furnished with a law-under the other, left to follow what our reason sets up, or our imagination suggests. But we may sum up the moral code of Æschylus in his own words:

"From health of soul

Springs what all cherish, what all wish for—
Good.

To guide thy life, heed well this law-revere
Th' altar of justice; let no lucre tempt
Thy impious feet to spurn it, else a doom
Will follow thee, and soon will work its end.
Wherefore the honours due to parents own-
Still to thy dwelling may the stranger turn,
And reverent be: thus may a man escape
The fearful hour-and living just, live well,
At least in complete ruin not o'erthrown."

And thus he

The peculiar duties Eschylus enjoins, exist in the relations of son to father, of wife to husband, and of subject to state. They are commanded by God, but are natural to man; and in their fulfilment is completed his idea of the social state. ascribes the origin and development of society, not to the mere expedients of selfishness, nor to the fiction of a compact between the governor and the governed, but to the operation of principles implanted in us by our Maker, and which tend to produce among men union and obedience. Civil life, in his view, is our natural, not an artificial condition; it springs from the sympathies of relationship, and is a proof of our innate recognition of authority, and, accordingly, it originates, not in law, but in the ordinance of God. And thus he fixes government upon a higher throne, and assigns to it a firmer authority, than other writers upon politics, for he gives it the voice, not of human, but of Divine wisdom, and makes its influences inherent to man, and not contingent upon opinion.

III. The tragedy in which such religious and moral canons could be set does not, of course, fulfil our idea of the drama. Our notion of the drama is of a vivid representation of action, of a picture, in which a series of personages seem, in their various groupings, to be contributing to some event; and accordingly, we think the excellence of a dramatic poet lies not in the majesty of his ideas, nor in the beauty of his language, but in the clear delineation of his characters, in the harmonious adaptation of each to the

other, and in the adjustment of the several parts of his work to the whole. Hence, with us the drama is not so much a reflection of the poet's thoughts, as of his capacity of i̇mitation; and, accordingly, it abandons the oracular voices of poetic wisdom to speak the varied tones of human nature. But the tragic writers of Greece, and Eschylus especially, never permitted to their subject such scope and liberty. With him it is confined to the expression of a few great ideas, to illustrate which he moulds his characters; and if ever the spectator's attention is diverted from their language to themselves, it is recalled to the poet's teaching by the intervention of long choral odes, in which he appears to pass a solemn sentence upon the scene and the agents he has called to life. And thus the Eschylean drama is far more an appeal to truth, made vivid and striking by giving energy to its advocates, than a representation of human action. The agents through which the poet speaks are not cast in that mould of ideal humanity which Shakspeare has worked out; they bear the features of a statelier race the children of the remote age in which the gods conversed with men. In all their lineaments they are gigantic; but they are not impressible by those subtle influences which shape the flexible creatures of human generation. They are stirred by great and evident motives to accomplish vast ends, but they are not swayed by the complex and minute agencies of which we are susceptible. They move before us almost unchangeable, with their wills sphered in themselves, careless of the influences of circumstances, and with aspect stately and solemn; but they never show that delicate play of the mental features which delights us in Othello, nor, chameleon-like, seem to wear a different hue in the varying weather of fortune. And it is this oneness of character and simplicity of conduct which permits the poet to make them the types of his ideas, without absolutely divesting them of a dramatic appearance. They act with energy, but speak in that abstract and lofty language which is fitting to inculcate the precepts we have been reviewing; and whether in the prophecies of Cassandra, in the exultation of Clytemnestra at her crime, or in the defi ance of Prometheus, suggest to us that

their teaching is not for an audience, but for man.

