Chapter V: Part 5

With that he arose, threw his knight's cloak over his shoulder, and bid us good night, giving us his hand as he said, “When you arrive at Wittenberg commend me to Dr. Jerome Schurf.” We said, “We will cheerfully do so, but how shall we name you, that he may understand your greeting?” “Only say,” said he, “that he who is on his way greets you; he will soon understand you.” And so saying he went to bed. After this the tradespeople returned, ordered the host to bring them something to drink, and had much conversation concerning the unknown guest who had been sitting by them. The host made known that he took him to be Luther, which the merchants believing, lamented very much that they had behaved themselves so rudely in his presence; saying that they would on this account rise so much earlier the next morning before he departed, in order to beg that he would not take it in ill part, nor be offended, as they had not known his person. This they accordingly did, finding him next morning in the stable. Martin answered them: “You said last night at supper, that you would willingly give ten florins that you might confess to Luther. When therefore you confess to him you will discover whether I am he.” And without betraying himself any further he mounted and rode on his way towards Wittenberg. On the same day we set out on the same road, and arrived at a village lying at the foot of a mountain; I think the mountain is called Orlamund, and the village Nasshausen. The stream which flows through this was swollen by the rains, and the bridge being in part carried away so that horses could not pass, we turned aside into the village, where we chanced to fall in with the same merchants, who entertained us there free of cost for Luther's sake. On the Saturday after, being one day after Luther's arrival, we called upon Doctor Jerome Schurf, in order to present our letters. When we were ushered into the room, whom should we see but Martin Luther, the same as at Jena, together with Philip Melancthon, Justus Jodocus Jonas, Nicholas Amsdorf, and Doctor Augustin Schurf, relating what had befallen him in his absence from Wittenberg. He greeted us and said, laughing as he pointed with his finger, “This is the Philip Melancthon of whom I told you.” Upon which Philip turned to us, and asked us many questions, which we answered according to our knowledge. And thus we passed the day on our part with great joy and satisfaction.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

It is a lovely spot they chose,
This green and grassy dell!
And here in death's long, last repose,
Eudora now sleeps well:
Escaped from all her mortal pain,
She sleeps—and will not wake again.

Oh! who that knew her can forget
That highly polished mind?
Those charms that Love must cherish yet,
In that fair form enshrined?
And that warm heart that felt the flame
Of friendship—worthy of the name?

Yes, she was one of those—the few—
That decorate the earth;
A diamond of the purest dew;
Nor knew I half its worth {702}
Till death had stolen the precious gem
That would have graced a diadem.

But why am I lamenting here,
When she is now at rest;
And, happy in her heavenly sphere,
Her soul is with the blest?
No, no, I will not, will not weep:
Enjoy, sweet saint, thy sacred sleep.

* *

_Norfolk_.

ALFIERI AND SCHILLER.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

The characteristic differences between the national drama of the Germans and that of the Italians, as well as in the genius of the two writers, are strikingly shown by a comparison of the works of Alfieri and Schiller. Nor need we refer to the whole range of their respective productions; the two great poets have more than once, by their choice of the same subject for dramatic effort, afforded us opportunity to draw a parallel between them. The distinction is exactly the reverse of what the characters of the nations would lead us to expect; the cold and classic simplicity of the ancient school pertaining to the more ardent and volatile Italian, while the energy of expression and warmth of action peculiar to the romantic system belong to the representative of a colder and more meditative race. We shall not now employ ourselves in endeavoring to discover the causes of the general barrenness of the drama among a people of a temperament so imaginative, and whose history has been so rich in the materials of fiction. It is our object to show the vast difference which actually exists between the tragic compositions of Italy and those of the German school; as well as to give some idea of the peculiarities of the two authors who form the subject of this article. For this purpose, we select a play of each, founded upon the same historical event, and portraying in part the same characters; and purpose to offer a close analysis of both.

The “_Filippo_” of Alfieri treats of the same events with the “_Don Carlos_” of Schiller. It was the first published production of the noble poet, and is marked by much of the harshness of diction and severe simplicity, amounting almost to baldness, which distinguished his earlier plays. The author avoids, with scrupulous care, any thing approaching to local coloring; excluding all inferior personages from the stage, and admitting no forms or observances that might remind us of our vicinity to the person of the Spanish monarch. The chief care of Alfieri is ever bestowed upon the character of his protagonist; and it is to that point we must direct our attention.

It is well known that Philip II supplanted his unfortunate son Don Carlos, and married the princess to whom the youth had been betrothed with the consent of both crowns. Our poet depicts the disastrous attachment of the devoted pair. The piece opens with a passionate soliloquy of Isabella, in which she reproaches herself bitterly for the unconquered love she bears to the son of her husband. Her mind revolts at the idea of such an affection, which she fears her indiscretion may one day betray to its object. She distrusts her every word and look. In the midst of this, the prince enters, evidently unhappy, and earnestly asks her reason for avoiding his presence. He perceives that the whole court is hostile to him; miserable and oppressed, he cannot wonder that he reads envy and hatred in every countenance about him, since he is conscious that he does not possess the favor of his father and sovereign. From the queen, however, “born under a milder sky,” whose nature is all gentleness, he expected pity. Isabella is moved to the expression of sorrow for his misfortunes; his joy in her sympathy is extreme, and in return he offers condolence with her for her “hard lot,” which she repels with some confusion; immediately after, hinting at the relation in which she stands to him, she offers to intercede with the king in his behalf. Carlos declines this offer, telling her she is the innocent cause of all his sufferings, and reminds her of their former affection and engagement; bitterly alluding to his father's hatred, and the greatest wrong he has inflicted, in depriving him of his bride. Isabella reproves his resentment against the king, whom she imagines deceived by false counsellors, and refuses to listen to his passionate complaints; the prince pleads with her to remain, and at length bids her renounce and accuse him. Now comes the discovery. When Carlos calls himself guilty, the queen says,

“Art thou alone the guilty?”

