in his delirium, he unceasingly de- The conversation is now interrupto mands her. In consequence of this ed by the increasing storm, and by misfortune, he had also lost an only the closing in of night. Dorothea son, whom his wife's paramour had draws and fixes a cord, which lifts adopted and reared as his own child. the cover of the lamps, and Caspar

Dorothea, however, is already in retires to light them. The daughter love with Walter, a young man, whose then being left alone, sings two stanreal history is yet unknown to Caspar, zas of a kind of allegorical love song, but who had been shipwrecked some accompanied by the harp; and in the time before on the shore of the“ Light- third scene, Ulrick, the madman, Tower,” had been rescued by its in- strangely dressed, makes his first aphabitants, and still remains in its pearance. neighbourhood.

Ulr. Sing not,—the harp is mine.- Wherefore did'st thou
Not wake me ?--Heard'st thou not the tempest call ?--
Come,- light me up the steps, that I may gain
The summit of the tower.
Dor.

Go not to-night,
I pray you.—Mark there, how it howls without!

Ulr. Girl, know'st thou not that I, through many a year,
Have here been pledged to meet the storm ? -Then listen !
'Twas I myself, who sent him forth to-night,-

That on his quick wings, he from shore to shore
Should travel, nay, into the palaces,
And lowly cottages, with violence break,
Should search through every land, -and if he found her-
Her-mark you—then with sure intelligence,
He should return to me.-
Dor.

Poor uncle !
Ulr.

Hush!-
Still as I heard the rustling of his wings,
Faithfully did I here await his coming,
And watch'd with fearful anxious heart,-if he
Had nought to announce. Yet nothing have I learn'd-
He hath but scourg'd the guilty Sea that bore
Her from me!-Give me now the harp, that I
May sing aloud, for if he cannot yet
Bring news for me, yet should he come to-night,
Well knowing what I suffer, he shall take
My mournful notes over the wild waves with him,
And bear them unto her.

(Takes the Harp.)

a

We should require no farther proof only by a short and careless sketch; that v. Houvald is a poet, than his Lord Byron, would in former days conception, (however inadequately de- have made a whole volume out of the veloped) of this character. The no- same materiel. tion of the madman keeping watch Caspar, meanwhile, has kindled the during every storm, that he may re- lamps, whose light is visible through cover the lost object of his affections the beams of the roof. In the fourth from the sea, and sending forth the scene, he reappears with a light in his wild music of his harp to the winds of hand, and speaks thus to the madnight, is an idea which none but a German could have afforded to treat

man:

Casp. Hast thou been woke then? Truly, I believed,
Thou in the haven of calm repose might'st have
Outslept the storm;—for 'twill indeed arrive,-
A fearful night!
Ulr.

In the grave I cannot sleep
My night is not yet come. When the winds howl,
I may not rest-Hark, how they call on me!
Let me now climb upon the balcony.

Casp.

Stay here!
Scarce could'st thou now support thyself against
The giant struggles of the storm. Even I

Could hardly light the lamps.Ulrick now tries to untie the cord, by which the lamps are visibly affected in the tower above.

Casp. (withholding him). What would'st thou do? Draw not the

cord, or else
My lights will be extinguished.
Ulr:

When the storm
Speaks with me, then we both desire no light;-
Nay, he himself wrapt moon and stars in clouds,
Because we, none of us, do care to look
Into each other's grim and ghastly faces.

Casp. Ulrick, hast thou forgot then, that the lamps
Must burn, and that my duty here is but
To guard them? When the tempest rages thus,
Poor wand'ring mortals cannot through the depth
Of darkness steer their way, if love fraternal
Supplies not light and guidance.
Ulr.

Has Love, too,
Bid mortals sever fond confiding hearts? -
Methinks, if all were dark—if no lights burn'd,
One could not from his love be sunder'd thus-
All then would stay at home.--(Earnestly, and with emotion.)

Brother,

pray,
Close up the lamps again!
Casp.

Poor Ulrick !-Ha!

(Distant firing heard.)
Mark there again—it was a cannon shot. Too surely,
The signal of a ship that calls for aid.

Ulr. Nay, 'twas the tempest's call. Now light me up
I must unto the tower.
Casp. (to Dor.)

Then lead him thither.
He cannot rest else.

Ulr. (in going out.) Hear'st thou, brother

I pray thee, darken out the lamps. Dorothea accordingly takes a light to guide him up stairs, and Ulrick follows with the harp.