IV. The dramas of Eschylus are deficient in artistic combinations to produce effect, in that succession of striking contrasts by which the attention of the spectator is kept fixed, and, if we may use the term, in that perspective of poetry in which a number of objects are represented, each depicted-cach in its proper dimensions. Whatever he delineates stands forth bold, clear, and prominent; but the picture having no background on which the eye may rest, wants grace and refinement; and the giant outlines of his heroes and demigods are rarely relieved by the association of minor figures. But, though the piece is wanting as a whole, each character is beautifully distinct, and by the slightest touch, which is the great proof of art, is stamped with individuality; and from the casual fragments of descriptive poetry which occur, we have enough to infer, that, had Eschylus indulged in this style, he would have matched Milton and Virgil in their peculiar excellences. May we hope all beauty has not evaporated in our translation of the following celebrated passage, recounting how a father like Jephtha sacrificed his child :

"Nought recked, I ween, the wardens,

All eager for the strifeHer shrieks upon her father's name, Her pure and virgin life: That father, when the prayer was o'er, The temple priests commands To lift her on the altar,

Like a fawn among their hands; To lift her whence she'd fallen, All swooning on the ground, Her robes around her floating,

In trance of horror bound; And, watchful of her graceful lips, With force, or sullen check, To guard a father's name From a daughter's parting shriek. But from the victim fell

Her robes of saffron dye; Her murderers she smote With the pleadings of her eye: She looked-as looks a pictureAs though she longed to speak; Ah! oft among her father's halls That voice would music make! Ah! oft with eager fondness, When thrice the cup was poured, A blessing on her father

That virgin voice implored."

We here close our remarks upon the age and writings of Eschylus. No author of antiquity, in our opinion, is more worthy of diligent study by those who regard greatness of intellect and grandeur of moral precepts. But nothing can be more different than his poetry, and that which prevails in the present day. The one is simple, stately, and severe; the other gaudy, glittering, and florid. The one gives form and vividness to a few of the loftiest ideas; the other combines, and never goes beyond, mere objects of sense. In the one, the poet taxes the reader's imagination to follow him; in the other, he satiates it with a profusion of beauties gathered at random. The one, like the telescope, mirrors what is glorious and afar; the other, like the multiplying-glass, reveals near objects in a thousand shapes and hues. But we feel we have already exceeded our limits, and must leave our poet to occupy that eminence which, in the realms of the departed, his country. men assigned to him.

SEVERAL weeks passed away. Edward spared no pains to discover some trace of the lady in question, but all in vain. No one in the neighbourhood knew the family; and he had already determined, as soon as the spring began, to ask for leave of absence, and to travel through the country where Ferdinand had formed his unfortunate attachment, when a circumstance occurred which coincided strangely with his wishes. His commanding-officer gave him a commission to purchase some horses, which, to his great consolation, led him exactly into that part of the country where Ferdinand had been quartered. It was a markettown of some importance. He was to remain there some time, which suited his plans exactly; and he made use of every leisure hour to cultivate the acquaintance of the officers, to inquire into Ferdinand's connexions and acquaintance, to trace the mysterious name if possible, and thus fulfil a sacred duty. For to him it appeared a sacred duty to execute the commission of his departed friend-to get possession of the ring, and to be the means, as he hoped, of giving rest to the troubled spirit of Ferdinand.

Already, on the evening of the second day, he was sitting in the coffeeroom with burghers of the place and officers of different regiments.

A newly-arrived cornet was inquiring whether the neighbourhood were a pleasant one, of an infantry officer, one of Hallberg's corps. "For," said he, "I come from charming quar

ters."

"6

66 There is not much to boast of,"

replied the captain. "There is no good fellowship, no harmony among the people."

"I will tell you why that is," cried an animated lieutenant; "that is because there is no house as a point of reunion, where one is sure to find and make acquaintances, and to be amused, and where each individual ascertains

his own merits by the effect they produce on society at large."

"Yes, we have had nothing of that kind since the Varniers left us," said the captain.

"Varniers !" cried Edward, with an eagerness he could ill conceal. "The name sounds foreign."

"They were not Germans-they were emigrants from the Netherlands, who had left their country on account of political troubles," replied the captain.

"Ah, that was a charming house,” cried the lieutenant, cultivation, refinement, a sufficient competency, the whole style of establishment free from ostentation, yet most comfortable; and Emily-Emily was the soul of the whole house.'

