(The whole of the conspirators, Fiesco at their head, draw their swords, and rush with enthusiasm from the saloon.) ACT V.-Time past midnight. "(FIESCO enters in complete armour, and remains for a short time standing opposite the Duke's palace. Fiesco. 'Tis as the old man told me. The lights extinguished— Betray'd, and ruin'd! Andreas. Who rang the bell? Fiesco. (in an altered voice) Doria, awake, awake! (ANDREAS appears at the balcony.) Ask not, but follow me! Thy star is faded, Prince-thy sun extinguish'd! Are near at hand, and thou canst sleep, Andreas?" But Fiesco in vain counsels the brave old Doge to fly-a horse waits for him, in vain-The Doge leaves the balcony, and Fiesco, thinking that in the attempt to save him, he has opposed "To virtue, virtue, and to honour, honour," hastens down a wide street. The drums beat to arms from every quarter-A sharp engagement at the Thomas Gate, which is at length burst open, and discovers a view of the harbour and shipping all illuminated. Enter Gianettino in a scarlet mantle-he in doubt, and bewildered-Bourgonino enters, and after a short conflict, the ravisher of Bertha falls. The Doge now guarded by his Germans, beholds his dead nephew-he is borne off. Leonora and her confidant Arabella steal across the stage. The timid woman but valiant wife, anxious for Fiesco, has followed him to the battle in male attire. Hearing from Isabella of the achievements of her husband, a new spirit a spirit of hope and daring-animates her. She sees Gianettino's sword, and hat, and scarlet mantle-indues them--the alarm sounds. In ecstasy at the roar, the tumult, and the proud name of Fiesco triumphant over all 66 -Leonora's self shall dare the war, My Brutus, clasp a Roman to his bosom !" She hastens down one of the streets-soldiers enter-new directions as to the battle-to them succeed (we think this a magnificent Rembrandt contrast-the selfish crimes stalking through the stage, consecrated at that moment to armed struggles, dignified by the loftiest names of liberty and honour) the Moor with a gang of thieves, with matches and linstocks, &c. ready " to burn and plunder every place they meet with." Fiesco enters shortly afterwards, startled at the fires bursting forth -orders them to be quenched, and demands if they are sure that Gianettino has fallen. One of the conspirators declares that he had seen him "not eight minutes since," in a yellow plume and scarlet mantle.-Fiesco rages at this news.-The Moor is brought in, accused of setting fire to the Jesuits' college, and hanged up at a distance. Leonora appears in the back-ground, in Gianettino's hat and mantle Fiesco rushes furiously on her and hews her down, exclaiming "If thou hast yet another life to lose, Leonora falls with a piercing shriek-Triumphal music is heard-the soldiers enter the standards sink low-the trumpets sound"All hail! Fiesco!-hail the Duke of Genoa ! All hail! (Omnes) Fiesco!-hail the Duke of Genoa ! Fiesco's first thought is for his absent wife-in the tortures of suspense, he desires that she "may share his glory and partake his joys" he asks them to accompany him to their charming Duchess. But Gianettino's corse Soldiers approach the body with torches-it is not Gianettino's visage. It is impossible for human genius to go beyond the magnificent and terrible art with which Schiller now draws, and lingers over, Fiesco's emotions-that painting may go side by side with the dread agony of Othello's last hour. Fiesco is crowned; is an usurper; and now re-appears the stern and hard Verrina-Bertha with him (foreseeing the dark justice of his resolves)he dismisses his daughter and Bourgonino. Enter Verrina and Fiesco, both in armour-Fiesco with the insignia of royalty. Short as has been the time since we saw Fiesco last before us, we feel that he is changed-he cannot be the same man. We feel that the greenness of life is for ever gone from him—we feel that all soft emotions have passed from his soul-we are assured that an arid and dry ambition can alone strike root in the desolate grandeur of his soul-his daring crime no longer excites interest, but awe-we feel that the unlovely traits of his character have survived the crush and perdition of the more gentle and redeeming qualities-we no longer tremble lest justice should fall upon that plumed head-the dark catastrophe creeps upon us we shudder, we hold our breath, but we do not seek to avert it. With Leonora passed away nothing indeed that we admired, but all that we loved in, the magnificent Fiesco. The scene that now ensues is wonderfully fine. Fiesco presses Verrina to his bosom-endeavours to warm, to conciliate, to convince him that— "Power does not always constitute a tyrant.” Verrina rejects him coldly "The very sight of royalty congeals him." In vain Fiesco assures the blunt republican that he shall only make his dignity "The means Of wide benevolence and