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comic. He was primarily a satirist, secondarily a poet. Such being his powers and his aims, helpful to him, nay needful, was a present Parisian actuality of story and agents. A poetic comedy ought to be, and will necessarily be, a chapter of very high life. Molière's comedies, dealing unctuously with vice and folly, are, philosophically speaking, low life. His are comedies not of character and sentiment, but of manners and morals, and therefore cannot be highly poetical; and thence he felt no want of a remote ground, clean of all local coloring and association, such as is essential to the dramatist whose inspiration is poetical, and who therefore must reconcile the ideal with the real, by which reconciliation only can be produced the purest truth. That, notwithstanding they belong not to the highest poetic sphere, his comedies continue to live and to be enjoyed, this testifies of the breadth and truthfulness of his humanity, the piercing insight of his rich mind, and his superlative comic genius.

Of Alfieri's twenty-two tragedies, three only are modern, and of these three the scene of one is in Spain.

Of the nine or ten tragedies of the foremost German dramatic poet, Schiller, three are German, the Robbers, Intrigue and Love, and Wallenstein.

Goethe's highest dramas, Iphigenia, Egmont, Torquato Tasso, are all foreign in clothing. The Natural Daughter has no local habitation, no dependence on time or place. Gootz von Berlichingen, written in Goethe's earliest days of authorship, is German and in prose. Faust-the greatest poem of these latter times, and rivaling the greatest poems of all time-Faust is not strictly a drama: its wonderful successive scenes are not bound together by dramatic necessity.

The drama of Spain, like the comedies of Molière, is an exception to the rule we deduce from the practice of other dramatists; but it is an exception which, like that of Molière, confirms the rule. Unlike the ancient Greek and the French tragic poets, unlike Schiller, Shakespeare, Goethe, Alfieri, the Spanish dramatists do not aim at ideal humanity. The best of them, Calderon, is so intensely Spanish and Romish, as to be, in comparison with the breadth and universality of his eminent compeers above-named, almost

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provincial. His personages are not large and deep enough to be representative. The manifold recesses of great minds he does not unveil; he gets no deeper than the semi-barbarous aggerations of selfish passionate love, of revenge, honor, and jealousy. His characterization is weak. His highest characters lack intellectual calibre, and are exhibited in lyrical one-sidedness rather than dramatic many-sidedness. He is mostly content with Spanish cavaliers of the seventeenth century, ruled by the conventionalisms in manners, morals, and superstition, which have already passed away even in Spain. He is a marvelously fertile, skillful, poetic play-wright.

Thus we perceive that, with poetic dramatists, the prevailing practice is, to look abroad for fables. Moreover, in the cases where these were drawn from the bosom of the poet's own people, he shuns the present, and hies as far as he can into the dark back abysms of time, as Shakespeare does in Macbeth and Lear. The Greek tragic poets, having no outward resource, took possession of the fabulous era of Greece. The poetic dramatist seeks mostly a double remoteness, that of place as well as that of time; and he must have one or the other.

The law lying behind this phenomenon is transparent. The higher poetry is, the more generic it is. Its universality is a chief constituent of its excellence. The drama is the most generically human, and, therefore, the highest of the great forms of poetry. The epic Ideals with the material, the outwardhumanity concreted into events; the lyric with the inward, when that is so individual and intense as to gush out in ode or song. The dramatic is the union of the epic and lyric-the inward moulding the outward, predominant over the outward while co-working with it. In the dramatic, the action is more made by the personality; in the epic, the personality is more merged in the strong, full stream of events. lyric is the utterance of one-sided, partial (however deep and earnest) feeling, the which must be linked to other feelings to give wholeness to the man and his actions. The dramatic combines several lyrics with the epic. Out of humanity and human action it extracts the essence. It presents men in their completest form, in warm activity, impelled

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thereto by strongest feelings. Hence it must be condensed and compact, and must, for its highest display, get rid of local coloring, personal associations, and all prosaic circumscriptions. The poetic dramatist needs the highest poetic freedom, and only through this can he attain to that breadth and largeness whereof the superiority of his form admits, and which are such in Shakespeare, that in his greatest plays the whole world seems to be present as spectators and listeners.

Observe that the highest dramatic literatures belong to the two freest peoples-the Greeks and the English. A people, possessing already a large political freedom, must be capable of, and must be in the act of, vigorous, rich development, through deep inward passion and faculty, in order that its spirit shall issue in the perennial flowers of the poetic drama. The dramatic especially implies and demands variety and fullness and elevation of personality; and this is only possible through freedom, the attainment of which freedom implies on its side the innate fertility of nature which results in fullness and elevation.