"Emily Varnier!" echoed Edward, while his heart beat fast, and loud.

"Yes, yes! that was the name of the prettiest, most graceful, most amiable girl in the world," said the lieutenant.

"You seem bewitched by the fair Emily," observed the cornet.

"I think you would have been too, had you known her," rejoined the lieutenant; "she was the jewel of the whole society. Since she went away there is no bearing their stupid balls

and asemblies.'

"But you must not forget," the Captain resumed once more, "when you attribute everything to the charms of the fair girl, that not only she but the whole family has disappeared, and we have lost that house which formed, as you say, so charming a point of reunion in our neighbourhood."

"Yes, yes; exactly so," said an old gentlemen, a civilian, who had been silent hitherto; "the Varniers' house is a great loss in the country, where such losses are not so easily replaced as in a large town. First, the father died, then came the cousin and carried the daughter away."

"And did this cousin marry the

young lady?" inquired Edward, in a tone tremulous with agitation.

"Certainly," answered the old gentleman; "it was a very great match for her; he bought land to the value of half a million about here."

"And he was an agreeable, handsome man, we must all allow," remarked the Captain.

"But she would never have married him," exclaimed the lieutenant, "if poor Hallberg had not died.”

Edward was breathless, but he did not speak a word.

"She would have been compelled to do so in any case," said the old man ; "the father had destined them for each other from infancy, and people say he made his daughter take a vow as he lay on his death-bed."

"That sounds terrible," said Edward; "and does not speak much for the good feeling of the cousin."

"She could not have fulfilled her father's wish," interposed the lieutenant; "her heart was bound up in Hallberg, and Hallberg's in her. Few people, perhaps, knew this, for the lovers were prudent and discreet; I, however, knew it all."

"And why was she not allowed to follow the inclination of her heart?" asked Edward.

"Because her father had promised her," replied the Captain: "you used just now the word terrible; it is a fitting expression, according to my version of the matter. It appears that one of the branches of the house of Varnier had committed an act of injustice towards another, and Emily's father considered it a point of conscience to make reparation. Only through the marriage of his daughter with a member of theill-used branch could that act be obliterated and made up for, and, therefore, he pressed the matter sorely."

"Yes, and the headlong passion which Emily inspired her cousin with abetted his designs."

"Then her cousin loved Emily?" inquired Edward.

"Oh, to desperation," was the reply. "He was a rival to her shadow, who followed her not more closely than he did. He was jealous of the rose that she placed on her bosom."

"Then poor Emily is not likely to have a calm life with such a man," said Edward.

"Come," interposed the old gentle

man, with an authoritative tone, "I think you, gentlemen, go a little too far. I know D'Effernay; he is an honest, talented man, very rich, indeed, and generous; he anticipates his wife in every wish. She has the most brilliant house in the neighbourhood, and lives like a princess."

"And trembles," insisted the lieutenant, "when she hears her husband's footstep. What good can riches be to her? She would have been happier with Hallberg."

"I do not know," rejoined the captain, "why you always looked upon that attachment as something so decided. It never appeared so to me; and you yourself say that D'Effernay is very jealous, which I believe him to be, for he is a man of strong passions; and this very circumstance causes me to doubt the rest of your story. Jealousy has sharp eyes, and D'Effernay would have discovered a rival in Hallberg, and not proved himself the friend he always was to our poor comrade."

"That does not follow at all," replied the lieutenant, "it only proves that the lovers were very cautious. So far, however, I agree with you. I believe that if D'Eifernay had suspected anything of the kind he would have murdered Hallberg."

A shudder passed through Edward's veins.

"Murdered!" he repeated, in a hollow voice; "do you not judge too harshly of this man when you hint the possibility of such a thing?"

"That does he, indeed," said the old man; "these gentlemen are all angry with D'Eflernay, because he has carried off the prettiest girl in the country. But I am told he does not intend remaining where he now lives. He wishes to sell his estates."