public good." Verrina exposes the sophistry; and at length, his indignation warming, bursts into one explosion, which appals and silences Fiesco. The time, we feel, has passed when Fiesco silenced all men. Recovering himself, Verrina now, in a tone of respect, beseeches him to give freedom to some slaves chained to the oar; while "The sea receives their tears, But, like a great man, hurries careless on, The generous Fiesco, anxious to vindicate himself in the eyes of Verrina, tells him to proclaim that they are free. Verrina tells him not to lose their transport, to be present at their reception of the gift— "Believe me, Prince, The greatest pleasure of a monarch's soul Fiesco, overpowered by the shadows of his coming fate, replies"Man, thou art terrible! And yet, I know not why, but I must follow thee." They both go towards the sea. At this moment, the great Poet proves himself indeed the master. A remorse, the memory of former days, comes over the old man-he stops suddenly, looks at Fiesco with the tenderest affection, and bursts into tears: "Ferrina. But once again! embrace me, my Fiesco; Fiesco. Here's no one that observes Verrina weep, Or sees a Monarch feel! (Pressing him ardently to his bosom.) Two greater hearts, that beat in stricter unison Together! We loved each other with such warm esteem, Such brotherly affection! (Hanging on his neck.) Oh Fiesco ! Thou leav'st a vacancy within my breast, Which the whole human race thrice over told Be-be-my-friend! Verrina. Cast off this ugly Purple, and I am so!" Fiesco indignantly refuses Verrina resumes his coldness - they stand on a plank that leads to one of the galleys-Verrina plunges the Usurper into the waves-the weight of his armour sinks him. This is the catastrophe of the Tragedy. We have thus gone through one of the noblest performances that the genius of man ever accomplished. With all the fire of "The Robbers," it has all the depth of "Wallenstein." We have dwelt upon it at the greater length because we are convinced, that of all the German dramas, it would be one that, with prudent omissions, might be rendered the most effective on the English stage. The magnificence of the scenery-the perpetual stir and bustle of the action the dazzling and fiery life that burns in every scene, would alone attract the multitude; while the deep learning that is of the heart-the majesty of the sentiments-the august poetry of the conception, would place before the wiser few such models of taste-such examples for emulation, as could not but tend to ennoble and refine our Stage. Macready would perform Fiesco admirably. We perceive that our influential contemporary, the "Literary Gazette," has compared Colonel d'Aguilar's translation to some passages from the German by Mr. Gillies, and not advantageously to the former; but the fact is, that the best lines in Mr. Gillies' translation are not a word of them in the original. And as regards the flow of the verse, we suspect that Colonel d'Aguilar has designedly left it frequently rude and imperfect to convey the better idea of the original, which is written in prose-the melodious prose of Schiller. ON VERNACULAR LITERATURE. I. ENGLAND, which has given models to Europe of the most masterly productions in every class of learning, and every province of genius, so late as within these last three centuries, was herself destitute of a native literature. How" that was performed in our tongue which may be compared, or preferred, either to insolent Greece or haughty Rome," as one of our great poets has nobly expressed himself, becomes a philological tale for an English philosopher, who discovers in the history of the human mind the gradual expansion of public opinion. The vernacular literature of every European nation was long impeded by the predominance of that universal language which the Gothic nations of Europe, from accident, if not from necessity, had adopted from that mighty Rome which they had themselves conquered. Ecclesiastical Rome, whence the novel faith of Christianity was now to emanate, far more potent than military Rome, perpetuated the Roman language. The clergy through the diversified realms of Europe, held together by a common bond, chained to the throne of the priesthood-one faith, one discipline, one language! The Latin language, in verse and in prose, was domiciliated among people of the most opposite interests, customs, and characters. The primitive fathers, the later schoolmen, the monkish annalists, all alike composed in Latin; charters, even marriage contracts, in a word, all legal instruments, were drawn in Latin, and even the language of Christian prayer was that of abolished Paganism. The idiom of their father-land, or, as we have affectionately called it, our mother-tongue-those first human accents which their infant ear had caught, and which, from their boyhood, were associated with the most tender