"First, He says, We entered the arch which the water had made.' Does any man of common sense suppose that the water was like aquafortis, to cut or eat out of a solid rock ten or twelve feet thick, an arch of thirty-five or forty feet high, and about twenty wide; this would have been a phenomenon of rather an unusual and extraordinary nature. If such occurrences took place in the Doctor's time, I am sure none has in mine. Secondly, He deems it a place of safe retreat for small vessels in the time of war, persisting in the opinion of the practicability of stopping up its entrance with little difficulty, so as to secure its inhabitants from their enemies, and saying that the crews of the vessels thus blockaded can lie safe in the caverns below, while their vessels are shattered from above with stones.' I suppose every one sees the improprie ty of this conjecture, it being a well known fact that, were their vessels shattered to pieces, however secure from their enemies, they themselves might be, while lying in the caverns, they would literally starve. I can see, indeed, little advantage they could have in being saved from stoning to perish by starving, even allowing the possibility of being safely barricaded as he says, a few lines before, when visiting it in a boat, we were inclosed by a natural wall, rising steep on every side to a height which produced the idea of insurmountable confinement.' Again he says, If I had any malice against a walking spirit, instead of laying him in the Red Sea, I would condemn him to reside in the Bullers of Buchan.' How then, in the name of wonder, could it be possible, for those who were without the means to get out, to save their lives, unless another miracle were wrought, and they fed with ravens, as was Elijah !" We think that we have quoted enough of this entertaining little volume to interest the benevolent reader in its author. Do buy a copy, then, our good sir-and be assured that, if you have a library at all, there are many worse books in it than the "Annals of Peterhead." HORE GERMANICE. [By way of giving as much variety as possible to the views we are opening for our English readers into the present condition of German literature-and more particularly into what we consider its most promising department, the tragic drama, we this month insert, not an account of a regular play, but a complete translation of a short dramatic sketch, intended originally for being represented upon a private stage. This is a species of composition wherein all the best of the German poets have occasionally condescended to employ their powers. The stage is the ruling passion of the German people in the present day, and nothing connected with that passion and its manifestations can be regarded as uninteresting. It would, of course, be equally useless and impertinent for us to enter into any regular criticism of a composition which we present entire to the judgment of our readers. There is something in the history of the little piece, however, which must not be omitted. It originally appeared under the name of the Twenty-Ninth of February, with a conclusion of the darkest horror-infanticide being added to the guilt of adultery and incest, in order to leave no part of the spectator's soul unpenetrated with the influence of the awful Destiny (the favourite deity, as we have already sufficiently seen, of the German stage) that was here set forth as coming down from her accustomed arena of royal and noble houses, to spread ruin and desolation over the family of a simple forester. There is a fine passage in the Thyestes of Seneca, which seems as if it had been written expressly to speak the meaning of the sketch as it then stood. Mentes cæcus instiget furor : Rabies Parentum duret ; et longum nefas Pejus tamen nascantur -Impiâ stuprum in domo Levissimum sit. But, indeed, the spirit of Eschylus hi: self seemed to have been conjured entire by Müllner into his narrower and lowlier circle. In this state, there is no doubt, the production was a more perfect one of its kind than it is now; but no one can regret the alteration, with whatever minor disadvantages it may be attended. Well as the Germans are accustomed to strong excitements, it was found that their public would not tolerate seeing terrors of this kind brought home to the immediate bosoms of mankind in the midst of that humble life, for whose hardships Providence has sent down an equivalent in its exemption from many of those miseries that visit higher heads. The author, therefore, devised a new catastrophe-a tender and happy-not a terrible one, for the Twenty-Ninth of February; and it is in this shape we now give it. The name will strike English ears as a strange one; but it could not have appeared in any such