Behind these pillars, which, ominous and black,
Look down on me, like horrors of the Past
Upon the Present; and hidest thy gentle form,
Lest with thy paleness thou too much affright me ?
Hide not thyself, pale shadow of my Agnes,
Thou affrightest not thy lover.-Hush!-
Hark! Was there not a rustling ?--Father! You?
PHILIP (rushing in with wild looks.)
Yes, Adalbert-But time is precious!-Come,
My son, my one sole Adalbert, come with me!

(He leads him into the back-ground to a trap door, on the right. He descends first himself; and when ADALBERT has followed him, it closes.)

SCENE SECOND.

Cemetery of the Templars, under the Church. The scene is lighted only by a Lamp which hangs down from the vault. Around are Tombstones of deceased Knights, marked with Crosses and sculptured Bones. In the background, two colossal Skeletons holding between them a large white Book, marked with a red Cross; from the under end of the Book hangs a long black curtain. The Book, of which only the cover is visible, has an inscription in black ciphers. The Skeleton on the right holds in its right hand a naked drawn sword; that on the left holds in its left hand a Palm turned downwards. On the right side of the foreground, stands a black Coffin open; on the left, a similar one with the body of a Templar in full dress of his Order; on both Coffins are inscriptions in white ciphers. On each side, nearer the back-ground, are seen the lowest steps of the stairs, which lead up into the Temple Church above the vault.

ARMED MAN (not yet visible; above on the right-hand stairs.)

Dreaded! Is the grave laid open?

CONCEALED VOICES.

ADALBERT.

Yea!

(Retires hastily.)

Then man thee!

Ha! was not that his lightning ?-Fare thee well!

I hear the footstep of the Dreaded!-Firm!—
Remember me, remember this stern midnight!

ADALBERT (alone)

Look down! 'Tis on thy life!-What seest thou?

(Shows the Coffin.)

ADALBERT.

A Coffin with a Corpse.

GOTTFRIED.

Yet each man shapes his destiny himself.

ROBERT.

Small soul! Dost thou too know it? Has the story
Of Force and free Volition, that, defying
The corporal Atoms and Annihilation,
Methodic guides the car of Destiny,

moned forth; and the whole surprising secret of his mission, and of the Valley which appoints it for him, is disclosed. This Friedenthal (Valley of Peace), it now appears, is an immense secret association, which has its chief seat somewhere about the roots of Mount Carmel, if we mistake not; but, comprehending

That thou, and like of thee, and ten times better

Than thou or I, can lead the wheel of Fate
One hair's-breadth from its everlasting track?
I too have had such dreams: but fearfully
Have I been shook from sleep; and they are fled!-
Look at our Order: has it spared its thousands
Of noblest lives, the victims of its Purpose;
And has it gained this Purpose; can it gain it ?
Look at our noble Molay's silvered hair:
The fruit of watchful nights and stormful days,
And of the broken yet still burning heart!
That mighty heart!-Through sixty battling years,
"T has beat in pain for nothing: his creation
Remains the vision of his own great soul;
It dies with him; and one day shall the pilgrim
Ask where his dust is lying, and not learn!

GOTTFRIED (yawning.)

But then the Christian has the joy of Heaven For recompense: in his flesh he shall see God.

ROBERT.

In his flesh-Now fair befal the journey!
Wilt stow it in behind, by way of luggage,
When the Angel comes to coach thee into Glory?
Mind also that the memory of those fair hours
When dinner smoked before thee, or thou usedst
To dress thy nag, or scour thy rusty harness,
And such like noble business be not left behind!-
Ha! self-deceiving bipeds, is it not enough
The carcass should at every step oppress,
Imprison you; that toothache, headache,
Gout,-who knows what all,-at every moment,
Degrades the god of Earth into a beast;
But you would take this villanous mingle,
The coarser dross of all the elements,
Which, by the Light-beam from on high that visits
And dwells in it, but baser shows its baseness,-
Take this, and all the freaks which, bubble-like,
Spring forth o' th' blood, and which by such fair names
You call,-along with you into your Heaven ?—
Well, be it so much good may't-

(As his eye, by chance, lights on Gottfried, who meanwhile has fallen asleep)

-Sound already?
There is a race for whom all serves as-pillow,
Even rattling chains are but a lullaby.

