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are alone exercised. The reasoning powers of the mind have no part or lot in the niu.-ei. The pupil never suspects that music is any thin" more than a combination of soil id pro duced bv arbitrary rule. He is not aware that it is a perfect science, founded on the most abstruse principles of mathematics «anu natut . < philosophy. Now, if the same course « pursued in music as we have pointed out in arithmetic, lie would be made to acquire tin- | nortant principle*, and atthe same time would receive a valuable exercise to the mmd. He will not then go home and forget all tnat had been learned,—lie will have learned princi ples which cannot be eradicated fiom t c mind-.-because they become incorporated and form a part of the maid. Music will then be come (as it ought to be,) one of the most im portant and profitable branches of education. Pleasure will become a handmaid to science— wisdom and the graces will be companions to each other, atxl will steal knowledge into the mind along the chords of melody. Now every body will say that all this is very plain and reasonable ; and surely must be casv to do. It is certainly a plain truth ; but wlvo has practised it? To practise it, the teacher himself must have n profound knowl edge of the science he professes to teach, so as ; to know what are truly the fundamental principles of the science. He must lie so thoroughly acquainted with the constitution of j the mind, ns to know what faculties are to 'kj exercised for the reception of these principles. He must be so conscientious in the discharge of his duties, so ardently devoted to the public g<x>d, as to pursue the course which reason tells him is right, whether it be for his own private interest or not. He must have the moral courage to withstand the clamor and opposition of those who can neither understand . nor appreciate his motives. He must have prepared himself to encounter difficulties both on the part of the parent anu the pupil. The severe exercise of mind which he requires, i will he revolting to the badly taught and un disciplined mind of youth—the plain and un ostentatious wav which he pursues—the entirej abandonment of all rewards and distinctions— all stimulants to rivalry and emulation—will be a cause of complaint to most parents, who : love to see their children distinguished at an examination, and love to hear that they have j stjjcJied n great many things, whether they , Rttpw any thing about them or not. Thus thoroughly furnished, and endowed withal with the patience of a Job, any instruc tor may indulge some hope of success, in that most arduous, responsible, and delicate task the education of youth. Rut, the teacher has not yet discharged all his duties, when he has unfolded the powers of the mind, and communicated the elements of all science. Many things are to be learned which cannot be found in books—many ideas and notices necessary for the ordinary affairs of life, are not to be found in any treatise many precepts to be derived only from the lips of the living teacher. One imbued with wisdom and experience can communicate valuable information every moment of bis life. Around the social hearth or the board, in the fields or by the way-side, he may instil into the mind, knowledge far morn valuable than any which can be acquired by the study of logic, mathematics, Latin, or Greek. By apt illustration and pleasing incidents, he may re veal the secrets and the passions of the human heart—may excite and unfold the noble and the social virtues, and all those tender afFec tions, which constitute the better and the only redeeming part of our fallen nature. The most useful thing to a young pupil is to develope, and at the same time, purify his sentiments, inclinations, and passions. Rut this most extensive branch of our subject, must be defericd to another occasion. The teacher can do more by his example than by all the motives which can he presented tithe mind. Socrates kindled in the minds of his pupils the love of knowledge, more ef f('dually by his example, than by all his pre ccpts, wise and instructive as they were. V/oerever lie might be found, in the market palce, in the afreet, or in the groves oi Acade mus, the love of wisdom seemed to.be his only animating spirit. Not even that termagant of a wife, Xantippe, could disturb his contempla tive mind. Mis pupils caught the ardor and devotion of their master, and made themselves the most eminent men of Greece. Philoso phers, and the warriors, the statesmen, orators, and poets of that day, and of succeeding ages, were the pupils and desciples of Socrates. We are creatures of imitation and example, is omnipatent. What made Washington and Bonaparte so successful in their campaigns ? their own example. On the eve of some great battle, when all was doubtful, and the fate of thousands suspended on that one event, did they then calmly harangue their armies on the importance of valor and the necessityof victory —then retire to the rear and send on their sol diers to brave danger alone, and to toil in the conflict without a leader ? Did they not rather brace themselves up to the great occasion ? With an eye darting unusual fire, with a bosom dilated by strong hope, they marched to the front rank, brandished their sword in nnd air, and cried come on, follow mo to victory or to death. Was there a soldier, who did not feel the electric influence of such an example ? Was there a soldier, who did not gr.sp his sword with double vigor,and swear, come