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and much admired, retired to his solitary apartment, and slept till morning most comfortably.

After a smooth passage, occupying eleven hours, the distance being about one hundred and ten miles, the steamer cast anchor early in the morning after leaving Grao, close to the outward pier of Alicante. Viewed from the roadstead, this seaport looks truly arid, bleak, and barren. Nothing but grey limestone rocks, wholly devoid of trees, or even anything green, can be seen, either to the right or left along the whole coast, which soon rises up from the sea-shore into high hills, or in some parts mountains. On one or two spots a little inland, towards the west, a few objects like trees in the distance could be discerned. But altogether no place could well appear more desolate, or undesirable to approach nearer, than Alicante then did to tourists entering its harbour from shipboard. The old castle, on a high, rocky height, is the only object interesting. The port is said to be somewhat important, but judging from the number, character, or magnitude of the few vessels then assembled, its commerce must be inconsiderable. Two steamers were in the harbour, and one outside, besides that in which the writer had arrived. Altogether the place, on a first approach, looked miserable, and an Englishman could not but exclaim, like the present critic, how very unlike the beautifully green and fertile fields of Old England, whose aspect would be most refreshing when contrasted with this land of dust and desolation, having a burning sun overhead, while no rain has fallen for months past to cool or moisten its then African atmosphere. Hitherto the weather had been tolerable, but the heat being 90, and not a breath of wind blowing, it was almost unbearable.

Prior to speaking specially of Alicante, future tourists should be informed, besides sailing from Valencia, they can now travel by rail to Almanza, and afterwards take the train which joins Madrid to Alicante. This may account for the disappearance of nearly all the cabin passengers of the Tajo when she arrived at Grao. Many now adopt this route from the north, if proceeding towards Madrid; while others coming from south-western places also land at the first-named port to reach more northern destinations. In fact, this central railway of Spain, extending to two hundred and eighty-two miles in length, has already become the great line of traffic throughout the kingdom, and forms its most important communication. Although apparently so uninviting when approached from the Mediterranean roadstead, this mercantile town is somewhat pretty interiorly. The Ayuntamiento, with its two towers or "miradors," is a handsome building; the Alameda forms an agreeable promenade, and in several streets, especially that de la Reyna, the shops are elegant, if not numerous, for such a small place. The fertile Huerta-a little inland, and which may be observed from an adjacent height-contains some fine productive olive groves, while its farm-houses appear very Moorishlooking; and this district being, like the vicinity of Valencia, irrigated artificially, the locality that would have otherwise been only a barren waste, is now a rich garden. The succession of crops is here continuous : fruits, grains, and flowers being most abundant in this real oasis, whose environs, however, are dusty and sterile, while the adjacent coast westward is marshy and most insalubrious. The town, however, is reported as healthy, winter feeling mild and equable; but the atmosphere being exceedingly dry, its climate proves injurious to certain constitutions.

Hence, consumption becomes by no means an unfrequent disease among natives, from exposure to the cold winds when their bodies are heated; and as no rain falls even for months consecutively, this great absence of moisture proves injurious to many physical frames. During the current year, parties said that, for the last six months, there had not been a shower; whereby the whole district looked as if baked in an oven, was exceedingly dusty, and hence felt most uncomfortable. Being also devoid of many objects interesting to travellers in search of instruction or amusement, Alicante. has little attractions for idle persons; and, therefore, a few hours suffice for its examination by holiday excursionists. It may nevertheless be mentioned, in reference to the history of Alicante, although Greeks, Romans, Goths, Moors, Spaniards, and English have successively ruled in the still picturesque, and once strong, fortress which guards this Mediterranean harbour, it was never taken possession of by French soldiers during the late Peninsular warfare. Consequently, the fort is held as "invieta," according to Spanish self-gratulation, who forgot its defence by the fleet and men of England. But such oblivion of benefits obtained through foreign aid is too common in this country to be noticed, or considered remarkable.

Without making further observations respecting the melancholy-looking district named in previous paragraphs, the writer would only say, he was pleased when the steamer again weighed anchor early in the afternoon, and speedily left its rugged coast behind-the change from glare, heat, and sunshine to a cool marine breeze being a happy deliverance. One remark, however, should be made in reference to the sailors, and especially to the boatmen noticed in this harbour. Many of the latter who assembled round the steamer in their rudely constructed skiffs with high prows, and somewhat resembling Venetian gondolas, exhibited almost an African aspect; their complexion was swarthy, and their skins seemed as if soap or water had never been employed. Some were half naked, and almost resembled savages; while, as numbers wore a Scottish blue bonnet, their appearance was grotesque, and being clamorous for customers, the whole scene became amusing, both after the ship's arrival and on her departure.