This Robert d'Heredon, whose preaching has here such a narcotic virtue, is destined ultimately for a higher office than to rattle his chains by way of lullaby. He is ejected from the Order; not, however, with disgrace and in anger, but in sad feeling of necessity, and with tears and blessings from his brethren; and the messenger of the Valley, a strange, ambiguous, little sylph-like maiden, gives him obscure encouragement, before his departure, to possess his soul in patience; seeing, if he can learn the grand secret of Renunciation, his course is not ended, but only opening on a fairer scene. Robert knows not well what to make of this; but sails for his native Hebrides, in darkness and contrition, as one who can do no other.

In the end of the Second Part, which is represented as divided from the First by an interval of seven years, Robert is again sum

of every country, extends over the whole civilized world; and has, in particular, a strong body of adherents in Paris, and indeed a subterraneous, but seemingly very commodious suite of rooms, under the Carmelite Monastery of that city. Here sit in solemn conclave the heads of the Establishment; directing from their lodge, in deepest concealment, the principal movements of the kingdom: for William of Paris, Archbishop of Sens, being of their number, the king and his other ministers, fancying within themselves the utmost freedom of action, are nothing more than puppets in the hands of this all-powerful Brotherhood, which watches, like a sort of Fate, over the interests of mankind, and by mysterious agencies, forwards, we suppose, "the cause of civil and religious liberty over all the world." It is they that have doomed the Templars; and, without malice or pity, are sending their leaders to the dungeon and the stake. That knightly Order, once a favourite minister of good, has now degenerated from its purity, and come to mistake its purpose, having taken up politics and a sort of radical reform; and so must now be broken and reshaped, like a worn implement, which can no longer do its appointed work.

Such a magnificent "Society for the Suppression of Vice" may well be supposed to walk by the most philosophical principles. These Friedenthalers, in fact, profess to be a sort of Invisible Church; preserving in vestal purity the sacred fire of religion, which burns with more or less fuliginous admixture in the worship of every people, but only with its clear sidereal lustre in the recesses of the Valley. They are Bramins on the Ganges, Bonzes on the Hoangho, Monks on the Seine. They addict themselves to contemplation, and the subtilest study; have penetrated far into the mysteries of spiritual and physical nature; they command the deep-hidden virtues of plant and mineral; and their sages can discriminate the eye of the mind from its sensual instruments, and behold, without type or material embodyment, the essence of Being. Their activity is all-comprehending and unerringly calculated: they rule over the world by the authority of wisdom over ignorance.

A

In the Fifth Act of the Second Part, we are at length, after many a hint and significant note of preparation, introduced to the privacies of this philosophical Sainte Hermandad. strange Delphic cave this of theirs, under the very pavements of Paris! There are brazen folding doors, and concealed voices, and sphinxes, and naptha-lamps, and all manner of wondrous furniture. It seems, moreover, to be a sort of gala evening with them; for the "Old Man of Carmel, in eremite garb, with a long beard reaching to his girdle," is for a moment discovered "reading in a deep monoto

nous voice." The “Strong Ones,” meanwhile, | are out in quest of Robert d'Heredon; who, by cunning practices, has been enticed from his Hebridean solitude, in the hope of saving Molay, and is even now to be initiated, and equipped for his task. After a due allowance of pompous ceremonial, Robert is at last ushered in, or rather dragged in; for it appears that he has made a stout debate, not submitting to the customary form of being ducked, an essential preliminary, it would seem,―till compelled by the direst necessity. He is in a truly Highland anger, as is natural: but by various manipulations and solacements, he is reduced to reason again, finding, indeed, the fruitlessness of any thing else; for when lance and sword and free space are given him, and he makes a thrust at Adam of Valincourt, the master of the ceremonies, it is to no purpose: the old man has a torpedo quality in him, which benumbs the stoutest arm; and no death issues from the baffled sword-point, but only a small spark of electric fire. With his Scottish prudence, Robert, under these circumstances, cannot but perceive that quietness is best. The people hand him, in succession, the "Cup of Strength," the "Cup of Beauty," and the "Cup of Wisdom;" liquors brewed, if we may judge from their effect, with the highest stretch of Rosicrucian art; and which must have gone far to disgust Robert d'Heredon with his natural usquebaugh, however excellent, had that fierce drink been in use then. He rages in a fine frenzy; dies away in raptures; and then, at last, "considers what he wanted and what he wants." Now is the time for Adam of Valincourt to strike in with an interminable exposition of the "objects of the society." To not unwilling, but still cautious ears, he unbosoms himself, in mystic wise, with extreme copiousness; turning aside objections like a veteran disputant, and leading his apt and courageous pupil, by signs and wonders, as well as by logic, deeper and deeper into the secrets of theosophic and thaumaturgic science. A little glimpse of this our readers may share with us; though we fear the allegory will seem to most of them but a hollow nut. Nevertheless, it is an allegory-of its sort; and we can profess to have translated with entire fidelity.