This thoughtless exclamation betrays to the prince the state of her heart; and shocked at her own indiscretion Isabella implores him to leave her. He pleads that flight would not protect him from the vengeance of Philip, who regards him with detestation, though ignorant of his only fault. The queen departs, forbidding him to follow her, and Perez enters. This person, a warm friend to the prince, attempts to console his evident wretchedness, which he attributes to his father's displeasure, by assuring him that the king has been wrought upon by false rumors and the machinations of his enemies. His offers of service and devoted attachment affect Carlos, who nevertheless will not reveal the secret cause of his grief. He yields, however, to the entreaties of Perez, to accept him as his friend, and permit him to share his destiny; congratulating himself even in the midst of wretchedness that he is less worthy of compassion than Philip on his throne.

The next act introduces upon the scene the tyrant and arch-hypocrite, attended by his minister Gomez. Their conversation illustrates strikingly the haughty reserve of the king, who will not admit even his private counsellor to his most secret thoughts, or treat him as an equal.

_Philip_. Gomez, what thing above all else in the world
Dost thou esteem?

_Gomez_. Thy favor.

_Philip_. Hopest thou to keep it? By what means?

_Gomez_. By the self-same means
That first obtained it, sire; obedience,
And silence.

_Philip_. Thou to-day must practise both.

Gomez is commanded to watch the countenance and actions of the queen in the interview about to take place. The crafty minister is accustomed to observe, interpret, and silently execute his master's will. Isabella enters, summoned by her lord, who expresses his wish for her {703} advice in a matter pertaining to private relations as well as to the concerns of state. He then speaks of his son, artfully adapting his words to alarm and reassure her alternately.

_Philip_. Carlos, my son—thou lov'st
Or hatest him.

_Isabella_. My lord——

_Philip_. I understand.
If to thy inclinations—not the voice
Of virtue—thou didst listen, thou wouldst feel
Thyself his——step-dame.

_Isabella_. Nay, not so; the prince——

_Philip_. Is dear then to thee; virtue in thy heart
So strongly dwells, that thou, the wife of Philip,
The son of Philip lov'st with love—maternal.

_Isabella_. Yours are the pattern of my thoughts; you love him;
At least I do believe it; in like manner
I also—love him.

The king expresses his wish to make her the judge of his son, who he says has been guilty of a heinous offence. With cruel art he remarks the agitation of the queen at this disclosure, which he pretends to impute to indignation at a crime of which she is yet ignorant. He brings an accusation against the prince of having leagued with rebels to overthrow the power of his sovereign; silences the doubts Isabella ventures to suggest, respecting the truth of the charge, and appeals to her for his sentence. The queen seizes upon some artful expressions of parental tenderness that fall from Philip, and implores him to listen to the voice of nature; pleads eloquently the cause of Carlos, and beseeches her husband to dismiss suspicion, and win back the affections of his son by clemency and gentleness. Gomez is despatched for the accused; the queen requests leave to retire, but is commanded to remain. Carlos, on his entrance, demands to know of what fault he has been guilty; the king speaks in an ambiguous manner, asserting his acquaintance with the private thoughts of the prince, whom he afterwards reproves for his communication with a leader of the rebels, yet the monarch ostentatiously pardons him, telling him he owes his impunity to the intercession of the queen, to whose counsel and guidance he recommends him. They are dismissed; and the brief dialogue between the king and his minister shows the result of their investigations. The silent understanding and concert between them has something in it more fearful than the most elaborate denunciation.

_Philip_. Heard you?

_Gomez_. I heard.

_Philip_. Saw you?

_Gomez_. I saw.

_Philip_. Distraction!
Suspicion then——

_Gomez_. Is certainty.

_Philip_. And yet
Philip is unrevenged?

_Gomez_. Think——

_Philip_. I have thought;
Follow you me.

_Act II, Scene 5_.

In the third act Carlos acquaints Isabella with her imprudence, in speaking in his favor to the tyrant, and the probable consequences of addressing thus one whose mercy is but the pledge of evil. She cannot however believe the king an unnatural father, but promises never to repeat so perilous an effort. After her departure, Gomez enters and announces the king. To his hypocritical offers of service, Carlos deigns no reply, but leaves him without uttering a word. Philip, with his nobles and ministers, then appears upon the stage; and having ordered the doors to be closed, in a set speech, accuses his son of treason and an attempt upon his life; produces the blade which he states to have fallen at his feet when the baffled assassin fled from him; and having played off a feigned reluctance to hear the condemnation of the criminal, leaves the sentence to their decision. Gomez, with affected sympathy for the sufferings of the father, confirms the accusation of treason by producing intercepted letters alleged to have been written by the prince, that prove a treacherous correspondence with the French; while Leonardo completes the catalogue of crimes by charging him with heresy, and hurling against him the denunciations of the church. They are proceeding to adjudge him to death, encouraged by Philip, who tells them they stand in the presence, not of the father, but the king, when Perez craves permission to speak, and boldly vindicates the innocence of his friend. The king, in displeasure, breaks up the assembly; his anger at the boldness of Perez is only equalled by his wonder that such a spirit could exist in his court.

