SPECTATOR'S LIBRARY.

Poway.

The Saint's Tragedy ; or the True Story of Elizabeth of Hungary, Landgravine Of Thariligla, Saint of the Boorish Calendar. By Charles Kingsley junior, Rector of

Eversley. With a Preface by Professor Maurice Parker.

MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE,

Essays and Tales. By John Sterling. Collected and edited, with a Memoir of hit Life, by Julius Charles Hare, MA., Rector of Herstmonceux. In two volumes.

TRAVELS, Parker. Travels in the Great Desert of Sahara, in the years of 1845 and 1846 ; containing a Narrative of Personal Adventures during a Tom of nine months through the De- sert, amongst the Touaricks and other Tribes of Saharan People ; including a Be.. scription of the Oases and Cities of Ghat, Ghadames, and Moment. By James Richardson. In two volumes Basra:sr.

TEE SAINT'S TICAORDT.

IN the beginning as well as in the "revival" of most religions, some- thing that is questionable and carnal often turns up along with the most ardent devotion and the stoutest faith. The warmth of the African cli- mate gave occasion to scandal amongst the primitive Christians : the ferment of the Reformation witnessed the revolting profligacy of the Anabaptists: the Great Rebellion in the seventeenth and the Methodist movement in the eighteenth centuries, by the excitement into which they threw men's minds, gave rise to theories and conduct of a lax not to say licentious kind in individuals: the biographers of the saints and mystics of the Roman Church have sometimes indulged in a sort of pious lusciousness, over which the worldly pause and ponder, but can only explain by means of the text "to the pure all things are pure."

Elizabeth of Hungary was a Romish saint of the eleventh century. Her father was a king ; her husband, Lewis of Thuringia, a landgrave; and she had every prospect of a happy life, but for her own fanaticism, and the domination of her spiritual director, a certain Dr. Conrad. Possibly there was a degree of craziness in her original organization, which might have been corrected had she fallen into better hands or upon more rational times. From her childhood—it is said from her cradle—she ex- hibited signs of a devout mania. When married, in her teens, she was accustomed to leave her husband's bed and sleep upon the floor, and, in the words of our reverend poet, "balanced lawful bliss with the smart of some sharp penance." But she went further than mere private asceticism; attending upon the poorest sick, walking barefoot in processions, coarsely clad in serge, and making pilgrimages in similar plight. Her hus- band, who permitted if he did not encourage these austerities, embarked in the Crusades, but died on the way ; and then the odium which her fan*. ticism had created among the higher ranks burst forth. The brother of Lewis usurped the principality from her son, dispossessed her of her pro. perty, and, by a barbarity not uncommon in those ages, drove her forth homeless and moneyless. The monks and populace she had pampered in prosperity repulsed her in adversity; but she welcomed suffering as a benefit to her soul. When the power of her family restored her for- tunes, she refused to profit by them. Acting on her own impulses, and perhaps under the spiritual force of her director, she parted from her children, devoted her property to the Church and herself to God ; and, after performing a series of humilities and macerations, rather sordid than edifying, died at an early age, in the odour of sanctity and foul straw— probably, as the poet justifiably assumes, of a broken heart. Saint Eliza- beth was canonized soon after her death; and miracles, of course, were wrought at her tomb.

The first object of Mr. Kingsley in selecting this subject for a tragic, drama was to exhibit the workings of that dogma of the Romish Church which rates celibacy as a virtue, and matrimony as a weakness if not a sin. He was further prompted by some more general capabilities of the story—in the character of Elizabeth, and the features of the age, as shown in the ignorance and brutality of the peasantry, the coarse insensibility, yet not altogether devoid of gleams of sense and generosity, of the nobles, and the bigoted asceticism as well as the low common sense and sensu- ality to be found in the church.

These views, as explained in the preface, show Mr. Kingsley to be well acquainted with the age of Saint Elizabeth, and appretiative of its spirit ; but we cannot think his choice of subject happy for a drama, hardly for a poem. There is in the story no proper action, and not much of poetical interest. The feelings and conduct of Elizabeth are too remote from ge- neral nature, too foolish in her spontaneous actions, and too weak in her submission to Conrad, to excite the reader's sympathy. In rigidly ad- hering to the old narratives and making Lewis agree with Elizabeth, Mr. Kingsley has missed a source of contrast, and possibly of interest, which might have been found in the husband's tender opposition and disapproval. Conrad, the spiritual director, is too much of an abstraction, and puts forward his selfish objects and seeming hypocrisy too visibly before the reader ; Mr. Kingsley not having succeeded in representing the sternly conscientious monk, misgiving only when his end is fulfilled. The age is not dramatically exhibited throughout. It is the mind and the views of the nineteenth century made to talk in the eleventh, sometimes merely in spirit, sometimes in direct sentiment and style. There is a famine an Thuringia ; Elizabeth strips herself of her jewels and exhausts the trea- sury in relieving the poor : upon which the courtiers talk political eco- nomy, in very smart and pointed dialogue, but such as we are familiar with upon the Irish famine.

