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'COUNTESS. O think not so! he shall be taught to love thee

He shall be taught to lisp thy name, and raise

His little hands to Heaven for blessings on thee

As one most dear, though absent.

GARCIO. I do believe that thou wilt teach him so.
I know that in my lonely state of penitence,
Sever'd from earthly bliss, I to thy mind
Shall be like one whom death hath purified.
O that, indeed, or death, or any suff'rings
By earthly frame or frameless spirit endured,
Could give me such a nature as again
Might be with thine united!'

*

*

'COUNTESS. And wilt thou then a houseless wand'rer be? Shall I, in warm robe wrapp'd, by winter fire

List to the pelting blast, and think the while

Of thy unshelter'd head?—

Or eat my bread in peace, and think that Garcio-
Reduce me not to such keen misery!

(Bursting into an agony of tears.)

GARCIO. And dost thou still feel so much pity for me?

Retain I yet some portion of thy love?

O, if I do—I am not yet abandoned

To utter reprobation. (Falling at her feet, and embracing her knees.) Margaret! wife!

May I still call thee by that name so dear?

COUNTESS (disentangling herself from his hold, and removing to some distance.)

O, leave me, leave me! for Heaven's mercy leave me!

GARCIO (following her, and bending one knee to the ground.)

Margaret, beloved wife! keenly beloved!

COUNTESS. Oh, move me not! forbear, forbear in pity!

Fearful, and horrible, and dear thou art!

Both heaven and hell are in thee! Leave me then,

Leave me to do that which is right and holy.

GARCIO. Yes, what is right and holy thou shalt do; Stain'd as I am with blood-with kindred bloodHow could I live with thee? O do not think

I basely seek to move thee from thy purpose,

O, no! Farewell, most dear and honour'd Margaret;
Yet, ere I go, couldst thou without abhorrence—(Pauses.)
COUNTESS. What wouldst thou, Garcio?

GARCIO. If but that hand beloved were to my lips

Once more in parting press'd, methinks I'd go

With lighten'd misery. Alas! thou canst not!
Thou canst not to such guilt

I can! I will!

COUNTESS. 'And Heaven in mercy pardon me this sin, If sin it be.'-vol. ii. pp. 70-72.

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We have hitherto chosen our extracts chiefly to display the strong dramatic effect of these compositions-before we conclude, we must make room for one more passage in Miss Baillie's sweetest tone of poetry:

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'SOPHERA. And look, I pray, how sweet and fresh and fragrant The dewy morning is. There, o'er our heads The birds conven'd like busy gossips sit,

Trimming their speckled feathers. In the thick
And tufted herbage, with a humming noise

Stirs many a new-waked thing; amongst the grass
Beetles, and lady-birds, and lizards glide,
Showing their shining coats like tinted gold.

COUNTESS. Yes, all things, in a sunny morn like this,

That social being have and fellowship

With others of their kind, begin the day
Gladly and actively. Ah! how wakes he,
His day of lonesome silence to begin,
Who, of all social intercourse bereft,

On the cold earth hath pass'd the dismal night?
Cheerful domestic stir, nor crowing cock,
Nor greeting friend, nor fawning dog hath he
To give him his good-morrow.

SOPHERA. Nay, do not let your fancy brood on this,
Think not my Lord, though he with Gomez parted
In a lone wood, will wander o'er the earth

In dreary solitude. In every country

Kind hearts are found to cheer the stranger's way.
COUNTESS. Heaven grant he meet with such!

SOPHERA. Then be not so cast down. Last night the air
Was still and pleasant; sweetly through the trees,
Which moved not, look'd the stars and crescent moon:
The night-bird's lengthen'd call with fitful lapse,
And the soft ceaseless sound of distant rills
Upon the list'ning ear came soothingly;
While the cool freshness of the air was mix'd
With rising odours from the flowery earth.
In such sweet summer nights, be well assured
The unhoused head sleeps soundest.

COUNTESS. The unhoused head! and Garcio's now is such!' vol. ii. pp. 79, 80. The close of the Separation is rather melo-dramatic; but on the stage might produce a stirring effect. The Marquis of Tortona, indignant at the contemptuous rejection of his suit by the widow-wife of Garcio, invests the castle with a great body of troops. Among the objects of charity who crowd to the hospitable gate of the Countess is a mysterious hermit, who conceals himself in the castle during this siege. The small garrison is re

duced

duced to the last extremity-the breach is already made-the conquerors are pouring in over the body of the commander, Rovani, when the hermit breaks forth, slays Tortona, and is himself mortally wounded. He dies at the feet of his wife-Garcio, her husband, her deliverer.

We have dwelt almost exclusively on these two dramas, considering them as by far the best in the collection. But we are by no means blind to the merit of some of the smaller pieces. Among these, we think that we have been most delighted with 'The Phantom,' from which however we must refrain from making any extracts: we would not mar a ghost-story for the world; and this is certainly one of the most striking of ghost-stories, cast with great skill into the form of a short drama. The Provost of Glasgow, however, and his lovely, patient, and gentle daughter, must receive our tribute of admiration. The Phantom might make a very pretty pendant to the graceful little drama on Hope, in the former series. One of the prose plays, The Homicide,' abounds in stirring incident, and effective situation; it would tell, we should conceive, upon the stage.