life, oo «e death, to follow his glorious What could stand before such men, animated by such example? Even so triumphant success must inevitably crown the exertions of every pupil, who is animated by the ex nmole of a master, that leads the way in the seat'd) after knowledge—who shows by his life, that he values wisdom above rubies— who mounts up before him, the bill of science, nnd beckons him to follow—who shows by his animation and his enthusiasm, that he indeed looks out on a glorious landscape—so smooth, so green, so full of godly prospects, and melodious sound, on every side, that the harp of Orplieus were not more charming. Would you have a scholar of a hold nnd original mind, he must have a master of the same character, as Phillip, Alexander, Aris otic. Nothing but genius can elicit genius. If the master lie a chamois hunter in the pur suit of knowledge, the pupil will become a chamois hunter also. To the chamois hunter, a love of the chase has become a passion; though he were sure that he must be precipitated from some moun tain crag, and that the snow must behir wind ing sheet, lie would not exchange his pursuits tor the wealth of India, or for tite throne of a Russian Autocrat. Carried away by the ex citement ot the chnse, ho knows no danger. He crosses tbj sno .vs, without thinking of the abyss which they may cover—he plunges in , the most dangerous passes of the mountains--* he climbs up, he leaps from rock to rock, without considering how he may return. The night often finds him in the heat of the pursuit. But he passes the night- -not at the foot of a tree, nor in a cave covered with ver dure, as does the hunter of the plain—but upon a naked rock, or upon a heap of rough stones, without a shelter. lie is alone, without fire, without light; he puts a stone under his head, nnd is presently asleep, dreaming of the way the chamois has taken. He is awakened by the freshness of the morning air; he rises, pierced through with cold; lie measures with the eye the prqcipies he must yet climb to reach the chamois-—and again rushes forward to encounter new dangers. Oh ! that all instructors were like the cha i mois hunter—in whom the love of knowledge were such a passion, that they would not change its pleasures for the wealth of a king dom, not the throne of a monarch—who fear ed no danger, regarded no toil, no self-denial, which might help them on to the attain, inent of wisdom. Such examples of daring adventure in the fields of knowledge, would kindle in the minds of youth such a spirit of improvement, such an ardent devotion to the cause of learning, that would lead them to sur pass every previous age of the world, iri the extent and the value of their acquisitions—they would soon embrace in the wide scope of their expanded and ever expanding intellect, all science and all knowledge. They will then show to the world the great blessings of educa tion—its superior excellence above all earthly things. They will then show theirsuperioritv to the self-educated man, who must shrink be fore them like the twinkling star that dies a way in the heavens before the face of the rising sun. The self educated man must always labor under a disadvantage, when brought in com parison with the scholar, whose mind has beet! properly developed nnd trained from the be ginning. by the hands of a skilful master. The difficulties the self-educated man had to encounter, the many errors he made in the onset, have given him a bold and independent mind, but one of limited information and con tracted views. The two characters may not he unaptly compared to the two great rulers oi the animal kingdom—the lion, king of beasts—the eagle, king of birds. The walks of the lion are confined within a narrow compass—he never travels beyond the region in which he was born—the sun that rises in the morning finds hint in the same spot when it goes down at night—he lives on ly on one lend of food. The luxuriant plants of a torrid clime in vain spread their delica cies before him—the blood and flesh of ani mals constitute his repast—when they fail, he is without resource. But, within the limited space where he lives, he is absolute master, and the terror of every thing that hath breath —when he lifts his voice in thunder, the earth trembles—the beasts of the field start with sudden affright and flee to their coverts. So Witli the self-eductiled man—his knowl edge is confined within a narrow space—but jin that limit, he is master absolute, without n ! rival—upon his own ground, none dare op ipo,e him—his word is law —he is the lion of his leibe —but only of his tribe—his authority, \ elsewhere, is not known—as a professional } man. lie feels the power of a giant in his own peculiar department—but beyond that, he is j shorn of his strength and his glory; all is | darkness and confusion—lie is conscious that |he has ventured beyond his safe depth, and I feels the impotency of a stripling, lie feels 1 that he does not possess those resources,which can only be acquired by a thorough educa tion—‘‘that education, which,” in the language jof Milton, “(its a man to perform skilfully, j justly, magnanimously, all the offices, both j public and private of peace and of war.” The eagle is an animal that hath wings, ex j pnnded and vigorous—no climate can oppose | him—no element can daunt his resolution— j no region to which he does not penetrate. At onetime, you find him in the frozen tracts of I Iceland ; at onother, on the parched sands of Zaharn—now you behold him on Alp or An gles, sitting