Cholera being prevalent at Carthagena, the steamer did not touch at that celebrated port-one of the finest throughout Spain-as she would have been put into quarantine; by no means an agreeable position for amateur travellers in any country, but especially in the Peninsula, where the laws about infectious diseases are most strict and arbitrary. From this circumstance, after passing Cape Palos, which was accomplished during night-time, the vessel then steered directly across the bay of Carthagena towards Cape Cat, so that early next morning the land was entirely out of sight, nothing being then visible but the smooth blue Mediterranean, and the burning sun in a cloudless sky above the horizon, while not even one vessel was visible in any direction. Under these circumstances, to sit on the deck, with an awning above to ward off all glaring sunshine, and a cool but gentle breeze blowing, was certainly luxurious. But, however brilliant in some respects, its effect soon palled; and, although some lovers of ease may say here was truly an opportunity to enjoy "el dolce far niente," the critic who now describes his own feelings shortly began to think it was very stupid, and wished he might soon arrive in Malaga.

A POET'S WIFE.

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THE Schiller centenary festival has naturally led to the publication of a large number of works in Germany, more or less bearing on the subject. The majority of them, like Peter Pindar's razors, were made to sell, and answer no other useful purpose; but there is one great exception. Baroness von Gleichen-Russwurm, surviving daughter of the poet, has been induced to sanction the publication of her mother's correspondence, and we have thus obtained a valuable addition to our Schiller literature.* It is rare for a poet's wife to be so brought before the public as Lotte " has been. German students know her history by heart, and the published letters that passed between her husband and herself during any temporary separation are most affecting. Herself, far from a contemptible poetess, and gifted with considerable skill in drawing, she took a position, by right of intellect, among the circle of great men who were honoured by her husband's friendship. Nor did this pleasant intercourse suffer any interruption by the loss of Schiller: on the contrary, her friends rallied round her, and actively bestirred themselves to procure her and her family an independence, in which they succeeded. It is not in our purpose, then, in the following pages, to repeat the story of Lotte's life in extenso we shall merely refer to some salient points, and do our best to throw additional light upon them from the fresh materials placed at our command.

The first portion of the volume we have under notice is devoted to extracts from Lotte's journal, which she appears to have kept with considerable regularity. The most interesting portion is indubitably the description of a tour the Lengefeld family made through Switzerland, and the young lady's remarks reveal considerable freshness of mind. Visiting the fortress of Asperg, she had an opportunity of seeing the luckless Schubart, who had been confined there for several years, as his liberal tendencies caused the Duke of Würtemberg serious uneasiness. His only consolation was playing on the piano, and he favoured Lotte with a specimen of his power, which affected her most deeply. Curious enough are the numerous passages in the journal, bearing reference to death and eternity-subjects which have ever troubled the minds of Germany's femmes incomprises. Here is an illustrative passage, which seems strange enough when we call to mind the age of the writer:

"There are often moments, when we feel ourselves so cold, so empty, when the things surrounding us appear as nothing. In such a state, what are the pleasures of life to us? They seem an hallucination of the fancy, an airy manifestation, which lights up the sky for a moment, and then reverts to the former obscurity. Friendship, that most blessed of feelings, is nothing to us, for the soul binds itself to a being which is no stronger or truer than ourselves. Are things really so-is everything merely ap pearance and deception? or do they seem so at times to a diseased imagination?"

While the young girl was giving way to these sickly sentimentalities, her future husband was undergoing a fierce trial. Driven by intrigues

* Charlotte von Schiller und ihre Freunde. Erster Band. Stuttgard: Cotta.

from Mannheim, where he had sought refuge from the tyranny of the grand-duke, he was a hack writer to a publisher in Frankfort. One day, while waiting for his scanty wage in the shop, he heard his own name mentioned in the most enthusiastic terms, and a prediction that he must yet become the greatest poet of Germany. But the time was past when Schiller could feel gratified for such opinions. He spent the greater portion of his time on the Sachsenhausen bridge, but the exquisite scenery around possessed no charm for him, owing to the passion that gnawed at his heart.

Destiny had provided a home for the young poet, when he was almost in despair of succeeding. Körner, a man of considerable fortune and scientific attainments, residing at Leipzig, spontaneously offered him a shelter. Schiller accepted the invitation, and brighter days began slowly dawning. Two years later he removed to Weimar, where he renewed his acquaintance with young Von Wolzogen, his fellow pupil at the Carls Schule, through whom he soon learned to know Lotte von Lengefeld. From acquaintance to love the transition was natural and rapid. At Weimar, too, Schiller formed a friendship with Wieland, whose character our author so tenderly appreciates that we cannot refrain from a quotation:

Born of a quiet bourgeois stock, in a fortunate land, where the soil produces more than the dwellers on it can consume, where simplicity and quiet manners prevailed, where the men attended to their duties and the women presided over the household, Wieland knew none of the obstructions to which genius is exposed by narrow circumstances. The only annoyances he ever experienced were produced by his own impetuous temper. While sporting with gods and fairies, while his fancy was busied with Eastern poesy and fables, while men of the world treated him with deference, and his every remark was accepted as falling from the lips of a sage, Wieland retired into his calm domestic circle, willing to forget all the glare of the world. His wife, a gentle, good-hearted Swabian, was not of much value to him as an intellectual companion, but she reverenced her husband's mental powers with much tact, saved him every annoyance, and tenderly nursed him. Even when, after many years of illness, she felt herself dying in the night, she would not allow those about her to disturb her beloved husband by imparting to him the sad tidings. Her death produced hardly any change in the family; Wieland passed his hours with his daughters, and while observing the world in books, and seeking consolation for present events in the pages of the old philosophers, his family sat quietly around him, and the spinning-wheel was in no way a contradiction to his mental occupations. He fell asleep at last without pain, and unconscious of his condition. He left the circle of his friends at a moment when it would have grieved him to witness the sufferings of his country, without being able to entertain a hope that they would improve.

The literary renown of Weimar was at its culminating point at this period. Wieland, Herder, Goethe, met nightly at the house of the duchess, and the memory of the happy hours passed there, free from court fetters, has been preserved by more than one of those privileged to be present. Goethe was the first to quit the magic circle; an irresistible impulse attracted him to Italy, and it was during his absence that Schiller made his first appearance in Weimar. It was not till the close of December, 1789, however, that the poet felt himself justified in marrying. Lotte's mother gladly gave her consent, but first naturally wished to know what prospects he had of supporting a wife. His reply throws a curious light on the pecuniary value of a literary reputation in those days:

My heartiest, most unutterable thanks, honoured and dearest mother, for the felicity of my life, which you gave me in Lottchen. How can I thank you for it in words? My soul is deeply moved, and prevents me writing calmly at the moment. But I cannot be silent at this moment of joy, and I must pour out the fulness of my heart to you. Oh! how you heighten the value of the gift you bestow on me by the way in which you offer it! the noble confidence with which you leave Lotte's future happiness to my charge, how does it increase my boundless obligations to you? Believe that I feel what you entrust to me, and what it must cost you to limit all your hopes of your child's future happiness by my love for her. But I feel no less surely that you will never, never have reason to repent this confidence.

I can offer no brilliant position either now or for the future, although I have reasons for hoping that in four or five years I shall have it in my power to offer her a pleasant life. You are aware that all my prospects depend on my own industry. I have no other resources which you are not already acquainted with, but my industry is sufficient to secure us an existence free from external

care.

We can live very decently at Jena for 800 thalers a year-perhaps with something less, if we knew how to help ourselves at the outset. I am certain of 300 dollars a year from my lectures, and the sum will increase every year, when I am in a position to devote more hours to them. The duke cannot refuse me 150-200 thalers, as I have served him just a year for nothing. As he must pay this money out of his own purse, it will come rather hard upon him; but he will, surely, make this sacrifice for mine and Lotte's sake. In addition to these 400 or 500 thalers, I have the produce of my writing, which has hitherto been my sole source of income, and which will improve every year, for the work becomes easier to me, and I am better paid. Before I came to Jena I managed to make 400 thalers a year. I can do the same now without over-exerting myself, and I have left out of calculation any piece of good luck which might double my income. Such I would reckon it if my scheme of the Memoirs is carried out, which would bring me in 400 dollars a year, almost without doing a stroke of work myself. But I take nothing into account about which luck has to decide. You see, from the foregoing, that my situation at the academy and my writings will bring in 800 thalers a year, and on that we can live. . . . I shall write to the duke to-morrow, and within a week will let you know decisively if and in what way he will help me. If he puts me off till 1791, I will lay before you another statement for 1790 alone, which I think will satisfy you.

On the 22nd February, 1790, they were married, and the happy couple proceeded to Jena. The series of letters preserved in this volume, that passed between Schiller and his wife and brother-in-law, are delicious reading, for they throw such a refreshing light on the simple character of the great poet. It is very sad to find, though, how constantly he was interrupted in his labours by illness. Here and there, too, are suggestive hints on money matters, and it is very evident that mamma had to supply her daughter with funds now and then, which, however, were always repaid most honourably. A considerable portion of Schiller's income was derived from the sale of the right to perform his plays at the various theatres, and even in those days managers were rather indisposed to cash payments.

It is almost impossible to treat these letters systematically, for the author, despising all chronological arrangement, has kept them under separate heads, as written to various friends. From the series written to Schiller's sister Louise, who was married and settled at Weimar, we extract the account of the great poet's death, which has not, to our knowledge, been told so circumstantially before:

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