“Alma si fatta
Nasce ov'io regno? e dov'io regno, ha vita?”

Carlos is afterwards surprised alone at night, by a body of soldiers, led by his father. To the displeasure of Philip at finding him armed at such an hour, he answers by submitting himself to the royal will. The scene that ensues between father and son is terrible, and powerfully depicts the native cruelty of the tyrant. He accuses the youth of secret and atrocious designs—of attempted parricide.

_Carlos_. Of parricide! What hear I? Parricide?
Thyself canst not believe it. And what proof,
What inference, what suspicion?

_Philip_. Inference, proof
And certainty, I from thy paleness draw.

_Carlos_. Father! Oh, force me not, by fierce excess,
That fearful bound to pass, which 'twixt the subject
And sovereign—'twixt the father and the son,
Heaven, nature, and the laws have placed!

_Philip_. With foot
Most sacrilegious thou hast passed already,
Long since, that bound. What do I say? Unknown
It ever was to thee. Lay by the words
Of haughty virtue and severe; but ill
Such words become thee. Speak now as thou art;
Thy meditated treasons, and the many
Already ripe, unveil. What dost thou fear?
That I should be less great than thou art impious?
If truth thou speak'st and nought dost hide, then hope!
If aught thou dare conceal, then tremble!

_Carlos_. Truth
Severe thou forcest from me now. Myself
Too well I know, to fear; and thee, oh Philip!
Too well I know, to hope. The luckless gift,
My life, take back; 'tis thine; but mine my honor,
Which thou hadst never power to take nor give.
Guilty I should be, if to such confession
Base fear could lead me.
Here my latest breath {704}
Thou may'st behold me draw; long, cruel death,
And infamous prepare for me; no death
Degrades me. Thou alone, sire—thou alone
Wilt not weep tears of pity for my fate.

_Philip_. Rash youth! thus to thy sovereign lord dost offer
Excuse for all thy crimes?

_Carlos_. Excuse? Thou hat'st me,
That is mine only fault; thy thirst for blood
Mine only crime. Thy right alone, O king,
Is kingdom absolute.

_Philip_. Ho—guards—arrest him!

_Carlos_. Such is a tyrant's sole reply. These arms,
Lo! to the chain I give—lo! to the steel
I bare my breast. Wherefore delay? Dost now
Begin to soften? Day by day thy reign
Is written in black characters of blood.

_Philip_. Bear him hence—from my sight. In the next tower,
Unto the deepest dungeon. Wo to you
If any of you show compassion to him.

_Carlos_. Nay—fear not that. Thy ministers in cruelty
Do equal thee.

_Philip_. Drag him by force away;
Forth from my presence.

_Act IV, Scene 2_.

At the close of this appalling scene, Isabella enters in time to see the prince dragged away by the guards. The king pretends, as before, to attribute her emotion to fears for his own safety, and ironically tells her to be comforted by the assurance that all danger to the royal person is past; promising her that the traitor shall be visited with summary punishment. The villain who would shed the blood of a father, he suggests would not hesitate to take the life of a step-mother. After this cruel hypocrisy, he leaves her to despair, and she is joined by Gomez, who comes with offers of sympathy and assistance. He brings the sentence of Carlos from the council, who have adjudged him to death for an alleged attempt upon his father's life; and the sentence only wants the king's signature. Gomez artfully works upon her feelings; assures her that the prince's only fault is his right to the crown, which Philip would bestow upon one of her children. It is this, he says, that has caused the king's unnatural hostility to his son. The crafty minister affects the warmest pity for the unfortunate victim, and indignation for the cruelty of the monarch. The queen, deceived by these representations, implores his aid for the prince. Gomez answers that he will be too proud to accept safety at his hands, or save himself by flight; and Isabella offers to remove his scruples by a personal interview in the prison. The minister covers the joy he feels at this proposal by an appeal to the justice of heaven to protect the innocent.

The fifth act opens with a soliloquy of Carlos in the dungeon. He wishes to die, but shrinks from the disgrace of an ignominious execution, and dreads above all that the king should discover his ill-fated attachment to the queen. The iron door opens, and Isabella appears; she beseeches him to save himself from impending death. Carlos, with a presentiment of despair, asks how she obtained access to his prison. He believes her to have come with the knowledge of Philip, and as a messenger of his vengeance.

_Isabella_. Doth Philip know it? Heaven!
Wo—if he did!

_Carlos_. What say'st thou? Philip here
Knows all. Who dares to break his stern command?

_Isabella_. Gomez.

_Carlos_. What do I hear? What fatal name,
Fearful, detestable!

_Isabella_. He is no foe
Of yours—as you may think——

_Carlos_. If I could ever
Believe he was my friend more shame would kindle
My cheek than e'er did wrath.

_Isabella_. Yet he alone
Feels pity now for you. 'Twas he revealed
The king's atrocious plot to me.

_Carlos_. Incautious!
Alas, too credulous, what hast thou done?
Why give to such compassion faith? If truth
He uttered—he—most impious minister
Of the most impious king—'twas with the truth
To cheat thee!

_Act V, Scene 2_.

Both are now in the tyrant's power; as a last resort, the prince beseeches Isabella to begone from his dangerous presence.

_Carlos_. Away—if life be dear——

_Isabella_. To me—life dear?

_Carlos_. My honor then—thy fame! * * Go—hide thy tears;
Smother thy sighs in thine own breast; with eye
Unmoistened, with intrepid front, must thou
The tidings of my death receive.