amidst the thunders that leap from crag to crag— now he walks majestic on the j barren shore, listening to the deep melody of | the profound ocean. Again you see him perched on some tall eminence, calm and un ! ruffled, contemplating the scenes outspread } before him, wood, vale, and lake, mountain high—then he mounts upward, above the clouds, takes the whole earth in one wide cir cuit, bends his course sun.ward, and kindles his undazzled event the full mid-wav beam. The thoroughly educated man, like the ea gle, is confined to no region—dependant on no limited resource for the nourishment of his mind—for him the whole earth is fillet! with pleasure and stored with the treasures of knowledge—“ he reads sermons in stones ; j books in the running brooks; and good in every thing. Like the eagle, he sits on some tall eminence, in awful solemnity ; disencum bered from the press of near obstructions, he l breathes in solitude above the host of ever humming insects. Elevated above the mur jinuroi a thousand notes, many and idle, by ! which the soul is distracted, he can send his mind forth in deep meditation on the present, past, nnd future—he hath the power to com mune with the invisible world, and hear the : mighty stream of tendency uttering to his lis tening and intelligent ear, a distinct and so noious voice, inaudible to the vast multitude, whose doom it is to run the giddy round of vain delight, or fret and labor on the plain below. i Let us exhort you to cultivate vour minds ! w >?b all diligence, that you may be thus eleva jted above the accidents of time nnd circurn stances—that you may be thus imbued with a I spirit which shall prepare you to sustain anv j destiny that may await you, adverse or pros, iperous. Imitate the example of those who have gone before you, and who have guided the destiny of nations by their wisdom and } their valor—thoroughly imbue your hearts 1 TIIE SOUTHERN POST. •with theirlofty and unfading | at riot ism—study the works which they have left behind as the imperishable monuments of human greatness —study them diligently—they are few—like green spots in a sandy desert, or stars amid the fitful clouds of a stormy night—study them day and night—they contain the sublimated wisdom of all ages—they contain a history of the remotest past, and a prophetic Annuncia tion of the remotest future—tread along the. steps of thought which they have reared, mid' you cannot fail to reach the sources of wisdom and the fountains of pathos. When you have thus measured yourself se verely with men of old—imbued your minds with their wisdom, and cultivated the affec tions of the heart by a participation in the feelings of your fellow-men—then will von need to have no fear when the evil day shall | come upon us, —then will \ on lie prepared to sustain the honor ofyour country —you will} carry in your own bosom a rich treasure—an ever increasing source of joy and happiness. You will be lifted above the conflicting tumult of vulgar passions, and men raging in aimless! commotion—you will have a fellow feeling of the mournful and the joyful, in the fate of all human beings—you can weep with those that weep ; rejoice with those that rejoice. From your heart, as front a living fountain, will flow the streams of wisdom—then will you acquire the gift, of communicating to men lofty emo tions and glotiotis images in mtlodies and words, “that voluntary move harmonious numbers. ” ANALEKTA—No. 5. Welcome, dear reader, welcome once more to our great piazza. We almost thought thou hadst deserted us; tired, peradventure, of our company—bored, per chance, with our readings, and our gossiping thereon ; come, confess, was it not so?—No!—Well,thou liads’t then “ metal more attractive,” which lias drawn thee from our side. But we are glad to greet thee again ; and moreover, we are glad that thou dost use with us die liberty of a friend, to call when it will be pleasant ito thee to do so, and then only- And now, for thy pre sent entertainment. Hast ever read “ Richelieu ?” : Nay ! we do not n can the novel, so called, from the • pm ot James, but the new Dlay of that name, by Sir !'• ■L. Bui.wi.r. \\ e have the book before us, and we will examine it together. But first let us do the honors of our piazza. Mark the delicate complexion of these rosy apples, “ whose red and white, nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on”—and here, this sunny peach, swelling with ripe and luscious juices, its rich color subdued by the tender down to the tint which blooms on die cheek of young beauty—there, iu that 1 decanter on thy right hand, thou will find some fine old Sherry; observe the pale gold light that struggles thro’ ■ its depths ! and whilst thou enjoyest the creature com forts we have provided for thee, let us examine “ Ri chelieu, or the Conspiracy.” j The time selected by the author for the plot of this play is the epoch when an attempt was made to de stroy the power and the life of the haughty minister, and at the same time dethrone the pusillanimous Louis XIII, in order to place on the throne his brother, Gas ion of Orleans. This weak Prince is but a puppet in j the hands of the more daring and crafty conspirators. The conspiracy which forms the groundwork of the plot, was not the first which had been formed against the all-powerful Richelieu ; in a funner one, had been engaged the Chevalier de Maqprat, who had been re spited from the doom lie had incurred during the plea sure of the Cardinal. De Mauprat loves Julie de Mor temar, Richelieu’s ward; but fancying the Cardinal his enemy, and knowing his own life to be dependent sole ly on this enemy’s nod, he yields to despair, and gives . himself up to gaming and dissipation- Baradas, one of tile chief conspirators, also loves J ilie : discovering De Mauprat’s passion, he resolves,to make him the instru ment of his design on the life of the Cardinal, by stir ring up his revenge, and then to bring him to death for the murder, and thus remove a rival. The plot is deep ly laid and skilfully contrived. Having thus given thee some account of the personages who first appear, we will proceed to read thee some extracts. The play opens in the house of the celebrated Ma rion de l'Orme, the mistress of Gaston of Orleans.