The fierce St. Just, even now attend their tyrant
To fall beneath the axe. I saw the torches
Flash on their visages a dreadful light—

I saw them whilst the black blood roll'd adown
Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye
Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived,
Fearless of fate!

[Loud and repeated applauses.

BARRERE mounts the Tribune.

For ever hallowed be this glorious day,

When Freedom, bursting her oppressive chain,
Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant
Hurl'd from his blood-cemented throne, by the arm
Of the almighty people, meets the death

He plann'd for thousands. Oh! my sickening heart
Has sunk within me, when the various woes
Of my brave country crowded o'er my brain
In ghastly numbers-when assembled hordes
Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power

Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets,
And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with blood
The reeking fields of Flanders.-When within,
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth
Of treason; and oppression, giant-form,
Trampling on freedom, left the alternative
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day,
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced
The doom of injured France, has faction reared
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd
Of mercy-the uxorious dotard Roland,
The woman-govern'd Roland durst aspire
To govern France; and Pétion talk'd of virtue,
And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honeyed tongue
Of some soft Siren, wooed us to destruction.

We triumphed over these. On the same scaffold
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood,
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons,
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet,

And Hébert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand
Hurl'd down the altars of the living God,
With all the infidel's intolerance.

The last worst traitor triumphed-triumph'd long,
Secur'd by matchless villany. By turns
Defending and deserting each accomplice
As interest prompted. In the goodly soil
Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck
Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death
On all who slumbered in its specious shade.
He wove the web of treachery. He caught
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence,
His cool ferocity that persuaded murder,

Even whilst it spake of mercy ! never, never

Shall this regenerated country wear

The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail,
And with worse fury urge this new crusade

Than savages have known; though the leagued despots
Depopulate all Europe, so to pour

The accumulated mass upon our coasts,
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,
And like the rock amid surrounding waves
Repel the rushing ocean.-She shall wield
The thunderbolt of vengeance-she shall blast
The despot's pride, and liberate the world!

"REMORSE" was first cast at Nether Stowey, in the year 1797, the author being then in his twenty-fifth year, in the spring-tide of his creative faculty, if not in the maturity of his judgment. It was written expressly for the stage, at the instigation, and with the encouragement of Mr. Sheridan, by whom, however, it was not deemed suitable for that purpose. Ultimately it was brought out at Drury Lane Theatre in the year 1813, under the auspices of Lord Byron and Mr. Whitbread, when it ran twenty nights,-such welcome was given to the aspirant,

Who first essayed in that distinguished fane,
Severer muses and a tragic strain.*

Probably it had been remodelled to some extent with a view to stage effect; but as, with one exception, it has not been reproduced in London, it may still, perhaps, be found, imperfectly adapted for the purposes of the theatre. To the reader the question is of little moment. As a dramatic poem,-indeed, as a drama, in the strictest sense of the term, though more adapted for mental representation than for a visible stage,-the "Remorse" has long taken a place in the standard literature of the country. One beautiful scene from the first draught of the play, "The Dungeon," or as it is now entitled, "The Foster Mother's Tale," was published in Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads in 1798, and has since been printed with the author's Poems. Another fragment is given in a note to the present drama. Both appear more or less necessary for the perfect understanding of the plot. If there were many such curtailments, or if for the sake of a more rapid action the reflective character of the piece were in any degree sacrificed, it might almost be regretted that the rejected "Osorio," for such was the original title, had not been preserved as it came from the author's pen.

The translation of "Wallenstein" requires a more particular notice, the high reputation which this extraordinary, and as it has been deemed, unique performance has enjoyed for upwards of half

*The concluding lines of the Prologue to "Remorse" by Charles Lamb.