It is too late; Philip enters, and scornfully upbraids them with their mutual love, which they have vainly thought to conceal from his discernment. He has long known it, but has suffered them to remain in their delusion, that his revenge might more readily overtake them, and now comes to rejoice in their last sufferings. The monster asserts what is evident throughout, that his jealousy is not the object of love, but of pride.

“Thou hast offended
In me thy sovereign king—and not thy lover;
The sacred name of Philip's wife hast stained.”

The unhappy pair vindicate their innocence, and excuse the attachment which was honorable and proper before their forced separation. The haughty tone that Isabella assumes contrasts strongly with her previous submission, and shows that she has lost all hope. Gomez then appears with a dagger and a cup of poison, which the king offers to the choice of the lovers. Carlos chooses the dagger, yet reeking with the blood of Perez, and stabs himself; but counsels the queen, who he knows has said too much to hope for safety, to drink the poison, as a less painful death. Isabella prepares to follow; but Philip, perceiving that she rejoices in the prospect of death, bestows life upon her as a punishment; she will not accept the cruel gift, but snatching his dagger from his girdle, plunges it into her side, and dies asserting her innocence.

The last words of the monster who witnesses the horrid scene intimate something like remorse.

“Lo, full and fearful vengeance I obtain;
Yet am I happy? Gomez, be concealed
The dire event from all. By silence thou
Shalt save my fame, thy life.”

Before making any remarks upon this powerful play, we shall proceed to analyze the corresponding production of Schiller, in order to present the two pieces in as {705} close proximity as possible. In _Don Carlos_, we are transported at once into the Spanish court, and the tragedy has all the aids and appliances which a graphic delineation of the manners of the age and country can give. We have no “voices in the desert;” all around reminds us that we are among the ministers and courtiers of a despotic monarch; there are the pomp and circumstance of sovereign state; the jealousies, the repinings, the fears and the plots of selfish and intriguing courtiers; the designs and labors of patriotic enthusiasm and of less disinterested feelings, and the contrast of innocence and unsuspicious credulity with artful malice. The piece opens with an interview between the prince and the king's confessor Domingo, which takes place in the royal garden at Aranjuez. The priest artfully endeavors to learn the cause of the evident melancholy cherished by Don Carlos. For this purpose, he alludes to the queen, and the sorrow which the depression of her son-in-law has occasioned her. The prince, with artifice of which he seems afterwards ashamed, replies by accusing her of having cost him the affection of his father; but Domingo cannot believe in his dislike.

“You mock me, prince. All Spain
Adores her queen. Can you with eye of hate
Behold what all esteem? * *
The loveliest woman in the world, a queen—
And once your bride. Impossible, my prince!
It cannot be! No—no. Where all men love
Can Carlos never hate; you cannot thus
Strangely gainsay yourself. Be sure the queen
Knows not how much she hath her son displeased;
'Twould be a grief to her.”

He goes on to assure the heir of her interest for him; and relates an incident that occurred at a tournament, in which her fears for his safety were involuntarily betrayed. Carlos haughtily replies:

“I much admire
The king's gay confidant, so aptly versed
In tales of curious wit.”

and adds in a more serious tone,

“Ever I've heard it said, the spy on looks,
And he who treasures tales, hath done more ill
In this wide world, than in the murderer's hand
The dagger or the poisoned cup. Your trouble,
Good sir, you might have spared; if thanks you wait,
Hence to the king.”

After the intimation of his suspicion that the confessor is placed as a spy upon him by the king, he is relieved of the presence of Domingo, and the Marquis of Posa enters. This personage, who plays a conspicuous part in the drama, and is in fact the hero of the piece, is a political enthusiast, whose whole soul is devoted to the attainment of a favorite object, to which all his efforts and intrigues have an ultimate tendency. The skill with which he lays his plans, and the metaphysical subtlety with which they are carried on, even to the delusion of the vigilant Philip, are developed in the course of the tragedy; but it is proper to give this insight into his character at first, to avoid the imputation of inconsistency and folly, which would otherwise rest for a time upon his actions in the mind of the reader. The delight of Carlos at again embracing his friend just returned from a tour through Europe, is so excessive that the marquis himself reproves his boyish weakness, which the prince excuses by expressing his utter misery. In this and the other extracts we are obliged to use our own translation, having never met with an English version of the play. Carlos answers to the generous suggestions of his friend.

Thou speak'st of time long past; I also once
Dreamed of a prince of Spain, in whose proud cheek
The fiery blood would mount, if one did speak
Of Liberty!—yet he is long since buried.
Whom thou seest here—he is no more the Carlos
Who in Alkala took his leave of thee,
Who with the sweet and glorious vision burned.
Creator of a new and golden age
For Spain to be; Oh, the design was simple,
Yet godlike still! Past is that dream!

_Marquis de Posa_. A dream!
Prince—Was it but a dream?

_Carlos_. Nay—let me weep;
Weep on thy breast hot tears—mine only friend!
I have none—none—in the wide full earth none;
Far as my father's regal sceptre reaches,
Far as the seaward breeze our flag sends forth,
There is no place—not one—where I may pour
My bitter tears, but this. O Roderick,
By all that thou and I may hope in heaven
Of future rest—drive me not hence!

_Act I, Scene 2_.