— Orleans, Baradas and other Conspirators, are drinking at one table, whilst De Mauprat, De Berigheu (one of the King’s personal attendants) and others, are playing dice at another. Baradas unfolds the particulars of the conspiracy. “ I have now All the conditions drawn ; it only needs Our signatures : upon receipt of this Bouillon will join his army with the Spaniard, March on to Paris, there dethrone the King; , \ on will be Regent; I and ye, my Lords, Form the ne.v Council. So nincli for the core Os our great scheme. Orleans. But Richelieu is an Argus; One of his hundred eyes will light upon us, And then—good-bye to life. Baradas. To gain the prize We must destroy the Argus. Aj-, my Lords, This scroll the core, but tdoid must fill die veins Os our design; while this despatched to Bouillon, Richelieu despatched to Heaven ! The last my charge. Meet here to-morrow night,” &c. The conspirators then separate, Baradas remaining to work De Mauprat to his purpose of assassinating the Cardinal: this proposal De Mauprat rejects with con tempt, and the conference is suddenly broken off, by the arrest of the latter by order of Richelieu. The second scene introduces the Cardinal in confer ence with his confidant, the priest Joseph. His ward, Julie, is soon announced, and Richeheu discovers that she loves De Mauprat. Whilst he rebukes her, theof ficers sent to arrest her lover, return with their prison er ; he commands her to retire, and placing one of his attendants, Huguet, behind a screen, with directions to prevent any violence which may be offered by De Mauprat, he orders him to be admitted alone. Part of this scene is so beautiful that we must read it to thee. •Messire de Mauprat, .Doom’d to sure death, how hast thou since consumed ’Pile time allotted dice for serious thought And solemn penitence? 1)e Mauprat (em'mrrassed.) The 'ime, my lord ? Riciulieu. Is not the question plain ? I’ll answer; tor thee. Thou has sought nor priest nor shrine; no sackclotli chafed Thy delicate flesh. The rosary and the death’s-head Have not, with pious meditation, puiged Earth from the carnal gaze. What thou hast nut done, 1 Brief told ; wlmt done, a volume ! Wild debauch, Turbulent riot: for the morn the dicebox. Noon claimed the duel, and the night the wassail ; ’Hiese, vonr most holy, pure preparations For death and judgment. Do I wrorg you, sir ? De Maitkat. I was not always thus; if changed my nature, Blame that which changed my fate. Alas, my lord, There is a brotherhood which calm-eyed Reason Can wot not of between cit s; air and rrii.th. M y birthplace mid the vines of sunny Provence, Perchance the stream that sparkles in my veins I Came from that wine of passim nate life which erst Glowed in the wild heart of the Troubadour : And danger, which makes R eadier courage wary, But fevers me with an insane delight; As one of old wlm on the mountain-crags Caught madness from a Maenad’s haunting eyes. Were von, my lord—whose path imperial power, And the grave cures of reveren* wisdom guard Prom all that temp » to folly meaner iiipii— Were you accursed with that which you inflicted, Bv lad and b urd dogg’d by one "linifiv suerire, The while w ithin you youth la st high, anil life Grew lovelier from (lie neighbouring frown of death. The heart no bud, nor (run, eat* in (hot* aeed* . Vost worthless, which spring up, bloom, bear, and wither lli the same hour. Wire th s your fate, perchance you would have err’d like me! * Richelieu. I m gh’, like you, f ave been a brawler and a reveller ; not, like you, a tri< kster and a thief. De Mauprat ( advancing thrta'enin%ly.) Lord car dinal! Tnsay those words! (Huguet deliberately raises the carbine.) Richelieu (waving his hand.) Not um o so quick, friend Huguet; Messire de Mauprat is a patient man, And he can w ail ! You have outrun your fortune ; I blame you not, that vou, would be a beggar; Eacli to his taste ! But Ido rharge you, sir. That, being beggar’d vou would coin false moneys Out of that crucible oath and debt. To live Oo means not yours ; be brave in silks and laces, t’allent in steeds, splendid in banquets ; all Not yours , ungiven, uninherited, unpaid for; This is to lie a trickster, and to filch Men’s art and labour, which to them is wealth. Life, daily bread ; quilting all scor< s with, “Friend, You're troublesome!” Why this, forgive me, Is what, when done with a less dainty grace, Plain lolks call “ Theft!” You owe eight thousand pistoles. Minus one crown, two liards! De Mauprat (aside.) The old conjuror! 'Sdeath, he’ll inform me next how many cups I drank at dinner t Richelieu. This is scandalous, Shaming your birth and blood. 1 tell you, sir, That you tnus' pay v> ur debts. De Mauprat. With all my heart, Mv lord Where shall I borrow, then, the money? Richelieu (nsute and laughing.) A humorous dare devil! The very man To suit my purpose; ready, frank, and bold ! ( Rising, and earnestly.) Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel ; lam not; lam just.' I lound France rent asunder; The rich men despots, and the poor bandi ti; Sloth in rhe mart, and schism within the temple; Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. 1 have recreated France ; and, from the ashes Os die old feudal and decrepit carcass, Civilization on her luminous wings Soars, pheenix-like, to Jove ! What was my art ? Genius, some say; some, fortune; witchcraft some. Not so ; my art was Justice ! Force and fraud Misname it cruelty; you shall confute them ! My champion you ! You met me ns your foe. Depa.t my friend; you shall not die. France needs you. You shall wipe off all stains; be rich, be honour’d, Be great. (Dc Mauprat fulls on his hnee; Richelieu raises him, I ask sir, in return, this hand, To gift it with a bride, w-hose dower shall match, Yet not exceed, her beauty. De Mauprat. I, my lord ( hesitaing ,) I have no wish to marry. Richelieu. Surely, sir, To die were worse. De Mauprat. Scarcely; the poorest coward Must die ; but knowingly to march to marriage— Mv.lord, it asks the courage of a lion ! Richelieu. Traitor, thou trillest with me. I know all ! Thou hast dared to love my ward, my charge. De Mauprat. As rivers May love the sunlight, basking in the beams, Anti hurrying on! Richelieu Thou hast told her ofthy love ? De Mauprat. My lord, if I had dared to love a maid, Lowliest in France, I would not so have wrong’d her As hid her link rich life and virgin hope With one, the deaihman’s gtipe might from her side Pluck at the nuptial altar Richelieu 1 believe thee; Yet since she knows not of thy love, renounce her, Take life and fortune with an tlier! Silent? De Mauprat. Your fate has been one triumph. You know not How bless’d a thing it was in my dark hour To nurse the one swt et thought you bid me banish. Love hath no need of words ; nor less within That holiest teinji'e, the heaven-bu Idingsonl, Breathes the recorded vow. Bise knight, false lover Were lie, who barter’d all that brighten'd grief, Or sanctified despair, for life and gold. Revoke your nterev; I prefe' the late 1 I-ok for! Richeheu. Huguet! to the tapestry chamber Conduct your prisoner. ( To Mauprat.) You will there behold The executioner: your doom be private ; And Heaven have mercy on you ! Julie had already been conducted to the “tapestry chamber,” and the lovers are thus brought together.— Their gratitude n»'*y w w !t be conceived ; even the cold heart of the hoary statesman Is touched and warmed to human feeling, and lie exclaims— “ Rise, my children, For ye are mine—mine both ; and in your sweet And yout g delight, your love (life’s first horn glory), My own lost youth breathes musical! Oh! Godlike power! wo, rapture, penury, wealth, ■Marriage, and death, for one infirm old man Thro’ a great empire to dispense—withhold— As the will whispers! And shall things like motes That live in my day-light; lackeys of court-wages. Dwarf’d starvelings, mannikins, upon whose shoulders The burden of a province were a load More heavy than the globe on Atlas; cast Lots for mv robes and sceptre ? France! I love thee ! All earth shall never pluck thee from my heart! My mistress France, my wedded wife,sweet France, Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me 1" Thus ends the first act and first day. It mus* be ob served that Richelieu is already acquainted with the existence of the conspiracy, though not with the whole extent and nature of its designs He has his eagle eye upon his enemies, watching their every movement and busily arranging his counterplot. Meantime, the marriage of Julie and De Mauprat is celebrated ; but shortly after this event, the bridegroom receives a Royal order, pronouncing him guilty of trea son, declaring the marriage unlawful, and prohibiting him, under pain of death, to communicate with Julie, “ by word or letter, save in the presence of De Bherin gen.” The wife is overwhelmed with surprise and grief at the consequent change of her husband’s man ner. Baradas meets him in the midst of his discompo sure, and adroitly turns it to account by a series of plausible falsehoods : he finally succeeds in making De Mauprat believe that the whole is a plot of Richelieu, to dishonor him and sacrifice Julie to the King’s un lawful passion. Fired with rage, De Mauprat resolves to murder the Cardinal that very night; a resolution in which he is confirmed by the intelligence that Julie has been sent for and actually conveyed to the Palace.— The plot now thickens: Richelieu, by intelligence re ceived from Marion de l’Orme, who is in his pay, and betrays the conspirators, has obtained a knowledge of the design against his life, and resolves to defeat it by a hasty removal to his Castle of Ruelie. He learns far ther, that the conspirators, having need of a trusty cou rier for some secret service, had applied to Marion to find a suitable person. Richelieu sends one of his own confidential servants. The importance of this mission may be gathered from the following extract: Pxheheu. Take My fleetest steed : arm thyself to the teeth; A pa' ket will be given you, with orders. No matter what! The instant that your hand Closes ur on it, clutch i', like your honour, M hich death alone can steal or ravish ; set Spurs to your steed ; be breathless till you stand Again before me. Stay, sir ! You will find me Two short.leagues hence at Ruelie, in my castle. Young man, be blithe ! for, note me, from