Miss Baillie, with singular modesty, intimates that it was her intention not to have published these dramas during her lifetime, but that after her death they should have been offered to some of the smaller theatres of our metropolis, and thereby have a chance, at least, of being produced to the public with the advantages of action and scenic decoration, which naturally belong to dramatic representations.' Surely Miss Baillie's maid, like Lydia Languish's, must have torn out of a certain good old book rather beyond the chapter upon proper pride.' We protest in the strongest terms against this derogation from the dignity of genuine tragedy. We trust that the larger theatres will assert their superior claim, and vindicate themselves from the charge implied in this apparent despondency, this more than becoming humility, of our great dramatic authoress. We will surrender to the MINORS, and they may make much of them, Witchcraft, the Stripling, perhaps the Homicide; but we venture to hope that we are not anticipating the fine taste of Mr. Kemble, in suggesting the part of Henriquez as worthy of his great talents. If so, we wish that the brilliant success, which he must meet with, may only be checked by the no less attractive performance of the Separation at the rival theatre. Miss Baillie may thus be triumphantly convinced that admiration of true dramatic talent is not yet extinct in the country, and the evening of her life may thus be adorned by that public homage to her extraordinary talents, which is the ambition and true reward of a dramatic writer.

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ART. IX-A Twelvemonth's Campaign with Zumalacarregui during the War in Navarre and the Basque Provinces of Spain. By C. F. Henningsen. Post 8vo. London. 1836.

WHEN

HEN Lord Eliot and Colonel Gurwood reached the headquarters of Zumalacarregui at Aserta on the 24th of April last, they were particularly struck with the conversation of a young countryman of their own who had joined the Carlists as a volunteer about a year before, and having won step after step by the most chivalrous gallantry, was now high in the staff, and decorated with the order of St. Ferdinand, with which Don Carlos himself had presented him at the conclusion of a charge which he personally witnessed. Colonel Gurwood describes this gentleman as 'a fine handsome young Englishman,' accomplished by education, and speaking several languages with perfect ease and correctness, whose picturesque details of his short military experience were exceedingly instructive, and who took the warmest interest in the humane object of the Duke of Wellington's mission. Mr. Henningsen continued to serve with the Carlists until the death of Zumalacarregui, for whom he had conceived that romantic species of attachment which he himself calls the soldier's first love-that love which, once widowed, can never again find a place in the heart.' He then retired, not from any belief that the fall of his chief, however severe a blow, would prove fatally injurious to the cause of the Infant; but, partly at least, from the painful conviction that the warfare, which all Zumalacarregui's endeavours in his latter days had proved unable to humanize, would grow more and more brutal and barbarous under the management of his successors. We are inclined to think that, with this generous motive, there may also have mingled the very rational anticipation that, however the war might terminate, an officer of his own class would at best be turned adrift without ceremony.

Captain Henningsen's narrative, now before us, constitutes the only full and fair account we have yet had of the northern insurrection-its origin, objects, and progress-down to the death of his chief. A more interesting memoir, we do not hesitate to say, we have never read. It is rich in matter deserving the attention of the statesman, and the diplomatist, and above all the military student; but we shall confine ourselves to a very short summary of the views which the author gives us of the personal character and bearing of Zumalacarregui-and some detached anecdotes and descriptions illustrative of the miseries and horrors of the Spanish civil war; a contest carried on in the face of the European civilization of the nineteenth century with all the ferocity, the cruelty, the utterly savage ruthlessness of the wildest

barbarians

barbarians of the darkest ages-and which, for aught we can see, likely to be so carried on for an indefinite number of years, unless the general humanity of the Christian nations shall combine them in some decided and irresistible interference.

One word only as to parties ranged against each other in Spain. The proceedings by which Ferdinand VII., in the last feebleness of his character and health, changed the order of succession in favour of his infant daughter-must at all events be allowed to have been of most questionable justice, and very uncertain authority. His disinherited brother, however, was considered by every Spaniard as the chief and type of the principles of monarchy and catholicism; his personal qualities of honesty and manly courage-(he had stood firm, when Ferdinand and all the rest of the family yielded to the mingled cajoleries and menaces of Napoleon)-were such as to make him dreaded, in spite of his very slender abilities and acquirements, by the enemies-and adored universally by the adherents of these great principles. The party thus devoted to him consists of, generally speaking, the rural branch of the Spanish population;—the priesthood, secular and regular, almost to a man, the small country gentry, the yeomanry, and the peasantry, are with him; and these constitute, as near as possible, nine-tenths of the whole population. The inhabitants of the great commercial towns have opened their affections, for the most part, to the more liberal principles so much in favour at present elsewhere. The court, in actual possession of the seat of government, and sustained by this more stirring and more compact part of the nation, has commanded, with few exceptions, the adhesion of the grandees and other principal nobles-just as these classes went over, with a few exceptions, to Joseph Buonaparte. The army generally gave its allegiance to the pay-office-(no general officer of high standing, except Santos Ladron and Armencha, has ever appeared on the side of Carlos); the whole matériel---fortresses and munitions of war, were at the service of the Queen. The Carlist spirit showed itself on the death of Ferdinand in local insurrections almost everywhere; but the absence of their prince in Portugal, and the want of any great name around which to rally, rendered these demonstrations ineffectual-except in North Castile-where the Curate Merino has all along maintained himself at the head of a considerable though irregular force,—and in Navarre and Biscay, where the insurrection was uniformly becoming more and more formidable, from the hour when Colonel Thomas Zumalacarregui, of a poor but noble family, with 2007. in his pocket, put himself at the head of its bandit-like germ of scarcely eight hundred men, until, after having successively worn out six hostile armies, actually killed off almost all the veterans in the Spanish service, and de

stroyed

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