Casp. (alone). Was it but the re-echoing of the thunder,
Or have Ì heard aright? Did the same voice,
That summons death in battle, call even now
For aid against him, while amid this rage
Of elemental war, he grimly looks
For booty ?-Hark, another shot! -
Dor. (returning).

Ay, father-
Doubtless it was the signal of distress
A ship in danger.
Casp.

Now then, in all haste,
Must I go forth, and if the wind allows me,
Kindle a fire upon the beach, that so,
The sailors with their boat, if the ship perish,
May safelier reach the land. The trumpet, too,
I bear with me, that through the rayless gloom,
And roaring waves, my voice may penetrate,
And warn the sufferers, that fraternal love,
And sympathy, keep watch here for their aid, -
Meanwhile I do entrust the lamps to thee.
Take heed then, that they brightly burn: Beware
Of sleep

Dor. Fear not, I shall be watchful.

Casp. Mark you,-
If the fire blazed not, and the lamps too, failed

Dor. Nay, father, trust to me.
Casp. Well, in the name
Of Heaven, then, let us try if we may not
Assist and save these wanderers !

He goes out with the lantern, &c. leaving Dorothea alone, who soliloquizes through some verses, during which are heard the roaring of the storm, and dashing of the sea; by fits too, the wild music and song of Ulrick, on which

she says

Hark! 'mid the conflict wild
Of warring elements, he stedfastly
Pours in full tones his songs of love. Alas !
Will that heart now no more obtain repose ?
Will calmness never lull its storms, and never
On the dark waste of waves one gleam of light

Arise to say that love for thee yet watches ? While Dorothea remains thus alone, Walter enters, whereupon commences that scene on which the fatal events of the evening chiefly depend. For the first time, he makes known to her some consistent anecdotes of his own life; but these, however shadowy, are enough to suggest conjectures who he really is, which are soon afterwards fully confirmed

Dor. How,-he was not thy father?

Wal. Yet, those rights
Whereby a father best may rule his son,
He faithfully had won. He loved me fondly,
Had oftimes, too, denied himself indulgence,
That my looks might be cheerfuller. But I
Was not his child.

Dor. Listen ! even while we speak,
Are heard more signals !

Wal. No! 'twas the crashing sound
Of the waves on the rock. Heed not the sea
And ruthless winds.

Dor. Nay, trust me,-unto you
I listen gladly. But your mother-

Wal. Ay,
She was indeed my mother. I had been
To her a pledge of former love,—of marriage,
Whose bonds, alas ! she had herself dissolved.-
Then I must wander forth, and, on the land
Far distant, seek atonement for her crime;
Must find my father, him so long forsaken ;
And, prostrate at his feet, for her obtain
Forgiveness-

(Music from the harp, and voice of Ulrick on the tower.)
Hark! what notes are these-s0 soft
And wild?

Dor. From the roof they come. Mine uncle there,
As wont, renews his melancholy songs.

Wal. Oh, ye sweet tones ! amid the tempest's rage,
That howls without, ye come like consolation
To souls that long have been of joy devoid.
Heaven ! let it but be granted to me such
To bear unto my mother!

Dor. Have you then
Your father found already ?

Wal. No! yet blame not
The son, if he, as if spell-bound, must here
Tarry beside the light-tower!

He then goes on to describe in a wild be beheld, and of course she appeared visionary style, how, during his voy- as a inessenger from heaven, sent for age, strange love-dreams had haunted his deliverance. Meanwhile, Ulrick, and possessed him, of which the influ. when they are thus occupied, steps in ence continued, until they were more and pulls the cord, by which the lamps than realized by his meeting with Do- are immediately extinguished. The rothea. He recalls, too, the story of melo-dramatic effect of this scene is his shipwreck, his rescue by Caspar more easily conceived than described. in the life-boat, his astonishment on He remains afterwards serious, and perceiving that Dorothea, like some “ erhaben,” (i. e. in a lofty mood,) goddess of the sea, accompanied her leaning behind him on bis harp; at father on that perilous adventure. Hers length, on a specch of Walter, conclu. indeed was the first countenance that ding thus

As the stars' bright radiance
Falls on our dim earth, so the light of love
Beams on a desolate heart. Even like the stars,
That are eternal, so shall this light, too,

Not perish!
Ulrick in a deep hollow voice interposes

Ulr. Even already are your lights
All darken'd!