the hour 1 grasp that packet, think your guardian star Rains fortune on you ! Francois. Il l fail — Richelieu. Fail! Fail! In the lexicon of youth, which Fate reserves For a bright manhood, there is no such word As fail! (You will insiruct him further, Marion.) Fol ow her, hut at distance; speak not to her Till vou are housed Farewell, boy ! Sever say ‘ Fair’ again. Framcois —I w ill not! Rl« iieliec (jutting his heks.) There’s my young hero! The scliene now change? in the third act, to the Cas tle of Ruelie—time midnight of the second day. It opens with a fine soliloquy of Richelieu, which is most ly omitted in representation, owing to its great length. We must read a few passages from it, however. Ricnrj.ter tread inf.) “In silence and at night, the foiiscienee fee's That life should soar to nobler ends than power.” So sayestthou, sage and sober moralist ! But wertthou tried ? Sublime philosophy. Thou art the patriarch’s ladder, reaching heaven And bright with beck’ning angels; but. alas ! \Ve see thee, like the patriarch, but in dreams. By the first step, dull-slumbering on the earth. I am not happy! with the Titan’s lust I woo'd a goddess and I clasp n cloud. \V ben l am dust, my name shall, like a star, tin e ’" rou k , h wan space, a glory; and a prophet VV hereby pale seers shall from their aery towers Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil, I hal inake the potent asirologue of kings. But shall die future judge me by the ends * have w rought; or by the dubious means 1 hrough which the stream of my renown hath run Into the many-voiced nnfathntne'd Time ? r oul in its bed lie weeds and heaps of slime ; And with its waves, when sparkling in the sun, t (fttimes the secret rivulets that swell Its might of w aters, blend the hues of blood. \ et are my sins not those of circumstance, I iiat all pervading atmosphere, w herein Our spirits, like the unsteady lizard, take I he tints that colour and the looii that nurtures ! Oh ! ye, whose hourglass shifts its tranquil stands In the unvex’d silence of a student’s cell; \ f , "hose untempted hearls have never toss'd I _ pon the dark and stormy tides where life Gives battle to the elements; and man w ith man for some sight plank, whose weight Wm hear hut one, while round the desperate wretch The hungry billows roar, and the fierce Fate, Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf, Waits him who drops ; ye safe and formal men, H ho write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand Weigh in nice scales the motives of the great, Ye ininnot know what ye have never tried ! I have wrought Great uses out of evil teols ; and they In the time to come may bask beneath the light Which I have stolen from the angry gods, And warn their sons against the glorious theft, Forgetful of the darkness which it broke. I have shed Mood, but I have had no foes Save those the state had ; if my wrath was deadly, ’Tis that I felt my country in my veins, And smote her sons as Brutus smote his own. And yet lam not happy; blanch'd and sear’d Before my time; breathing an air of hate, And seeing daggers in the eyes of men. And wasting powers that shake the thrones of earth In contest with the insects; bearding kings And braved by lackeys; murder at my bed; And lone amid the multitudinous web, With the dread three—-that are the fates who hold The woof and shears—the monk, the spy, the heads man. And this is power ! Alas ! lam not happy. (After a pause. And yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds Its rising roots not up; but never yet Did one least barrier by a ripple vex One onward tide, unswept in sport away. Ant I so that I do hate Them who hate%ie! Tush, tush! Ido not hate ; Nay, I forgive. The statesman writes the doom, But the priest sends the blessing. I forgive them, But I destroy; forgiveness is mine own, Destruction is the state's ! For private life, Scripture the guide ; for public Macliiavel. * * * * • * « * * I have outlived love. Oh beautiful, all golden, gentle youth! Making thy palace in the careless front And hopeful eye of man—ere yet the soul Hath lost the memories which (so Plato drenm’d) Breathed glory fr uit the earlier star it dwelt in— Oh I for one gale from thine exulting morning, Stirring amid the roses, where of old Love shook the dewdrops from his glancing hair! Could I recall the past, or had not set The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt soul In one slight hark upon the shoreless sea ; The voyed steer, afier his day of toil, Forgets the goad and rests: to me alike F'r day or night: ambition has no rest! Shall I resign ? who can resign himselt ? For custom is ourself; as drink and food Become our b tie and flesh, the aliments Nurturing our nobler part, die mind—thoughts,dreams, Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle Ot the great alehymy, at length arc made Our mind itself; and yet the sweets of leisure, An honour’d home, far from these base intrigues, An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights of wisdom— We must pass on inpidly to the scene between Ri -1 chelieu and De Mauprat, who enters with intent to kill | him ; he taxes Richelieu with his conduct towards him self and Julie—the Cardinal convinces him that he has ) been deceived, and proves it by the presence of Julie, wh « had but just made her escape from the Palace, '• f where the King had insulted her with dishonorable pro j posals. De Mauprat’s eyes are opened to the villainy | of Baradas ; he discloses the particulars of the scheme ■ against