"Really," inquired the captain, "and where is he going?"

"I have no idea," replied the other; but he is selling everything off. One manor is already disposed of, and there have been people already in negotiation for the place where he resides."

The conversation now turned on the value of D'Effernay's property, and of land in general, &c.

Edward had gained materials enough for reflection; he rose soon, took leave of the company, and gave himself up, in the solitude of his own room, to the torrent of thought and feeling which that night's conversation had let loose.

So, then, it was true; Emily Varnier was no fabulous being! Hallberg had loved her, his love had been returned, but a cruel destiny had separated them. How wonderfully did all he had heard explain the dream at the Castle, and how completely did that supply what had remained doubtful, or had been omitted in the officers' narrative. Emily Varnier, doubtless, possessed that ring, to gain possession of which now seemed his bounden duty. He resolved not to delay its fulfilment a moment, however difficult it might prove, and he only reflected on the best manner in which he should perform the task allotted to him. The sale of the property appeared to him a favourable opening. The fame of his father's wealth made it probable that the son might wish to be a purchaser of a fine estate, like the one in question. He spoke openly of such a project, made inquiries of the old gentleman, and the captain, who seemed to him to know most about the matter; and as his duties permitted a trip for a week or so, he started immediately, and arrived on the second day at the place of his destination. He stopped in the public house in the village to inquire if the estate lay near, and whether visiters were allowed to see the house and grounds. Mine host, who doubtless had had his directions, sent a messenger immediately to the Castle, who returned before long, accompanied by a chasseur, in a splendid livery, who invited the stranger to the Castle in the name of M. D'Effernay.

This was exactly what Edward wished, and expected. Escorted by the chasseur he soon arrived at the Castle, and was shown up a spacious staircase into a modern, almost, one might say, a magnificently-furnished room, where the master of the house received him. It was evening, towards the end of winter, the shades of twilight had already fallen, and Edward found himself suddenly in a room quite illuminated with wax candles. D'Effernay stood in the middle of the saloon, a tall, thin young man. A proud bearing seemed to bespeak a consciousness of his own merit, or at least of his position. His features were finely formed, but the traces of stormy passion, or of internal discontent, had Îined them prematurely.

In figure he was very slender, and the deep-sunken eye, the gloomy frown

which was fixed between his brows, and the thin lips, had no very prepossessing expression, and yet there was something imposing in the whole appearance of the man.

Edward thanked him civilly for his invitation, spoke of his idea of being a purchaser as a motive for his visit, and gave his own, and his father's name. D'Effernay seemed pleased with all he said. He had known Edward's family in the metropolis; he regretted that the late hour would render it impossible for them to visit the property to-day, and concluded by pressing the lieutenant to pass the night at the Castle. On the morrow they would proceed to business, and now he would have the pleasure of presenting his wife to the visiter. Edward's heart beat violently — at length then he would see her! Had he loved her himself he could not have gone to meet her with more agitation. D'Effernay led his guest through many rooms, which were all as well furnished, and as brilliantly lighted as the first he had entered. At length he opened the door of a small boudoir, where there was no light, save that which the faint, grey twilight imparted through the windows.

The simple arrangement of this little room, with dark green walls, only relieved by some engravings and coats of arms, formed a pleasing contrast to Edward's eyes, after the glaring splendour of the other apartments. From behind a piano-forte, at which she had been seated in a recess, rose a tall, slender female form, in a white dress of extreme simplicity.

"My love," said D'Effernay, “I bring you a welcome guest, Lieutenant Wensleben, who is willing to purchase the estate."

Emily curtseyed; the friendly twilight concealed the shudder that passed over her whole frame, as she heard the familiar name which aroused so many recollections.

She bade the stranger welcome, in a low, sweet voice, whose tremulous accents were not unobserved by Edward; and while the husband made some further observation, he had leisure to remark, as well as the fading light would allow, the fair outline of her oval face, the modest grace of her movements, her pretty, nymph-like figure in fact, all those charms which seemed familiar to him through