Dor. Ha! who calls ?
Wal. See there! the harper !

Ulr. All lights are darken'd now,-as in the heart,
So in the air and sky!

Dor. Oh Heaven, 'tis true !
The beacon-lamps are out. Oh, hapless mariners,
Who have on them depended for their rescue,
· And vainly strain their eyes in hopes of guidance,
Which finding not, they perish in the flood,

And I alone am guilty ! Caspar's voice, through the trumpet, is then heard from below-she runs to him-Walter follows. Ulric remains, and after a pause, during which he looks to heaven, says

Ulr. Thou hast thy stars all clouded in the sky;
Night wraps in darkness now the restless waves. —
Wherefore, then, should vain mortals kindle light?
They cannot change the eternal plans of fate;
Wherefore, then, with presumptuous hand essay
To check the rolling wheels of destiny ?
Out-out, ye lights ! ye shall be darken'd all ;-
Vain is your aid ! The mariners must not

Find guidance now-IT SHALL BE NIGHT! He remains with stretched-out arms in a commanding posture, and the dropscene falls. Thus ends the first act.

The second opens at the dawn of day. The scene is a wild rocky shore, on which Ulrick first appears alone with his harp,--Caspar and Dorothea enter, the former blaming his daughter for her negligence ; but Ulrick vehemently defends her.

Dor. Oh, father, have compassion !
Ulr.

Child, thy guilt
Is all dissolved ; thine accusation torn!
When Fate in judgment sits, there needs no light
From man, therefore did I restore the rights
Of darkness.—Brotber, blame thy daughter not;
We both are guiltless. By resistless power
Compell’d, I drew the cord, and night resumed
Her wonted power.
Casp.

Ulrick, alas!
What hast thou done!

To this scene succeeds the adventurous rescue of Count Holm from the now wrecked vessel, by Walter, in whom the Count discovers his adoptive son. The scene is of course effective; but we must now pass over with a few words no less than fortyeight pages, containing the most skilful adaptation of a narrative to the stage, that we remember to have met with. Such long stories form generally a rock on which dramatic writers are apt to split; but here the interest of the auditors increases with every line. These pages involve the history of

Count Holm, who is gradually recognized by Caspar, as the now repentant and miserable seducer of his sister-inlaw, who has just now perished in the wreck of the vessel. The Count's narrative of his own crimes, his various adventures, and his bitter remorse, are followed by Caspar's disclosure to him of Ulrick's incurable insanity; who is, of course, now recognized as the real father of Walter, and husband of the lost Matilda. After this dialogue, the Count is left alone among the wild rocks of the sea-shore.

Count. Oh Heaven, have I been led into this place
For judgment and requital,-here, where once
I stood with my devoted prey rejoicing ?—
Even on the self-same shore I come again,
And now the sword of vengeance falls on me!-
Thy mildness too I praise, since unto her

Thou hast given death already; that she lived not
To recognize the once-loved of her soul,

In madness' frightful image! Now draws near
Thy punishment on me; yet I adore

And thank thee.-On! let me ascend the rocks,
For in the shade a horror seizes me:

I would look once more on the glorious sun,
That emblem of eternal grace, and then,

Will pray with better hopes!

He then mounts upon the cliff and disappears. The scene changes, and shews an open view towards the sea; on one side rocks; Matilda's body lies on the shore; Ulrick kneels beside her; his harp leans on the rock. After a pause, he rises slowly up.

Ulr. Hush, hush!

Awake her not. Heave gently up and down,
Ye restless waves. Speak mild and whisperingly,
Ye kindlier west-winds. See, I have her now,
The long-sought once again; yet she sleeps soundly!
'Tis well, for she is wearied. Truly seems it
A long and fearful interval, since last

I saw her. But why look'st thou now so wan
And fearful? 'Tis with tears, perchance, that thus
Thy dark locks are so moist,-alas! some grief
Has come upon thee; or is't but a dream
That weighs on thee so heavily?—Yet, whate'er
Thine eyes have in that trance beheld, methinks
It can be nought of evil, for thy heart

Is angel pure. Shall I then sing thee, love,
A
song
to sooth thee? Or, 'twere better far
To bring a bloom-branch from the thickets there,
To adorn her bed,-olive and palm boughs,-'twill
Rejoice her when she wakes. But watch the while,
Ye friendly west-winds,-watch her and be silent!

VOL. XIII.

[Exit.

B