With pathetic earnestness the desolate prince reminds the marquis of the days of their boyhood and their affection; relates an instance of his own devotion to him, when he bore the punishment of some juvenile offence committed by Posa, and resented by the king. The marquis sympathizes but coldly with these emotions; his mind is occupied with thoughts too high and momentous to find pleasure in the recollections of childhood. He would pay the debt of kindness, however, in manlier coin. The prince, in explanation of his previous agitation, and his long cherished grief, confesses his love for the queen his step-mother, and his eager wish for an interview with her without the presence of malicious spectators. His friend, after exacting from him a promise to undertake nothing without his knowledge and sanction, engages to help him to a private audience. It is no part of the design of Posa to discourage this unfortunate attachment, so long as he fancies it can be made subservient to the accomplishment of his schemes.

The next scene introduces us into the retirement of the queen. Elizabeth of Valois, the wife of Philip, is surrounded by her ladies, who converse upon their anticipated return to Madrid, and the sports and festivals that wait to welcome the royal pair. These are savage as the temper of the age; and the delight in anticipation displayed by some of the noble dames calls for the mild reprehension of the gentle queen. A better subject for discussion is offered in the approaching marriage of the princess of Eboli, one of the ladies, to a nobleman of Spain. The queen, with playful grace, inquires his merits of the destined bride, but is surprised when the latter, in a passion of tears, throws herself at her feet, and beseeches that she may be saved from such a sacrifice. Elizabeth promises her liberty, then dismisses the subject with an abruptness that shows unpleasing remembrances are awakened in her mind, and asks for her daughter the Infanta Clara, a child of three years old. The Duchess of Olivarez, who holds {706} supremacy over the other ladies, suggests that it is not yet the hour to admit the child to her mother's presence; and immediately after, a page announces the Marquis of Posa, as having arrived from the Netherlands, and waiting to present a letter to her majesty. The lady of Olivarez objects to his admission at such a time and place, as a violation of court etiquette, but is overruled by the queen, who commands the entrance of the marquis, and permits her scrupulous governess to retire. The noble knight is most graciously received; and in the course of conversation takes occasion to relate a story bearing much resemblance to the queen's own history—of a lady betrothed to a prince who was afterwards supplanted by his uncle. Both Elizabeth and the princess of Eboli are much interested in the narration; the former then sends Eboli to fetch her daughter; the marquis seizes the occasion to request leave to introduce his friend into the presence. Carlos enters, and kneeling, kisses the hand of his mother-in-law: the marquis and ladies retire out of sight. The scene that ensues is admirable; the passionate sorrow and devotion of the prince, and the dignity and inexorable virtue of the youthful queen, are beautifully pictured. We cannot perceive that she cherishes a single emotion towards Carlos, at variance with her duty to her royal husband. She appeals to his manhood and heroic spirit to conquer his ill-fated passion; “Elizabeth,” she says, “was your first love; let your second be Spain.” He promises silence if not forgetfulness, and the Marquis of Posa suddenly rushes in, announces the king, and leads his friend hastily away. Philip enters with several of his nobles, and asks why he finds his wife alone. The marchioness of Mondekar, who comes up at this juncture, and attempts to divert the displeasure of the sovereign, is dismissed by him from the court, and banished from Madrid for ten years. The queen, indignant at the suspicions cast upon herself, and the treatment of her domestic, evades a reply to the king's questions, and bids the marchioness a weeping adieu, giving her her girdle as a token of favor and remembrance. Philip utters a half apology for his harshness, by expressing his anxiety to be without the shadow of a rival in his wife's affections.

I am called
The richest man in Christendom; the sun
Goes never down on my domain; yet all
Another once possessed, and after me
Full many a monarch shall possess. One thing
Is all mine own. What the king has, belongs
To fortune—but Elizabeth to Philip.

He afterwards incidentally inquires of the courtiers after his son, and enjoins it upon them to watch his movements. The Duke of Alba willingly undertakes the task, boasting himself to be to the throne of Spain what the cherub was to the gate of Paradise. After this high-flown simile, Count Lerma ventures to speak in favor of the prince, but is silenced by Philip, who then departs, accompanied by the queen and his train. Carlos and Posa return; the former declares his resolution to ask of his father the government of Flanders, which he hopes to obtain by his solicitations, and thereby escape from the temptations continually presented during his residence in the court. He means to make a last appeal to parental feeling in the bosom of the king, and hopes to regain the confidence and affection so long lost. Posa expresses the most enthusiastic approbation of his purpose, and they pledge inviolable friendship. The prince has a just appreciation of the noble and disinterested character of his friend, and values his esteem beyond aught in the world.

In the second act Carlos seeks the king, and implores a private audience. The Duke of Alba is in presence, and is excessively reluctant to depart; nor is it without displeasure that Philip, at the repeated solicitations of his son, sends him away. The prince, alone with his father, lays open his heart; implores forgiveness for his offences, and expresses in the most ardent language, his dutiful affection and desire for a perfect reconciliation. Upon the machinations of designing courtiers, he charges the fault of the breach that has so long existed between them; pleads that he will do for good will the service his corrupted ministers do for their own interests; that a purer fount of love than gold can purchase, swells in the heart of Philip's son. The king is not unmoved by this generous abandonment, but coldly answers that those he traduces are his proved servants. With increasing earnestness Carlos appeals to the parental feelings of his father; and the following picture of happiness succeeds the startled admission of Philip that he is alone upon a throne.