a century, having exposed it to a severity of criticism which, even if it were just, could hardly have been anticipated by the author, and which has certainly been provoked by its merits, rather than by its pretensions. By the author himself this translation, with whatever feelings or motives it may have been undertaken, was viewed in the retrospect as an irksome toil, which had actually paralysed his poetical faculty. That the spell was soon and effectually broken there is good proof in the second part of "Wallenstein," which was composed in the autumn of the year 1800-the same in which both parts of the "Wallenstein," though with an interval, went to press. The translation had been commenced in the close of the year 1799, immediately after his return from Germany, and was finished in six weeks. The date of the MS. by Schiller is September, 1799, and the English version was to be brought out at the same time that the play was published in German. Such was the condition under which the publication was undertaken, which may account for the rapidity, with which the translation was dispatched and carried through the press. It was executed, however, as the author observed in a letter to a friend, in the prime of his life, and in the vigour of his mind.* The intention, doubtless, was to produce a readable drama, reference being had to the existing taste of the English public, as the only way in which the German writer could become favourably known, or indeed known at all, to general readers in this country. A complete revolution has since taken place in this respect, very much, in the first instance, through the influence of Coleridge's writings and conversation, and, indeed, of this very translation. If his admiration of Schiller's dramatic powers, and of this drama in particular, appear somewhat cold and measured, as compared with the tenor of modern criticism, it was then at least as far in advance of the public estimate as it may, now seem to fall short of it. It is certain that he considered this great work as unequal in execution -admirable as a whole, and most admirable in particular scenes, yet with a tendency to excess, characteristic of the German writers in general, and an occasional extravagance both of sentiment and expression. He believed that he should give the work a better chance of becoming popular in this country by some slight curtailment. He sought to give, movement and variety to the blank verse, which he considered heavy and monotonous. He renders some of the scenes in prose, after the example of our own elder dramatists, and, as appears to the editor, with excellent effect. In a very few instances he has expanded the original thought; but for this he offers an apology, which has hitherto (with one recent exception, which will be noticed presently) been very cordially accepted. It has even been supposed that Schiller re-translated some of these additions into his own play; but a comparison between the two texts, as they now stand, has led the Editor to an opposite conclusion. The lines, really additional, that is to say, introduced into the text from which the translation was made, are very few. On the whole, it is evident that the task which he pro

* Gilman's "Life of Coleridge," p. 146. Table Talk, p. 323, third edition.

posed to himself was somewhat different from that of a translator dealing with a classic work, of established reputation, the very defects of which, if such there were, he must be content to reproduce.* At any rate, the course actually taken was justified by the result. The translation had indeed little or no sale. It had to wait for, and partly to make, the taste by which it should be appreciated; but by the few who were capable of forming an opinion, a most favourable judgment was pronounced, which in a few years became general. In 1815 the remarkable passage from the scene in the astrological tower,

"For fable is love's world, his home, his birthplace,"

and the nineteen following lines,† were cited by Sir Walter Scott, in his novel of "Guy Mannering," with a tribute of admiration, which the translation must at least share with the German original, -the passage being quoted for the beauty of the language "the exquisite expression;" and, indeed, the thought is here largely amplified.

In 1823, this translation was reviewed in "Blackwood," the critic summing up his judgment in the following words :—

"Upon the whole there can be no doubt that this trilogy forms, in its original tongue, one of the most splendid specimens of the tragic art which the world has witnessed; and none at all, that the execution of the version from which we have quoted so largely, places Mr. Coleridge in the very first rank of poetical translators. It is, perhaps, the solitary example of a man of very great original genius submitting to all the labours, and reaping all the honours, of this species of literary exertion."

In 1825, Mr. Carlyle, in his life of Schiller, stated that the two last parts of Wallenstein had been faithfully rendered into English by Mr. Coleridge; and judging of the translation by "many large specimens," he pronounces it to be, with the exception of Sotheby's "Oberon," the best, indeed the only sufferable translation from the German, with which our literature had then been enriched.

In 1835, Mr. Hayward, the excellent translator of the "Faust," expressed himself still more decidedly. "In Mr. Coleridge's magnificent translation—I had almost said poem-of Wallenstein, many lines are wanting; but the fact is, Mr. Coleridge translated from a MS. copy, and the lines in question were added subsequently." He courteously invites him to supply these deficiencies the only deficiencies-in his work;" and refers with especial admiration to "his rich musical numbers, which often, it has been truly said, affect the heart and ear like a spell."

In 1846 Wordsworth conveyed his opinion in the following terms to a gentleman who had sought his advice respecting a translation of Tasso :

* Yet Mickle, through whose English version the "Lusiad" of Camoens became popular in this country, has taken far greater liberties with the Portuguese than Coleridge with the German original.

+ Piccolomini, Act ii. Scene 3.

This passage was prefixed by Mr. Bohn to his edition of this translation which is included in one of the volumes of his "Standard Library."