" A Chamber in the Castle. Counts Walter, Hugo, ste., Abbot,

and Knights. Count Hugo. I can't forget it, as I am a Christian man! To ask for a stoup of beer at breakfast, and be told, there was no beer allowed in the house.--her ladyship had given all the malt to the poor. Abbot. To give away the staff of life, eh? C. Hugo. The life itself, air, the life itself. All that barley, that would have warmed many an honest fellow's coppers, wasted in filthy cakes. Abbot. The parent of seraphic ale degraded into plebeian dough Indeed, sir, we have no right to lessen wantonly the gross amount of human enjoyment. C. Wed In heaven's name, what would you have her do, while the people were eating grass? C. Hugo. Nobody naked them to eat it; nobody asked them to be there to eat it; if they will breed like rabbits, let them feed like rabbits, say I: I never mar- ried till I could keep a wife. Abbot. Ah, Count Walter! How sad to see a man of your sense so led away by his feelings ! Had but this dispensation been left to work itself out, and evolve the blessing implicit in all Heaven's chastenings! Had but the stern benevolence of Providence remained undisturbed by her ladyship's carnal tenderness—what a boon bad this famine been !

C. Wall. How then, man? Abbot. How many a Floor soul would have been lying—ah, blessed thought !— in Abraham's bosom, who must now toil on still in this vale of tears! Pardon this pathetic dew—I cannot but feel as a Churchman. ad Count. Look at it in this way, sir. There are too many of us—too many. Where you have one job you have three workmen. Why, I threw three hundred acres into pastures myself this year—it saves money, and risk, and trouble, and tithes."

And at the close of the scene-

" C. Wal. [Alone.] Well, if Hugo is a brute, be at least makes no secret of it. He is an old boar, and honest; he wears his tushes outside, for a warning to all men. But for the rest!—Whited sepulchres! and not one of them but has half persuaded himself of his own benevolence. Of all cruelties, save me from your small pedant,—your closet philosopher, who has just courage enough to bestride his theory, without wit to see whither it will carry him. In experience- * child; in obstinacy—a woman; in nothing a man, but in logic-chopping; instead of God's grace, a few copy-book headings about benevolence, and industry, and independence: there is his Metal. If the world will be mended on his principles, well—if not, poor world! but principles must be carried out, though through blood and famine: for, truly, man was made for theories, not theories for man. A Idoctrine is these men's god—touch but that shrine, and lo! your simpering phi- anthropist becomes as ruthless as a Dominican." These passages exhibit literary cleverness ; but there are higher quali- ties in The Saint's Tragedy. The topics that are successively put into the mouths of the speakers are treated in a genuine poetical spirit, wherever the subject admits of poetry ; not in the maudlin diffuse mode of "the lengthened thought that gleams through many a page," but in a condensed, vigorous, and manly style. There is also great passion in many of the speeches of Elizabeth, when her woman's heart is tortured by the memory of her husband or her children, and her nature is con- tending against the dogmas her faith does not thoroughly believe. This passion, too, is not the mere vehemence of words, but has a depth and intensity of thought. In point of structure, action, and frequently of character, 77je Saint's Tragedy is not a drama, owing to the nature of the story itself, and the prominence given to theories of the author : but the tempest-tossed mind of Elizabeth, her doubts, her affections, her struggles, are truly dramatic. Several of her passionate speeches would be effective in histrionic exhibition ; though this effect would be marred by other parts of the work, and the dramatic character of Elizabeth her- self is not continuous. The piece, however, is not designed for repre- sentation.

The warmth of the mystic writers is introduced by Mr. Kingsley with some appropriateness when the saintly personages are discoursing of hea- venly love; and the poet's strict adherence to the original narratives has occasionally led him upon subjects rather too delicate for our sophisti- eated age, but from which he extricates himself pretty well. The following wage on the universality of love, with part of a discussion of its law- fulness, is from a scene in the nuptial bower, where Elizabeth has deserted her couch for the floor, and her husband is lying asleep.

"How many many brows of happy lovers The fragrant lips of Night even now are kissing! Some wandering hand in hand through arched lanes;

Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;

Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss; Some nestling soft and deep in well-known arms, Whose touch makes sleep rich life. The very lads Within their nests are wooing ! So much love!

All seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace:

The earth seems one vast bride-bed. Doth God tempt us?

IA all a veil to blind our eyes from Him?

A fire-fly at the candle! 'Tits love leads him: Love's light, and light is love: Oh Eden Eden! Eve was a virgin there, they say; God knows. Must all this be salt had never been?

Is it all a fleeting type of higher love? Why, if the lesson's pure, is not the teacher Pure also? Is it my shame to feel no shame?

Am I more clean, the more I scent uncleanness?

Shall base emotions picture Christ's embrace? Best, rest, torn heart ! Yet where ? in earth or heaven?"

The following is from one of the scenes when Elizabeth has been

thrust forth to poverty and distress, and has reached the very fervour of fanaticism: some of the remarks put into her mouth are truths.

"[Elizabeth entering.]

Elie. How? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood: I met a friend just now, who told me truths Wholesome and stern, of my deceitful heart—

Would God 1 had known them earlier1—and enforced Her lesson so as I shall ne'er forget it In body or in mind.

lien. What means all this?

Elie. You know the stepping-stones across the ford: There as I passed, a certain aged crone, Whom I had fed, and nursed, year after year, Met me mid-stream—thrust past me stoutly on—

And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire. There as I lay and weltered—" Take that, madam, For all your selfish hypocritic pride, Which thought it such a vast humility

To wash us poor folks' feet, and Use our bodies

For staves to build withal your Jacob's ladder. What ! you would mount to heaven upon our backs?

The ass has thrown his rider." She crept on— I washed my garments in the brook hard by— And came here, all the wiser.

Guru. Miscreant hag! ken. Alas, you'll freeze.

Cute. Who could have dreamt the witch Could harbour such a spite? Elie. Nay, who could dream She could have gussed my heart so well? Dull beers See deeper than we think, and hide, within Those leathern hulls, unfathomable truths, Which we amid thought's glittering mazes lose. They grind among the iron facts of life, And have no time for self-deception."