You have been so, my lord. Hate me no more,
And I will love you with a duteous love
And ardent; but oh, hate me not; How lovely,
How sweet it is, in a fair soul, to feel
Ourselves as holy things enshrined; to know
Our happiness another cheek doth kindle,
Our trouble doth another bosom swell,
Our sorrow fill with tears another's eyes.
How sweet and glorious is it, hand in hand,
With a beloved and duteous son, once more
To tread the rose-strewed path of early youth!
To dream again life's dream of pleasure o'er!
How sweet and blessed in your children's virtue,
Immortal, ever present to endure,
The benefactor of a century!
How fair to plant, what a beloved offspring
One day shall reap; to sow what shall make glad
Their future fields; to anticipate the joy,
The gratitude which they shall feel! My father,
Your priest is wisely silent of this Eden
On Earth!

Carlos then offers his petition that he may have the command of the army appointed to quell the insurrection in Brabant. He hopes much from the attachment of the Netherlands to him, and reasonably anticipates that his appearance in person, his dignity as crown prince, and the course of mildness and forbearance he proposes to pursue, may bring them back to their allegiance. The king intimates gloomily his suspicion that treacherous designs against his life are concealed under the philanthropic zeal of his son; Carlos is horror-struck and deeply wounded at the insinuation, but withdraws not his prayer, pressing it more earnestly again and again, in spite of the rising displeasure of the monarch. Philip haughtily and decisively rejects his suit, having bestowed the command upon Alba, and commands the mortified prince to remain in Spain; Carlos leaves the audience chamber, and the Duke of Alba entering receives the royal orders to prepare for his immediate departure to Brussels, to take his leave of the queen {707} and the prince. The cautious courtier observes the emotion yet visible on the countenance of his master, and asks if it is caused by the subject of his conference with his son. Philip merely tells him the subject of their conversation was Duke Alba; and thus alarming his fears bids him seek a reconciliation with the prince, hinting darkly his doubts of the honesty and candor of the noble duke, who, troubled at this intimation, departs disconcerted.

The next scene takes place in an ante-chamber to the queen's apartment. Carlos is in conference with a page belonging to the queen, who has privately brought him a letter and a key. In a tumult of contending feelings, the prince breaks the seal, and at the same moment duke Alba crosses to the inner chamber. The letter is in a female hand, and appoints a meeting in a cabinet attached to her majesty's apartments, safe from intrusion, where the writer promises that “the reward of love” shall be bestowed. Carlos is ignorant of the queen's hand writing, but does not for a moment imagine the letter to be from any other than herself. In this supposition he is confirmed by the page, whom he knows to belong to Elizabeth, and who replies to his eager questions that the letter was given him by “her own hand.” The possessor of the hand is not named by either—and hence arises the mistake. The surprise and agitation of the prince are extreme; yet in the bitterness of a spirit wounded by unkindness, he does not hesitate to accept the bliss he fancies offered to him. Before he can escape from the ante-chamber, Alba enters and requests a conference. A long interview follows, which at length, in spite of the studied calmness of the duke, terminates in a dispute; both draw their swords, but are interrupted by the queen, who rushes from her chamber. The effect of her appearance is instantaneous; Carlos at a word of remonstrance from her, drops his sword, and embracing Alba asks his forgiveness. The queen, accompanied by the duke, returns into her closet.

We are next introduced into a cabinet, where the Princess of Eboli, fancifully dressed, is playing on the lute. She is enamored of the prince, and is anxiously awaiting the return of the messenger, by whom she despatched her letter. The page of the preceding scene appears—she starts up and hastily questions him; he relates the words and the emotion of the prince on the reception of the billet, and informs her that he may be momentarily expected. The boy is dismissed, and Carlos enters the cabinet by means of the key conveyed to him by the page. His surprise at finding himself alone with the princess of Eboli, his embarrassment, and efforts to explain his apparently unexpected appearance, are almost amusing. The graceful and animated conversation of the lady does much to remove the first awkwardness of his mistake, and he becomes insensibly interested, though quite unable to account for the apparent pleasure with which his fancied intrusion is received. The princess informs him of the king's design to bestow her hand upon Don Ruy Gomez, Count of Silva, and of her aversion to the match; and wishes to be guided by his counsel, which she asks as from a dear friend. Her sentiments on love excite the admiration of the prince, who nevertheless seems marvellously ignorant of the drift of all her intimations.

_Princess of Eboli_. Love is alone the price of love. It is
The invaluable diamond, which I give
Freely away—or else, forever hid,
Must bury—like the noble-hearted merchant
Who all unmoved by the Rialto's gold,
Or king's displeasure, to the mighty sea
Gave back his pearl, too proud to part with it
Below its price!

Again she fancifully styles the passion, or rather the charms which awaken it, “the sister hues of one divine beam—the leaves upon one lovely flower.” The prince is enchanted with her wit and beauty, and the crisis approaches.

_Princess of Eboli_. Long since had I departed from this court,
And from the world departed; buried me
Within the cloister's walls, but that one tie
Still held me back—one tie, that to the world
Binds me with force resistless. Ah! perchance
A phantom! yet so dear to me! I love;
And I am——not beloved.

_Carlos_. You are—you are!
Truly as God doth dwell in Heaven. I swear it—
You are—unspeakably.

_Princess of Eboli_. And dost thou swear it!
That was indeed mine angel's voice! Yes—yes!
If thou dost swear it—Carlos—then indeed
Do I believe——I am!