Now in the subjective elevation of the individual, and therewith the unprecedented relative number of individuals thus elevated, herein do we exceed all other peoples. By subjective elevation I mean, liberation from the outward downward pressure of dogmatic prescription, of imperious custom, of blindfolded tradition, of irresponsible authority. The despotic objectivity of Asia-where religion is submissiveness, and manhood is crushed by obedience--has been partially withstood in Europe. The emancipation therefrom of the Indo-Germanic race is completed in AngloAmerica. Through this manifold

emancipation, we are to be, in all the high departments of human achievement, preeminently creative, because, while equipped with the best of the past, we are at the same time preeminently subjective; and, therefore, high literature will, with us, necessarily take the lyrical, and especially the dramatic, form.

More than our European ancestors, we mould, each one of us, our own destiny; we have a stronger inward

sense of power to unfold and elevate ourselves; we are more ready and more capable to withstand the assaults of circumstance. Here is more thoroughly embodied the true Christian principle, that out of himself is to come every man's redemption; that the favor and help of God are only to be obtained through resolute self-help and honest, earnest struggle. In Christendom we stand alone as having above us neither the objectivity of politics nor that of the church. The light of the past we have, without its darkness. We carry little weight from the exacting past. Hence, our unexampled freedom and ease of movement, which, wanting the old conventional ballast, to Europeans seems lawless and reckless. Even among ourselves, many tremble for our future, because they have little faith in humanity, and because they cannot grasp the new grand historic phenomenon of a people possessing all the principles, practices, and trophies of civilization without its paralyzing encumbrances.

But think not, because we are less passive to destiny, we are rebellious against Deity; because we are boldly self-reliant, we are, therefore, irreligiously defiant. The freer a people is, the nearer it is to God. The more subjective it is, through acquired selfrule, the more will it harmonize with the high objectivity of absolute truth and justice. For, having thrown off the capricious secondary rule of man, we shall not be the less, but the more, under the steadfast, primary rule of God; for, having broken the force of human fallible prescription, we shall the more feel and acknowledge the supremacy of flawless divine law; for, having rejected the tyranny of man's willfulness, we shall submit the more fully to the beneficent power of principle.

Our birth, growth, and continued weal, depending on large, deep principles-principles deliberately elaborated and adopted by reason, and generously embracing the whole-our life must be interpenetrated by principle, and thence, our literature must embrace the widest and most human wants and aspirations of man. And thus, it will be our privilege and our glory to be then the most national in our books when we are the most universal.

THE RHINE CASTLE

WANDERED up the path of time,
Through stately avenues of sleep;
I saw a castle rise sublime,

On cliffs precipitously steep;
A trumpet clamored from its height,
O'er turret, battlement, and keep;
Shrill voices answered of affright,
And beacons flung a larum light.
A dizzy window swung agape,

Anear the summit of the tower,
And from it leaned a maiden's shape,
In beauty like a starlight-flower.
She drew my eyes-she drew my soul—
I floated upward by that power
Inborn to dreams; I upward stole
As lightly as a mist may roll.

She saw the watch-fire's writhing blaze
Flash bodefully athwart the Rhine;
She sent a timid, tearful gaze

O'er moonlit forest, cliff, and vine.

Some distant clangor faintly rose ;

Some far-off weapons seemed to shine;
And, through the midnight's broad repose,
Came shadows swift of friends or foes.

She tottered to a gloomy stair,
And down its sullen spiral fled;
Adown that by-way of despair

I followed, by her weeping led;

We passed a mighty hall where shone

Great wassail-cups on tables spread,

Swords gapped with shredding helm and bone,

And trumpets oft for slaughter blown.

Within a chapel's vaulted cell

We reached an altar's sanctity; Before the Crucified she fell,

And lifted eyes of agony.

A wondrous change upon me came-
That Crucified I seemed to be,

And threatened her with eyes of flame,

Which checked her ere she spake the Name.

Then footfalls rent the woeful air,

And swiftly through the gloom advanced

A frenzied woman, ghastly fair,

Who wildly sang and wildly danced.

She seized the other by the arm,

And fiercely in her visage glanced;
Then shuddered back, as with alarm,
Or stung by memories of harm.

"The time is come!" she shrilly cried.
"Aha! aha! behold the time!
The day appointed for a bride-

The belfries ring a wedding chime.
Who ever saw so fine a sun?

And yet the sky is black as grime. But oh, my heart is lost and wonMy virgin days are told and done.

"The baron bold of Bingensee

Rides bravely down the banks of Rhine; He slew a husband once for thee

A lover and a sire of mine; The baron's hair is silver white,

But it shall redder turn than wine; The baron's arm is strong in fight, But woe to him some starry night!

"I heard a voice which bid me fly; I flew upon a demon's wingsI flew to tell a prophecy

The raven to the she-wolf sings; I heard him singing in a tree,

The war-axe falls, the helmet ringsThe baron bold of Bingensee,

Oh what a prize for me and thee!'"

