis?-Such was he,

Already in th' unsparing grasp of death, Withering, a certain prey.-Apollo thence Hath snatch'd him, and another in his stead,

Though not an equal,-(who can equal him ?)

Must fall a voluntary sacrifice.
Another, of his lineage, or to him

By closest bonds united, must descend
To the dark realm of Orcus in his place,
Who thus alone is saved.

Phe. What do I hear?

Woe to us, woe!-what victim?-who shall be

Accepted in his stead?

Alc. The dread exchange

E'en now, O father! hath been made; the

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Disdain the victim.

Phe. All prepar'd the prey!

And to our blood allied! O heaven!-and yet

Thou bad'st me weep no more!

Alc. Yes! thus I said,

And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep Thy son's, nor I deplore my husband's doom.

Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard,

Than those his death had caus'd. With some few tears,

But brief, and mingled with a gleam of joy,

F'en while the involuntary tribute lasts, The victim shall be honour'd, who resign'd Life for Admetus.-Would'st thou know

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Than his lov'd parents-than his children

more

More than himself!-Oh! no, it shall not be!

Thou perish, O Alcestis! in the flower
Of thy young beauty!-perish, and destroy
Not him, not him alone, but us, but all,
Who as a child adore thee! Desolate
Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of
thee.

And think'st thou not of those, whose tender years

Demand thy care?-thy children! think of them!

O thou, the source of each domestic joy, Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die, While I can die for thee !—Me, me alone,

The oracle demands-a wither'd stem, Whose task, whose duty, is, for him to die.

My race is run-the fulness of my years,
The faded hopes of age, and all the love
Which hath its dwelling in a father's heart,
And the fond pity, half with wonder blent,
Inspired by thee, whose youth with hea
venly gifts

So richly is endowed; all, all unite
To grave in adamant the just decree,
That I must die. But thou, I bid thee
live!

Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis! live! Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass

An aged sire's devotedness.

Alc. I know

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As in his brightest days: and he shall live, Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck,

And with your innocent encircling arms
Twine round him fondly.

Eum. Can it be indeed,

Father, lov'd father! that we see thee thus Restored? What joy is ours!

Adm. There is no joy!

Speak not of joy! away, away! my grief Is wild and desperate; cling to me no more !

I know not of affection, and I feel
No more a father.

Eum. Oh! what words are these?
Are we no more thy children? Are we not
Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around

his neck

More close; he must return the fond embrace.

Adm. O children! O my children! to my soul

Your innocent words and kisses are as darts,

That pierce it to the quick. I can no more Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound Of your soft accents but too well recals The voice which was the music of my life. Alcestis! my Alcestis !-was she not

Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e'er

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Adm. Is it thou?

thus

And do I see thee still? and com'st thou
To comfort me, Alcestis? Must I hear
Thy dying accents thus? Alas! return
To thy sad couch, return! 'tis meet for me
There by thy side for ever to remain.

Alc. For me thy care is vain. Though
meet for thee

Adm. O voice! O looks of death! are these, are these

Thus darkly shrouded with mortality The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life

Of my fond soul? Alas! how faint a ray Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant

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More lifeless than the dying victim, see
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet,
Still farther let us bear him from the sight
Of his Alcestis.

Alc. O my handmaids! still
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose
With sacred modesty, these torpid limbs
When death's last pang is o'er.

Chorus. Alas! how weak

Her struggling voice! that last keen pang is near.

Peace, mourners, peace!

Be hush'd, be silent, in this hour of dread! Our cries would but increase

Chorus of Admetus.

'Tis not enough, oh! no!
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes;
Still must our silent band
Around him watchful stand,
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow,
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries.

Yet, yet hope is not dead.
All is not lost below,

While yet the gods have pity on our woe.
Oft when all joy is filed,

Heaven lends support to those Who on its care in pious hope repose.

Then to the blessed skies

Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. Pray! bow the knee, and pray! What other task have mortals, born to tears,

Whom fate controls, with adamantine sway?

O ruler of the spheres!

Jove! Jove! enthron'd immortally on high,

Our supplication hear!

Nor plunge in bitterest woes,

Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his

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THE following remarks, thrown together many years ago, rather hastily and unconnectedly, seem to me to contain some principles which have scarcely been attended to, and which

The sufferer's pangs; let tears unheard be yet, I flatter myself, are not quite un

shed,

Cease, voice of weeping, cease!

Sustain, O friend!

Upon thy faithful breast,

deserving of attention. I am emboldened to send you them very much as they were originally written.

There are some questions relative to

The head that sinks, with mortal pain op- dramatic poetry, which have never

prest!

And thou, assistance lend

To close the languid eye,

Still beautiful, in life's last agony.

Alas! how long a strife!

been very accurately examined. To begin with the time which a drama may be supposed to occupy;-it has been recommended by the critics that this should not exceed the space of a

What anguish struggles in the parting day. In strict propriety, a day is too

breath,

Ere yet immortal life

Be won by death!

Death! death! thy work complete!
Let thy sad hour be fleet,

Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh!

No more keen pangs impart To her, the high in heart, Th' ador'd Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die.

long time, if the reason of the limitation be, that the spectator shall be fully satisfied of the probability that those occurrences of which he is a witness, may have actually taken place in the time during which they have been presented to him. It is, however, imagined, that if the story

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