Richelieu’s life, and informs him of the treach ery of the captain of his own guards, who is, at that | moment, at the head of the assassins. These last, im ' patient of De Mauprat’s delay, approach ; but by stra- j tagem, they are made to believe that the Cardinal has ! | been despatched, and his(supposed) dead body is point ed out to them, lying on his bed. They immediately i j hurry off to convey the news to the conspirators. In ! the meanwhile the important packet which Frangois has been robbed of before he could convey it to the j Cardinal, occasions the conspirators much anxiety Frangois is in active search of it, which gives rise to i several interesting scenes; but we have not space to dwell upon them. The fourth act brings before us, Louis; his pusillani-} mity and irresolution, on hearing of the Cardinal’s death, are well portrayed. Whilst Orleans, Baradas' and the other courtiers are fawning on the weak Mon arch, each endeavoring to advance his own schemes, Richelieu, accompanied by Joseph, and followed by his guards, suddenly appears amongst them. Louis, at once conceiving the story of his death to be a con- j trivance of the Cardinal, fires insult, and ex claims: Louts. Tush! my lord. The old contrivance: ever does your wit Invent assassins, that ambition may Slay rivals— Richelieu. Rivals, sire ! in what? Service to France ? I have none! Lives the man Whom Europe, paled before your glory, deems Rival to Artnand Richelieu ? Louts. What, so haughty! Remember, he who made can unmake. Richelieu. Never! Never! Your anget can recall your trust, Annul me of my office, spoil me of my lands, Rifle my coffers; but my name, my deeds, Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre ! Pass sentence on me if you will; from kings, Lo, I appeal to time ! Be just, my liege ; I found your kingdom rent with heresies And bristling with rebellion ; lawless nobles And breadless serfs; England fermenting discord; Austria, her clutch on your dominion ; Spain Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind To armed thunderbolts. The arts lay dead, Trade rotted in your marts, your armies mutinous, Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke Yourtrust, so be it! and Ileave you sole, Supreme monarch of the mightiest realm, Front Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without ; No foe nofhumbled ! Look w ithin ; the arts Quit for your schools their old Hesperides, The golden Italy ! while throughout the veins 01 your vast empire flows in strengthening tides Trade, the calm health of nations ! The King denies further audience, save “ at the foot of the throne,” and departs with his train. De Mau prat has been seized and hurried off to the Bastile, in spite of Richelieu’s intercession. Julie comes to claim him at the hands of the Cardinal. Here are some por tions ol the fin * s-cne that occurs— Richelieu. What dost thou here ? Home! Julie. Home! is Adrien there ? you’re dumb, vet strive J For words ; I see them trembling on your lip, But choked bv pity. It was truth, all truth ! Seized—the Basilic—and in your presence too' Card l nab where is Adrien ? Think, he saved ’ Your It,e; your name is infamy, if wrong should come to his ! Richelieu. Be sooth’d, child. Julie. Child no more ; [ love, and I am woman ! Hope and suffer— Love, suffering, hope—what else dole make the strength And majesty of woman ? Where is Adrien? 8 Let thine eyes meet mine ; Answer me but one word—l am n wife— I ask thee lor mv home, my late, mv all ! *V litre is my husbund ? **••••••• | Oh, mercy' mercy ! Save him, restore him. father t a .l. The cardinal-king ? the lord of life and de "h"" 1 Beneath whose light, as deeps beneath the moon The solemn tides of empire ebb and flow ? ’ Art thou not Richelieu ? Richelieu. Yes*rrdnv I was 1 To day, a very weak old man ! To-morrow I know not what ! ' Julie.—t.o you conceive his meaning-? Alas! I cannot But methinks my senses. Are duller thnn they were! Joseph. The king is chafed Against h,s servant. Lady, w hile we speak I he lackey of the anteroom is not ’ More powerless than the Minister of France Richelieu, Arid yet the air is still; n Pa '„ no cloud ; ’ Meave n weary From Nature's silent orbit starts no portent 1 o warn the unconscious world; albeit thi 9n - l May wtth a morrow teem, w inch, in my Would carry earthquake to remotest lands ’ C wo n ,fan h f ChnStißn g!obe ' What "ouldsttbou. Thy fate and his, with mine, for pood or ill Are woven threads. In my vast sum of life Millions such units merge. Enter First Courtier. First Courtier. Madame de Mauprat» Kardon your eminence; even now I seek ' i his lady s home, commanded by the kins 1 o pray her presence. * faShe?! 1 t 0 RicMieu - ) Thi "k of my dead Think, how, an infant, clinging to your knees And looking to your eves, the wrinkled care lied from your brow before the smile of childhood I resh from the dews of heaven ! Think of hi. ’ Anti take rne to yourbreast. 