ever excites in a man, the idea of this distinction so very pleasant. It has been so strong as to make very miserable men take comfort, that they were supreme in misery; and certain it is, that when we cannot distinguish ourselves by something excellent, we begin to take a complacency in some singular infirmities, follies, or defects of one kind or other. It is on this principle, that flattery is so prevalent; for flattery is no more than what raises in a man's mind, an idea of a preference which he has not. Now, whatever, either on good, or upon bad grounds, tends to raise a man in his own opinion, produces a sort of swelling, and triumph, that is extremely grateful to the human mind; and this swelling is never more perceived, nor operates with more force, than when without danger we are conversant with terrible objects; the mind always claiming to itself some part of the dignity and importance of the things, which it contemplates. Hence proceeds what Longinus has observed, of that glorying and sense of inward greatness, that always fills the reader of such passages in poets and orators as are sublime; it is what every man must have felt in himself upon such occasions." Of the various descriptions of ambition which exist, a finer specimen of destructive ambition

cannot be found, than in the character of Fiescho by Schiller, who in 1547, was the chief of those who aimed at the destruction of the republic of Genoa. I will extract a scene for the entertainment of young readers.

SCENE II. ACT III.*

Room in Fiesco's Palace. In the middle of the background a large glass door, which discloses the prospect of Genoa and the Sea.

Break of day.

FIESCO (at the window.)

What do I see ?-The moon hath hid her face

And ruby morning leaves her ocean bed

Wild fancies have disturbed my nightly rest

And my whole frame with feelings strong convulsed-
I must refresh me with the cooling breeze.

(He opens the glass door. The Town and sea are red with the dawn.)

(Fiesco paces up and down with strong tread)

To think that I am Genoa's greatest man!
'Tis an ennobling thought! but only natural
That little souls to greater ones should yield,—
But I o'erstep the golden law of virtue!
Virtue ? The lofty mind hath different snares
Than the temptations of the multitude-

Why should it then participate in virtue?

* This scene is translated from the Germans, by one of the brothers of Polyphilus, who has made a translation of the whole tragedy.

London, 1841.

The armour made for Pigmy's puny form,
Should it enclose a Giant's stalwart limb ?

(The sun rises over Genoa.)

Majestic City! joy to call thee mine!
And lord it o'er thee like resplendent day-
To have it in my power to gratify

My hot desires, and yet unsated wishes?—
Although by the defrauder's artful wit
The fraud be not ennobled, still the prize
Ennobles the defrauder. It is base
To filch a well-filled purse-a daring act
A million to embezzle-but to steal a crown
Is great indeed. Shame is diminished
With increasing sin. To obey! To govern!
A monstrous fearful chasm lies between-
Throw into it all that is esteemed by man-
Ye conquerors, your list of victories—

Artists, your works which render you immortal-
Throw in your luxuries, voluptuous epicures-
Your seas and islands, daring navigators!

(With a lofty manner)—To obey! To govern! To be or not to be!

To stand upon the fearful dizzening height-
Then to sink down into humanity,

Where fickle fortune, with revolving wheel,
Blindly deals out our different destinies-
Deep will I drink the pleasant cup of joy-
Lead that arm'd giant Law, like helpless child-
And see inflicted unrequiting wounds,
When in his powerless rage he dares attempt

To aim his blows at sacred majesty,

I'll check the unbridled passions of the people,
As skilful rider reins his prancing steed,
And with one breath-one only will suffice,
Lay my aspiring vassals in the dust!
And the creative sceptre of a prince
Can also realize his feverish dreams!
Ha! what a thought, it whirls the very soul
Beyond its boundary! One moment Prince
Is with a whole existence vassalage.
So is it not with life's wide theatre

Whose contents by their worth we estimate.
Put thunder into simple syllables,

And with them you may lull a babe to sleep;
Combine them into one whole sounding word,
And the high Heavens are shaken with the crash-
I am determined! (He paces up and down.)

Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, and Macbeth, are 3 fine specimens of ambition, that of the first approached that of Fiesco, in the second it rose to madness and useless sacrifice of human life, in the third it was slightly governed by "the better part of man," for says Foster in his famous essay on decision of character, Macbeth would not have murdered King Duncan, had not his "wife spurned and hardened him to the deed."

Saturday, March 16, 1844.

POLYPHILUS.

No. 33.

On Intemperance.

"Gluttony is the source of all our infirmities, and the fountain of all our diseases. As a lamp is choked by a superabundance of oil, se is the natural heat of the body destroyed by intemperate diet."

Burton. "The excesses of our youth are drafts upon our old age, payable with interest, about 30 years after date."

Hannah More.

The following fable I have translated from the French. "Truly I pity you," said Intemperance one day to the mother of Health, which every one knows is Sobriety, "you only abstain from drinking for a vain show, towards yourself you are too severe. It is not in acting thus I think I am doing right; I love above all things, good cheer, a rich morsel is to me the greatest luxury in the world, when I am seated before a good dinner, I am a happier than a king.” “I know that in these drunken moments," replied Sobriety, "you enjoy a momentary happiness, you eat and drink with an unnatural joy, never considering the evils which are sure to succeed your indiscretion; can you be happy in feeling the abasement, attendant on excess? sensible people shun your company, and from your repeated excesses, you are at length expelled from