ADAM.

Thy riddle by a second will be solved,
(He leads him to the Sphinx.)

Behold this Sphinx! Half-beast, half-angel, both
Combined in one, it is an emblem to thee
Of th' ancient Mother, Nature, herself a riddle,
And only by a deeper to be master'd.
Eternal clearness in th' eternal Ferment:
This is the riddle of Existence :-read it,-
Propose that other to her, and she serves thee!

(The door on the right hand opens, and, in the space behind it appears, as before, the OLD MAN OF CARMEL, sitting at a Table, and reading in a large Volume. The deep strokes of a Bell are heard.)

OLD MAN OF CARMEL (reading with a loud but still monotonous voice.)

"And when the Lord saw Phosphoros "

ROBERT (interrupting him.)

A story as of Baffometus ?

Ha! Again

ADAM. Not so.

That tale of theirs was but some poor distortion
Of th' outmost image of our sanctuary.-
Keep silence here; and see thou interrupt not,
By too bold cavilling, this mystery.

OLD MAN (reading.)

"And when the Lord saw Phosphoros his pride,
Being wroth thereat, he cast him forth,
And shut him in a prison called LIFE;
And gave him for a Garment, earth and water,
And bound him straitly in four Azure Chains,
And pour'd for him the bitter Cup of Fire.

The Lord moreover spake: Because thou hast forgotten
My will I yield thee to the Element,

And thou shalt be his slave, and have no longer
Remembrance of thy birthplace or my name.
And sithence thou hast sinn'd against me by
Thy prideful Thought of being One and Somewhat,
I leave with thee that thought to be thy whip,
And this thy weakness for a Bit and Bridle;
Till once a Saviour from the waters rise,
Who shall again baptize thee in my bosom,
That so thou may'st be Nought and All.

"And when the Lord had spoken, he drew back
As in a mighty rushing; and the Element
Rose up round Phosphoros, and tower'd itself
Aloft to Heav'n; and he lay stunn'd beneath it.

"But when his first-born Sister saw his pain,
Her heart was full of sorrow, and she turn'd her
To the Lord; and with veil'd face, thus spake Mylitta :*
Pity my Brother, and let me console him!

"Then did the Lord in pity rend asunder
A little chink in Phosphoros his dungeon,
That so he might behold his Sister's face :
And when she silent peep'd into his Prison,
She left with him a Mirror for his solace,
And when he look'd therein, his earthly Garment
Pressed him less; and, like the gleam of morning,
Some faint remembrance of his Birthplace dawn'd

"But yet the Azure Chains she could not break,
The bitter Cup of Fire not take from him.
Therefore she pray'd to Mythras, to her Father,
To save his younger-born: and Mythras went
Up to the footstool of the Lord, and said:
Take pity on my Son!-Then said the Lord;
Have I not sent Mylitta that he may

Behold his Birthplace ?-Wherefore Mythras answer'd:
What profits it? The chains she cannot break,
The bitter Cup of Fire not take from him.
So will I, said the Lord, the Salt be given him.
That so the bitter Cup of Fire be softened;
But yet the Azure Chains must lie on him
Till once a Saviour rise from out the Waters.-
And when the Salt was laid on Phosphor's tongue
The Fire's piercing ceased; but th' Element
Congeal'd the Salt to Ice, and Phosphoros
Lay there benumb'd, and had not power to move.
But Isis saw him, and thus spake the mother:
"Thou who art Father, Strength and Word and

Light:

Shall he my last-born grandchild lie for ever
In pain, the down-press'd thrall of his rude Brother?
Then had the Lord compassion, and he sent him
The Herald of the Saviour from the Waters;
The cup of Fluidness, and in the Cup
The drops of Sadness and the drops of Longing.
And then the Ice was thawed, the Fire grew cool,
And Phosphoros again had room to breathe.
But yet the earthy Garment cumber'd him,
The Azure chains still gall'd, and the Remembrance
Of the Name, the Lord's, which he had lost, was want-
ing.

"Then the Mother's heart was moved with pity,
She beckoned the Son to her, and said:
Thou who art more than I, and yet my nursling,

*Mylitta, in the old Persian mysteries, was the name of the Moon; Mythras that of the Sun.