She ended with a gurgling laugh
Which varied to a frenzied yell,
As of those damned souls who quaff
The mantling agony of hell;
Then swiftly vanished from the place,
While speechlessly the other fell,
And swooned away upon her face
Against the altar's chilly base.

Sudden, a far, discordant cry

Swept hoarsely bodeful to my ear, Still nearer howling, and more nigh,

Till, deafening loud and deadly clear,
It roared through window, door, and hall,
A storm of groan, and shriek, and cheer,
With clash of steel and trumpet call
And lifeless bodies' plunging fall.

Then, trampling feet, with maddened rush,
Burst doors ajar; and struggling forms
Profaned the chapel's saintly hush

With blasphemy of clanging arms;
Some slipped upon the gory pave,
Gashed horribly with mortal harms;
Yet onward surged the steely wave
Of halbert, dagger, pike, and glaive.
On one with venerable hair

It chiefly flung its savage might;
He shouted with a fierce despair,
His war-axe fell like levin-light;
His cuirass gaped with riving blows,

Yet still he faced the rushing fight,

Till, downward dragged by clutching foes,
He grimly fell and never rose.

Beside his fainted child he fell,

And clasped her with a dead embrace; She started staring from her spell,

And shrieked and gibbered in his face; Till, agonized, I gave command

To cleave that castle to its base;

And down it thundered, shaking land
And ocean with destruction grand.

THE BOSTON LADIES' RECEPTION OF WASHINGTON.

CHAPTER I.

'And now unveiled the toilette stands display'd

Each silver vase in mystic order laid,
Th' inferior priestess at her altar's side."
Rape of the Lock.

AL

LL that can now be recalled, relating even indirectly to our earliest President, commands such interest and attention, that I am tempted to offer a kaleidoscope glimpse of his noble figure, surrounded by the antiquated ceremonial of a ball-room in the eighteenth century. This ball, or, as we should now phrase it, this reception or levee, was given during Washington's last visit to the metropolis of New England in 1789, that the ladies of Boston might be gratified by a personal introduction with the opportunity of offering their respectful and grateful homage.

In family conclave, it is decided, that the dress for the gala evening should be entirely new-nothing worn the preceding season may again appear in so distinguished a presence. The services of Mr. Rowe-the most fashionable ladies' coiffeur-should also be promptly secured, and the more speedily, from some uncomfortable reminiscences connected with commencement

day at Harvard University. The hour for leaving the city was so early, and the time so limited, that this favorite hair-dresser was in requisition during the hours usually considered as belonging to the night, and even powdered and dressed the heads of many ladies the preceding evening, these votaries of fashion, unhappy victims of the tedious head-dress, passing the night in their high-backed chairs. His assistance is, therefore, at once bespoken, and the important matter satisfactorily arranged. For, though drawn in different directions, and having long-standing engagements with many a fashionable dame, he promises on the word of an honorable coiffeur to present himself at a convenient hour, on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 29th of October. The exciting business of shopping now commenced, and many a consultation was held to decide on the material and style of the new dress. A large trunk was placed in the young lady's apartment, and each article, when procured or completed, took its place in the spacious re

ceptacle. Doubtless the lid was often raised to display its accumulating treasures to country cousins or admiring friends. I shall glance in-here is the costly lace, the transparent and filmy gauze, the delicate silk, hueless, but lustrous, with wreaths and clusters of blushing roses. In the folds of that silver paper are the quaint little shoes, pure and snowy as the dress, and near them, in the morocco case with velvet lining, are sparkling buckles. In this perfumed satchel are the delicate gloves, and here, incased from careless hands, the fan of exquisite workmanship.

This beautiful dress is made at homeonly the mother's careful and tasteful hand may be trusted on so special an occasion. This ability to cut and fit their own dresses appears to have been not unusual with our gentlewomen of the last century, and was considered by them rather in the light of an accomplishment.

While such preparations are supposed to be gradually advancing, allow me to introduce to your notice the masters of the ceremony. The traditions I consult preserve the names of but three individuals. In our own day we occasionally see published the names of seventy or a hundred persons as presiding over the fashionable assemblies of our summer watering-places, and sometimes wonder who can be left to appear simply as private citizens, without some indicating ribbon, or official badge at the button-hole. But we know the title is often a mere honorary distinction. Many are not even present, or, perhaps, have not been consulted in the use of

their names. Behind this shadowy cloud of hypothetical managers, is the true working committee who understand and regulate the complicated machinery. Not so in the last century a limited number of gentlemen, accustomed to society, and competent to the task, well-known themselves, and knowing all in the perhaps somewhat narrow circle of the then small town, were considered sufficient for the many and various duties of the situation, assuming no responsibilities they did not fully intend to meet. Of the three whose names have been handed down, and I am inclined to believe they were all who officiated, were, first, Colonel Bradford,

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