1 Richelieu. To those who rent you ' And say you found the virtue they would slay And| UP< ”i! thiß h '’ ar, ‘ 39 at a " a >' a r! Begone! eF dby ' he Wlngs of sacred Rome! FlßS Jerv C nm R ; TIEm - % lord ’ lam friend and Misjudge me not; but never vet was Louis k wpwt against you: shall I take this answer? it were to be your foe. r _ R.cnri.tEU. All time mv foe, |l ’, a P rles *, could cast this holy sorrow Forth from her last asvlnm ! First Courtu r. He is lost! r, „ , , , (Exit First Courtier.) Richelieu. God help thee, child! she hears not ' Look upon her! The storm that rends the oak, uproots the flower, tier father loved me! and in that age Vv lien friends are brothers! She has been to me Soother, nurse, plaything, daughter. Are these tears ? Un . shame, shame ! dotage ! Joseph. Tears are not for eyes J hat rather need the lightning, which can pierce 1 hrough barred gates and triple walls, to smite Crime, where it cowers in secret! The despatch ! yj“t every spy to work; the morrow’s sun Must see that written treason in your hands, Or rise upon your ruin. Richelieu. Ay, and close Lpnii my corpse ! lam not made to live; Friends, glory, France, all rest from me ; my star, Like sonic vain holyday mimicry offire, Piercing imperial heaven, and falling down, Rayless and blacken’d, to the dust, a thing For all men’s feet to trample! Yea! to-morrow. Triumph or death! Look up child! Lead us, Joseph. A.< they are going out, enter Baradas and De Berms hen. Baradas. My lord, the king cannot believe your eminence So far forgets your duty and his greatness As to resist his mandate! Pray you, madam, Obey the king ; no cause for fear! Julie. My father! Richelieu. She shall not stir ! Baradas. You are not of her kindred; An orphan— Richelieu. And her country is her mother! Baradas. The country is the king ! Richelieu. Ay, is it so? Then wakes the power whichin the age ofiron Burst forth to curb the great and raise the low. Mark where she stands! nround her form I draw The awful circle of our solumn church ! Set but a foot within that holy ground, And on thy head—yea, though it wore a crown— I launch the curse of Rome ! Baradas. I dare not brave jrou ! I do but speak the orders of my king. The church, your rank, power, very word, my lord, Suffice you for resistance : blame yourself If it should cost vou pow er ! Richelieu. That mv stake Ah! Dark gamester! what is thine ? Look to it well! Lose not a trick. By this same hour to-morrow Thou shall have France, or I thy head! Baradas. In sooth, my lord, You do need rest; the burdens of (he state O’ertask your health! Richelieu (to Joseph.) I’m patient, see ! Baradas. (aside.) His mind And life are breaking fast! Ricaelieu (overhearing him.) Irreverent ribald ! If so, beware the falling ruins! Hark ! I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs, When this snow melteth there shall conie a flood ! Avaunt! mv name is Richelieu ; I defy thee ! Walk blindfold on ; behind thee stalks the headsman. Ha! Ha ! how pale he is ! Heaven save my country! [ Falls back in Joseph's arms. We hasten to the catastrophe. The lost despatch on which hangs the fate, as well of the conspirators, as of Richelieu and De Mauprat, has not yet been recover ed. l.ouis nominates Baradas prime minister, and gives to Orleans the command of the armies. Richelieu makes one last effort to retrieve his position. He pre sents himself before the King,attended by his Secreta ries, &c., offers to resign his power, and begs a last au dience, in order to render up “the legers of a realm.” This is granted. The last scene we must read you.— Ihe stage effect is here well contrived. Louis seated in state with his retinue ; Richelieu, reclining on a sola in an apparently dying condition; Orleans, Baradas, &c., half in triumph, half in anxiety. It was a skillful stroke of policy in the falling minister, thus to bringin to juxtaposition, and render palpable, the weakness of Louis and the incapacity of his new minister; and the result justifies his sagacity. First; Secretary. The affairs of Portugal. Most urgent, sire. One short month since the Duke Biaganza was a rebel. Louis. And is still! First Secretary. No sire, he has succeeded ! He ia now Crown’d King of Portugal; craves instant succour Against the arms of Spain. Louis. We will not grant it Against his lawful king. Eh, count! baradas. No, sire. First Secretary. But Spain’s your deadliest foe; whatever Can weaken Spain must strengthening France. The cardinal Would send ths succours : (solemnly) balance, sire, of Europe ! Louts. The cardinal! balance! We'll consider. Eh, count? Baradas. Yes, sire; fall back. First Secretary. But— Baradas. Oh ! fall back, sir. Joseph. Humph ! Second Secretary. The affairs of England, sire, most urgent: Charles The First has lost a battle that decides One half his realm ; craves moneys, sire, and succour. Louis. He shall have both. Eh, Bataaas? Baradas. Yes, sire. (Ob that despatch! my veins are fire!) Richelieu (feebly , but with great distinctness. Ms liege, Forgive me; Charles's cause is lost! A man, Named Cromwell, risen—a great man; your succour Would fail, your loans be squander’d! Pause, reflect- Louis. Reflect. Eh, Baradas ? Baradas. Reflect,sire. Joseph. Humph! Louis (aside.) I half repent! No successor to Rich-. elieu ! Round me thrones totter! dynasties dissolve! The soil he guards alone escapes the earthquake! Joseph. Our star not yet eclipsed ! you mark in® king? Oh ! had we the despatch! Richelieu. Ah ! Joseph! Child, Would I could help thee ! Enter gentleman, whispers Joseph, who esit hastily. Baradas (to secretary.) Sir, fail back. Second Secretary. But— Baradas. Pshaw, sir! Third Secretary (mysteriously.) The secret r<” T fxmdrnre, sire, must urgent: Accounts of spies, deserters, herefes, Assassins, poisoners, schemes against yourself- Louts. Myself r most urgent! (looking o» the turn meats. . f i lie rnhr Josefih with Francois, whose fnninsnntus rta ed with blunt! Francois jnsses bthina the rare' t attendants, and, sheltmd by them from the 1 ltarndae, <fr., falls at Euhtiieu's feet. Francois. Oh! my lord! Richelieu. Thou art bleeding'