and joyous recollections-every nation left to fluctuate on the lips of the populace, rude and neglected: all men who looked towards advancement in the world, and were members of the higher classes in society, cultivated the Latin language. It is an observation of the learned historian of our Anglo-Saxon history, that owing to this circumstance" the Latin language and the classical writers were preserved by the Christian clergy from that destruction which has entirely swept from us the language and the writings of Phenicia, Carthage, Babylon, and Egypt." But we must also recollect that the influence of the Latin language became far more permanent when the great master-works of antiquity were gradually unburied from their concealments. In this resurrection of taste and genius amidst the most barbarous ages, they survived by the secret charm of their style and the imperishable art of their composition. II. But we in England, while we shared in common with our neighbours this bondage of a foreign idiom, had likewise the peculiar unhappiness of bearing a double chain, and the ignominy of a double servitude. Not only the general cultivation of the Latin language crushed every native attempt, and long procrastinated the day of our emancipation, but our countrymen had been compelled to adopt that Norman French which a foreign race had imposed on us-a hateful intruder, with which we had long to wrestle. Thus while the learned only communicated in Latin, the English at large, from their cradle, June.-VOL. XXXIV. NO. CXXXVIII. 2 N were also taught to speak French, the court language. The vernacular idiom seemed utterly extirpated. So much was our nation kept under, that we were glad to dissemble our tongue and learn theirs; whereupon came the proverb, "Jack would be a gentleman if he could speak French," as we gather from Sir Thomas Smith, the learned Secretary of Elizabeth, who was himself intent on refining the unpolished English of his day. 66 It is remarkable, that when John de Trevisa, in 1381, translated the "Polychronicon" into English, and stated his reason in a dialogue between Clericus and Patronus," the patron deemed it a supernumerary labour, since the Latin was the more general language; and even Trevisa himself doubted the utility of his own labour, at a time when the national antipathy to our old masters, the Normans, was at its height; when Edward III. had recently abolished the practice of carrying on the pleadings in our law courts in French; when a crisis. had come, and a revolution was occurring in our grammar-schools, where, as Trevisa tells, "the children leaveth French and construeth in English." Our native translator still considers this important innovation not to be so wholly an advantage as some conceived; for Trevisa feared that the neglect of the French idiom would be sensibly felt in their intercourse and " travaile in straunge londes and in manie other places also." So unsettled was the English language at that day, that Trevisa notices its unintelligible orthoepy. In different parts of the island a diversity of pronunciation occurred, so that the northern, the southern, and the middle-land-men, an intermixture of the Danish, the Saxon, and the Norman races, could not often understand one another. But the history of this ancient translation of the "Polychronicon" offers a still more remarkable circumstance in the history of our language. At a subsequent period, when it was printed by Caxton, not more than one hundred and twenty years had elapsed since the translator's death, and we find Caxton complaining of Trevisa's "rude and old English, that is to wit, certain words which in these days be neither used nor understood." Trevisa himself, in his translation, had avoided what he calls "the old and ancient English." It might have startled Master Caxton to have suspected that he might be to us what Trevisa was to him, as it might equally have amazed Trevisa when he discovered archaisms which had contracted the rust of time, to have imagined that his fresher English were to be archaisms to his printer in the succeeding century. What a picture is here exhibited of the mortality of words through all the fleeting stages of their decadency! III. Our language, indeed, long continued in this fluctuating state: it was built on sands. And to pursue this philological speculation to a much later date, look in the prefaces of our elder lexicographers. Every one of them pretends to purify the vocabulary of his predecessor. In the reign of Elizabeth, we see Baret in his " Alvearie, or Quadruple Dictionary of Four Languages," in 1580, thus expressing himself:-"I thought it not meet to stuffe this work with old obsolete words which now a-daies no good writer will use." Words spurned at by the lexicographer of 1580 were probably words consecrated by the venerable Chaucer, Gower, and Piers Plowman, and |