light to the Germans, who were already well acquainted with the Twenty-Fourth of February by Werner-a beautiful composition, of which, in one of our early Hore, we shall give an account at least, if not a complete version. The quibble in the name of the female may also appear in very doubtful taste-we think it is so, but still must recollect that it is the bad taste of Homer, Eschylus, Euripides, Shakspeare-as well as of Adolphus Müllner. The German reader may be informed that the pun in the original is on the word Thräné (which signifies tears.) The chief interest of the piece, and its chief merit, appears to consist in the powerful idea it gives of an unseen but felt communion and sympathy going on between the world of the living and the world of the dead. It is the vice and the misery of modern literature that ideas of this dark kind are left out and banished. They do not suit the clear-sighted, rational, intellectual eye of our self-satisfied age-an age which is too proud of itself to take any delight in the exhibition of difficulties and mysteries, such as all its power cannot overcome, nor all its perspicacity explain. There is, nevertheless, great sublimity and great beauty too in the idea which Müllner has so well illustrated; and there is nothing in it, so far as we can see, that should shock the notions of the most sincere Christian, although we observe the German critics have, for the most part, been of a very different opinion. In our next article of this series we shall have the pleasure of introducing, for the first time to the English reader, another great living tragedian-Oehlenschlager the Dane.] To blame a mother's care-thou art severeWal. Thy care is most unsuitable, applied To restless moods of youth. Boys all are driven To wild pursuits by youthful impulsesOut of a mother's anxious hand they tear The leading strings, and give the reins to pleasure. Even as the sportive hoof of the young horse Raises the dust in clouds-so they contend With stocks and stones, all for the sake of strife, That boyish power may grow to manly strength Wildness to wisdom.-If thou would'st re tain A son's affection, let him go and come Soph. Oh could I weave! His fortune like this net, and regulate Watches for such an opportunity, Has risked thine all, is by the invisible claw Misfortune rule me with resistless power, Even as the wedge that rends the tree is driven, Deeper and deeper by the heavy axe, So pain on pain increasing presses on me, Till my poor heart will break!-Thus am I judged 'Tis but the punishment I have deserved For having broke mine oath thee to avoidWal. Delusions all! grieve not! it was his will! Soph. Believ'st thou this? Thy looks deny thy words. If so what caus'd her death. Wal. Leave that alone. Soph. Why did he perish when he heard the news? Wal. Why did he live our marriage to prevent? Soph. My dreams are true. At our lost daughter's birth, Methought I saw her like a seraph floating And pale and lowly in the grave she lay. Without compassion? Did I not behold, Wal. No more of this. Thy dreams Are all so frightful, that the mere narration Is equal almost unto the fulfilmentFor my sake, then, I pray thee, tell no more, For my brain whirls. Soph. Hear how amid the forest The thaw wind moans; while from the south are borne Clouds threatening with their load of sleet and rain. Without the gloom increases; and, within, All grows to me more dark and apprehen sive. Such a mere child! how easily may he wander ! Send after him! I cannot bear it longer! Wal. But whom? Soph. The boy. Wal. Nay, he is distant far. Soph. Then will I light the lantern straight, and go Myself. Wal. Thou, and alone? That road by night Thou never hast attempted. If the wind Mid-way by chance should blow the lantern out, Thou wilt both lose thy labour and thyself. Soph. Go thou! Wal. And wilt thou stay content alone? Soph. Nay, let us go together! Wal. Surely not! He must have staid, regardless of the night, Soph. (violently agitated.) Mercy! Wal. What mean'st thou ? Soph. Only this-I pray thee, tell me, Did the boy take his skates with him to-day? Wal. Doubtless he did-the morning still was frosty. Soph. (running to the lantern.) Oh, then, indeed I can no longer stay, Even if the storm should rend the forest oaks. Wal. (interrupting her.) Art thou a Christian? Be composed! rely On Heaven, and wait! (Violent noise in the chimney, and fire issues from it.) Soph. All gracious powers! my son- One might have thought the house, with "man and mouse," Had met destruction. All because the storm Has broken down the chimney top. See'st thou? Soph. (with wildly fixed eyes.) Oh, Walter, he is dead! SCENE II. Emilius enters, muffled to the throat-books my son! Then he is safe. For thee, Emilius, deeply have I suffered. Wal. Well, there he is at last, in health and ruddy. Soph. Give me thy books and neckcloth too. How drench'd Thou art even to the throat! Em. But, father! tell me Who is it that is dead? Wal. Nay, ask thy mother, She deem'd that thou wert lost. Em. Indeed!