This avowal on the lady's part is understood; but the prince—though he opens his arms to receive her when in the transport of affection she throws herself into them—has no idea of returning in coin the love so unexpectedly offered to him. A sudden thought has struck him; it is no less than to make the enamored princess a confidant of his attachment to his mother-in-law. He does not dream of the existence of such a thing as feminine jealousy; but is proceeding, in accordance with his mad design, to acquaint her with his love for another, when she suddenly interrupts his communication by her exclamations of horror and surprise. The truth flashes upon her mind; and in an agony of shame she demands her key and letters. She had a few moments before shown him a letter to her from the king, which he retains in his possession. Carlos refuses to give up the letters, and leaves her to mortification and regret. Reasoning upon what she has seen and heard, she conjectures that the queen is her fortunate rival; nor can she imagine the love of the prince unreturned by its object, however elevated and passionless her royal mistress has hitherto appeared.

In the mean time, Duke Alba and Domingo are in conference. Alba relates his meeting and dispute with Carlos, the sudden change in his conduct at a glance from the queen, and his altered demeanor towards him. The cautious priest replies that he has long suspected the attachment hinted at, but uttered no suspicions so long as proof was wanting. Another incident is mentioned by the Duke; he had observed the countenance of the prince when he left his father,—it was sad and overcast, but in the queen's ante-room, mantled with an expression of triumphant joy. He had even expressed satisfaction at the appointment of Alba to the command of the army to the Netherlands. The Duke himself is disposed to consider this appointment more of a banishment than a mark of favor. The two artful courtiers arrange a plot for the ruin of the prince, who {708} is hateful to both on account of his independent spirit, and dreaded by reason of his right to the crown. Both agree that the suspicions of the king must be awakened; but to the fulfilment of their plans there wants one ally, the Princess of Eboli, who is beloved by the king. At this moment she appears; Alba retires, and she directs the priest, who had been the bearer of the king's letter to her, to signify to Philip her readiness to receive him. Her insinuations against the honor of the queen, and vows that she will expose her to the wrath of her husband, are answered with joy by Domingo, who calls the Duke to confirm their league. It is agreed that the princess shall first accuse the queen; as her majesty's companion and confidant her testimony will be accepted. Domingo suggests ingenious means of proof, and Alba mentions the page he had seen in close conversation with Carlos; but Eboli, alarmed, diverts their suspicion by hastily assuring them that no weight is to be attached to such evidence.

Scene fourteenth exhibits Carlos in a remote monastery with a Prior, with whom he awaits the arrival of the Marquis of Posa. The Prior retires, and the prince relates to his friend the ill success of his petition, and his further alienation from the king. He tells him also of the mysterious summons, and his interview with the lady of Eboli; shows the king's love-letter to her, and exulting, asserts that such a document is sufficient to free the queen from her matrimonial obligations. Posa warns him against the arts of the princess, and unfolds her character; reasons against the blind passion which still rages in the bosom of the prince, arouses his sense of shame, rebukes him for his madness, and overwhelms him with the consciousness of guilt. He obtains possession of the letter, and having listened to the expressions of remorse and warm trust in him, which fall from the lips of his repentant friend, rewards him by permitting him to seek an audience with Elizabeth. The zealous politician perceives that the only way to lead the prince to the fulfilment of his far-reaching designs, is to take advantage of the queen's influence over him.

The third act opens in the king's sleeping chamber. Philip is alone; a table, with a burning lamp, is near him, on which he leans in deep thought, gazing upon a letter and a medallion lying before him. These have been taken recently from a casket belonging to the queen, and sent as proof of her guilt to the jealous sovereign, whose first words show that the poison is working. He calls Count Lerma from the adjoining chamber, and addresses him; but the unsuspicious old man cannot comprehend the mysterious hints of the agitated monarch.

_Count Lerma_. My greatest—my best king——

_Philip_. King—only king!
And ever king! No better answer this
Than the dull solemn cavern's empty echo!
Upon this rock I strike, and will have water—
Water, to quench my burning fever's thirst—
He gives me glowing gold!

Lerma is dismissed and Duke Alba summoned; the letter is shown to him, and he says he recognizes the prince's hand writing; encouraged to speak freely, he mentions the fact of the presence of Carlos with the queen in the garden at Aranjuez. After this information the king suddenly changes his manner; haughtily dismisses the duke, and calls his confessor. Domingo's evidence is in substance the same with that of his fellow conspirator, but his doubts are more cautiously and artfully expressed. Having heard him through, Philip recalls Alba, and charges both with a plot for the destruction of his son: alluding to Alba's hostility, he remarks—

How gladly would the innocent man now arm
His petty spite with my wrath's giant arm!
I am the bow, ye think in your wild fancies,
That may be bent for service at your will!
Yet have I mine own pleasure, &c.

After reflection, the king declares his intention to command a public trial of the queen, and reminding them that her doom will be death if found guilty—asks if they, as her accusers, will embrace the alternative, and submit to the same sentence, if she is proved innocent. Duke Alba consents to support his charge on these terms, and is ordered to wait further commands in the audience chamber.

In the hall of audience are assembled the prince and grandees of Spain, waiting the arrival of the sovereign. Medina Sidonia, the admiral, has just returned from an unsuccessful expedition.

_Medina Sidonia_. I lost him a brave fleet
Such as ne'er yet did crown the seas. What is
A head like this, against full seventy,
Seventy sunken gallies! But, my prince,
Five sons I lost—hopeful as you—that breaks
My heart——

The unfortunate commander has sealed his own doom in the opinion of those around him; for none are ignorant that there is a cloud on the royal brow. The admiral would rather face English cannon than the displeasure of his master, but is comforted by Carlos, who exhorts him to hope the best from the king's grace and his own innocence. When he kneels to relate his misfortunes to Philip, he is graciously pardoned for the faults of storms and rocks, and welcomed to Madrid. The king then inquires the reason of the absence of the Marquis of Posa, who has failed to pay his duty at the feet of his sovereign since his return from his journey. The Count Lerma, Duke Alba and the Duke of Feria in turn praise the Marquis, and relate the noble deeds he has accomplished.

_Philip_. I am amazed. And what must be the man
Hath done all this, yet among three, thus questioned,
Hath not a single foe? Be sure, this man
Must have a character most singular,
Or none at all; if but to wonder at,
I must speak with him.
(_to Duke Alba_) After mass is heard,
Conduct him to my cabinet.

The boldness and dignity displayed by the Marquis in the subsequent interview with the king, develop his character, and unfold the project to which he had devoted his life. Bent on the accomplishment of his object, the deliverance of the Netherlands from oppression, he hesitates not to condemn Philip's policy in the government of his distant provinces. The king seems not displeased at his boldness, and from grave remonstrance the enthusiast soon passes to the most impassioned pleading. With earnest eloquence he paints the spirit of independence that is abroad, and warns the monarch not to oppose his will to this growing power.

_Marquis_. You hope to end, as you have now begun! {709}
Hope to retard the change o'er Christendom
Already ripe—the universal spring,
The world to bring again to pristine childhood.
You will, alone throughout all Europe, throw
Yourself against the wheel of a world's fate,
Which unimpeded in full course doth roll.

Again,

You, who would fain plant for eternity,
Sow death! A work thus forced can ne'er endure
Beyond its maker's breath!

Although the king listens without anger to such declamation, he soon after coldly dismisses the subject, and expressing a wish to engage the disinterested Posa in his service, sounds him upon the subject of Carlos and the queen. The Marquis is silent at Philip's first allusion to his domestic troubles.

_King_. I understand you.
Yet if among all fathers I must be
The most unhappy—as a husband, may I not
Call myself blest?

_Marquis of Posa_. If the possession of
A hopeful son, a wife most virtuous,
Can give a mortal right to be thus deemed,
You are most blest in both.

_King_. No—I am not!
And that I am not—have I never felt
So deeply as even now!

_Marquis of Posa_. The prince is noble
And good. I never found him otherwise.

_King_. But I have. What he hath despoiled me of,
No sceptre can restore—a noble queen——

_Marquis of Posa_. Who dares to say so, Sire?

_King_. Who? Calumny!
The world! Myself! Here lie the proofs that both
Condemn, incontrovertibly—and others
Are close at hand, which make me fear the worst.
Yet, Marquis, it is sad if I believe
Only one side! Who is't accuses her?
If _she_ could e'er be thought to stoop so low,
So deeply to imbrue her soul in crime,
How readily may I believe, in sooth,
An Eboli can slander!—And the priest,
Doth he not hate my son—and her? Duke Alba—
Know I not that he meditates revenge?
My wife is worth them all.

* * * * *

To fall into such crime, as they do charge
Upon the queen, costs much. So easily,
As they would fain persuade me, is not broken
The holy tie of honor. Men I know,
Marquis—and such a man I long have lacked.
You are noble and free-hearted—know mankind—
And therefore have I chosen you.

_Marquis of Posa_. Me—Sire?

_King_. You stand before your lord—and yet have nought—
Nought for yourself to beg. That's new to me.
You shall be just; emotion from your glance
Can ne'er conceal itself. Watch well my son:
Search the queen's heart. I will permission give
you
To speak with her in private. Leave me now.

_Act III, Scene 10_.

Posa takes advantage of this permission speedily to demand an audience of the queen. Act fourth opens in her apartment, where she welcomes to her presence the princess of Eboli, who has been for some days indisposed. Agitated from the consciousness of guilt, the unhappy girl implores leave to retire, and passes out as the Marquis enters, bearing as he alleges a message from the king. At his special request, the ladies withdraw; and not noticing the extreme surprise of Elizabeth at seeing him employed as a royal messenger, he proceeds to the real object of his visit—warns her of danger, and gives her a letter from Carlos, imploring an interview. Posa warmly seconds this request, and overcomes the queen's scruples by assuring her that the measure is necessary, not only to the private happiness of the prince, but to the weal of the state. The liberty of Flanders is sacrificed; and Alba's appointment as leader of the royal army has struck a death blow to the hopes of the people. But one way remains to prevent the destruction impending over those provinces, and their loss by the Spanish crown; it must be undertaken by the prince—who must be persuaded to the enterprise by her.

_Marquis of Posa_. He must
Be disobedient to the royal will,
Must privately betake himself to Brussels;
With open arms the Flemings there await him.
The Netherlands will to his standard throng,
A good thing is made strong by the alliance
Of a king's son. He makes the Spanish throne
Tremble before his arms. That which the king
Refused in Madrid, he constrained will grant
In Brussels.

After some hesitation, the queen consents to what she imagines a measure of necessity, and writes a few lines to Carlos, recommending him to follow the advice of the Marquis. Their interview is ended by the appearance of the Duchess of Olivarez.

Meanwhile Count Lerma, with good intent, but injudicious zeal, warns Carlos against the Marquis of Posa; acquaints him with his long audience and close confidence with the king; and mentions that he heard from the door his own name and Elizabeth's uttered. The prince thanks him for his caution, which excites in his bosom no distrust of his friend, as is proved by their subsequent interview. Posa gives him the queen's note, then asks for it, as it is more safe in his custody. With evident reluctance, Carlos confides the precious paper to his hands, than as if ashamed of his suspicion, throws himself trembling with agitation upon his neck.