-of this I had not thought. Wal. But look to it, my boy! It is forsooth thy duty now to dieTo verify the solemn signs and tokens, Or no man will believe in them again. Soph. Come now, Emilius, change thy dress. Em. (kindly.) Pray, mother, Take not this trouble. Soph. (in a voice of sudden terror.) What is that? Wal. Ha! what? Soph. (terrified.) He bleeds!- Soph. See! the marks upon his collar! From foolish quarrels ?-Hast thou been again Boxing with mad companions? You are too good. Soph. Am I ?--Well then, Emilius Will not refuse his mother one request. Em. No surely-Tell me what it is. Soph. Give me Those foolish toys that bring thee into danger: Go on the ice no more.-Now, wilt thou promise? Em. Aye, that forsooth I promise willingly, Because THE ICE TO-MORROW WILL BREAK UP : (Both parents are much moved.) However, thou wilt not withhold them from me, When the next frost sets in. Wal. Boy, thy whole heart Is fixed upon this play. Em. No doubt it is. When I have got them buckled on securely, Thou canst not guess how light of heart I feel! Of all our sports it is the best !-One flies Like some unearthly spirit; and his course Swift as an arrow, without pain or trouble, Is finish'd unawares. If one grows wild, as thou art. Soph. Too soon, indeed, Em. Mother, hear me. So, (as I dream sometimes) in rapid flight, Joyous and free, the spirits of dead children Are borne about ;-for souls are light as air. Then as I would have climb'd our forest hill, Voices I heard of children at the river, Wal. Why so? Em. I know not; Only I feel that I am lonely here. Wal. Are we not here? and lov'st thou not thy parents? Em. Oh surely.-But who is there here to play with? Wal. Poor boy!-But I will join thee in thy sports. Em. Not so, thou art not willing-But when I Have learn'd the hunter's noble art,-Ah! then, I'll know to please thee better. Wal. (grinding the hanger.) Well, ere long "Tis thine to do but yet thou can'st not play. Wal. Ah truly, to thy home of happiness, Childhood! there can be no return. Could I Once more but play! Em. If it so pleases thee, Listen, and I will teach thee.-Thou wouldst all Hear and behold in full reality.-Whate'er thou canst not hold substantially, Even like the hunting knife which thou art sharping, Accords not with thy humour.-For the future, Pray follow my example-for all things Or mountain goat, dead as a stone I shoot, Has all things good-whate'er imagination Presents is real; and in dreams we rule The universe. Em. Methinks since Clara died, From thee all cheerfulness is quite departedBut I am joyous-she is still with me— Still smiles and joins in every gameWal. (agitated.) Emilius! Em. Nay, when close to the river I had come, From whence the voices rose, the night had fallen No one was there-But it was near the place, Where is my sister's grave-A longing drew me Mine eyes were filled with tears-I knew not why I lean'd myself upon a wither'd tree came on, Of deep tranquillity. I saw my sister, Leaning from Heaven with sweet smiles to receive me, And after this, methought, in a fine arbour, With flowers entwin'd, we played with her tame dove, Which I had taken with me,-and she kissed Wal. (interrupting him.) No more-I Kept off, I had been there till now. Wal. (impatiently.) Well-Well!Emilius,-didst thou write to-day?— Em. No, this Was but a Bible lesson. Wal. Read me then What was thy latest task. (While Emilius fetches the Bible.) In Scripture, too, "Tis said that sorrow even finds relief. 66 Em. (reading.) Every purpose is established by counsel, and with good advice make war.". "He that goeth about as a tale-bearer revealeth secrets; therefore, meddle not with him that flattereth with his lips." "Whoso curseth his father or mother, his lamp shall be put out in obscure darkness."-Proverbs. xx. 18, 19, 20. Wal. How was it, boy? Read the last words again. Em. (impressively.) Whoso curseth his father or mother, his lamp shall be put out in obscure darkness. Wal. (thoughtfully.) Ha! was it not in token of Heaven's wrath, That such a fearful thought came to my soulThat favourite child-she was my light on earth, Em. (reading from a copy book.) Listen! "The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it."-Ibid xxx. 17. Well, shall I read another? Wal. (violently) No!— Em. (in a moderate voice.) "Tis pity. Here is more against the sins Of children disobedient to their parentsAnd lessons that clear up obscurer versesWal. (aside.) 'Twas not the eyes-no 'twas the deed that scorned him! |