of thought, attributed to Robert d'Heredon, the | spiration is not wanting: Werner evidently Scottish Templar, in the Sons of the Valley, was thinks that in these his ultramundane excurborrowed, it appears, as if by regular instal- sions he has found truth; he has something ments, from these conferences with Hitzig; the positive to set forth, and he feels himself as if result of the one Sunday being duly entered in bound on a high and holy mission in preachdramatic form during the week; then audited ing it to his fellow-men. on the Sunday following; and so forming the text for further disquisition. "Blissful days," adds Hitzig, "pure and innocent, which doubtless Werner also ever held in pleased remembrance!" To explain with any minuteness the articles of Werner's creed, as it was now fashioned, and is here exhibited, would be a task perhaps too hard for us, and, at all events, unprofitable in proportion to its difficulty. We have found The Söhne des Thals, composed in this rather some separable passages, in which, under dark questionable fashion, was in due time forth- symbolical figures, he has himself shadowed coming; the First Part in 1801, the Second forth a vague likeness of it: these we shall about a year afterwards. It is a drama, or It is a drama, or now submit to the reader, with such exposirather two dramas, unrivalled at least in one tions as we gather from the context, or as Gerparticular, in length; each Part being a play man readers, from the usual tone of speculaof six acts, and the whole amounting to some- tion in that country, are naturally enabled to what more than eight hundred small octavo supply. This may, at the same time, convey pages! To attempt any analysis of such a as fair a notion of the work itself, with its work would but fatigue our readers to little tawdry splendours, and tumid grandiloquence, purpose: it is, as might be anticipated, of a | and mere playhouse thunder and lightning, as most loose and formless structure: expanding by any other plan our limits would admit. on all sides into vague boundlessness, and, on the whole, resembling not so much a poem as the rude materials of one. The subject is the destruction of the Templar Order; an event which has been dramatized more than once, but on which, notwithstanding, Werner, we suppose, may boast of being entirely original. The fate of Jacques Molay, and his brethren, acts here but like a little leaven; and lucky were we, could it leaven the lump; but it lies buried under such a mass of Mystical theology, Masonic mummery, Cabalistic tradition, and Rosicrucian philosophy, as no power could work into dramatic union. The incidents are few, and of little interest; interrupted continually by flaring shows and long-winded specu-in glimpses, of so enigmàtic a sort, that we lations; for Werner's besetting sin, that of loquacity, is here in decided action; and so we wander, in aimless windings, through scene after scene of gorgeousness or gloom; till at last the whole rises before us like a wild phantasmagoria; cloud heaped on cloud, painted indeed here and there with prismatic hues, but representing nothing, or at least not the subject, but the author. Let the reader fancy himself in the island of Cyprus, where the Order of the Templars still subsists, though the heads of it are already summoned before the French King and Pope Clement; which summons they are now, not without dreary enough forebodings, preparing to obey. The purport of this First Part, so far as it has any dramatic purport, is to paint the situation, outward and inward, of that once pious and heroic, and still magnificent and powerful body. It is entitled The Templars in Cyprus; but why it should also be called The Sons of the Valley does not so well appear; for the Brotherhood of the Valley has yet scarcely come into activity, and only hovers before us ACT FIFTH.- -SCENE FIRST. Midnight. Interior of the Temple Church. Backwards, a deep perspec. tive of Altars and Gothic Pillars. On the right-hand side of the foreground, a little Chapel; and in this an Altar with the figure of St. Sebastian. The know not fully so much as whether these its Sons are of flesh and blood like ourselves, or of some spiritual nature, or of something intermediate, and altogether nondescript. For the rest, it is a series of spectacles and dissertations; the action cannot so much be said to advance as to revolve. On this occasion the Templars are admitting two new members; the acolytes have already passed their prelimIn this last point of view, however, as a pic-inary trials; this is the chief and final oneture of himself, independently of other considerations, this play of Werner's may still have a certain value for us. The strange chaotic nature of the man is displayed in it: his skepticism and theosophy; his audacity, yet in- scene is lighted very dimly by a single Lamp which hangs before the Altar. trinsic weakness of character; his baffled longings, but still ardent endeavours after Truth and Good; his search for them in far journeyings, not on the beaten highways, but through the pathless infinitude of Thought. To call it a work of art would be a misapplication of names: it is little more than a rhapsodic effusion; the outpouring of a passionate and mystic soul, only half knowing what it utters, and not ruling its own movements, but ruled by them. It is fair to add that such also, in a great measure, was Werner's own view of the matter: most likely the utterance of these things gave him such relief, that, crude as they were, he could not suppress them. For it ought to be remembered, that in this performance one condition, at least, of genuine in ADALBERT (dressed in white, without mantle or doublet; groping his way in the dark.) Was it not at the Altar of Sebastian Here should it be ; but darkness with her veil That I was bid to wait for the unknown? (Advancing to the Altar.) Behind these pillars, which, ominous and black, Hark! Was there not a rustling ?--Father! You? 1 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 ciphors. 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. Be it just, I will! PHILIP. Then swear, in this great hour, in this dread presence, ADALBERT. Ha! This the All-avenger spoke through thee!Yes! Bloody shall my Agnes' death-torch burn In Philip's heart; I swear it! PHILIP (with increasing vehemence.) And if thou break This oath, and if thou reconcile thee to him, When th' hour of vengeance comes,-shall this gray head, Yea! ARMED MAN (who after a pause shows himself on the stairs.) Shall he behold the Tombs o' th' fathers? CONCEALED VOICES. Yea! (ARMED MAN with drawn sword leads ADALBERT carefully down the steps on the right hand.) ARMED MAN (to ADALBERT.) Look down! 'Tis on thy life! (Leads him to the open Coffin.) What seest thou? ADALBERT. An open empty Coffin. ARMED MAN. 'Tis the house Where thou one day shalt dwell. Canst read th' inscription ? (Looking up, then shrinking together as with dazzled eyes.) | (Leads him to the opposite Coffin where the Body is lying.) ARMED MAN. Hear: "Corruption is the name of Life." Now look around; go forward,-move, and act!(He pushes him towards the back-ground of the stage.) ADALBERT (observing the Book.) Ha! Here the Book of Ordination!-Seems (Approaching.) As if th' inscription on it might be read. (He reads it.) "Knock four times on the ground, ་ Thou shalt behold thy loved one." O Heavens! And may I see thee, sainted Agnes? My bosom yearns for thee!- And shook the gold into a melting-pot, Anoints him on the chin and brow and cheeks. His nose became a crooked vulture's bill, (With the following words, he stamps four times on the At last his back itself sunk into ashes: ground.) One, Two,-Three-Four!- (The Curtain hanging from the Book rolls rapidly up, and covers it. A colossal Devil's-head appears between the two Skeletons: its form is horrible; it is gilt; has a huge golden Crown, a Heart of the same in its Brow; rolling flaming Eyes: Serpents instead of Hair: golden Chains round its neck, which is visible to the breast and a golden Cross, yet not a Crucifix, which rises over its right shoulder, as if crushing it down. The whole Bust rests on four gilt Dragon's feet. At sight of it, ADALBERT starts back in horror, and exclaims :) Defend us! ARMED MAN. Yea! ARMED MAN (touches the Curtain with his sword: it rolls down over the Devil's-head, concealing it again; and above, as before, appears the Book, but now opened, with white colossal leaves and red characters. The ARMED MAN, pointing constantly to the Book with his Sword, and therewith turning the leaves, addresses ADALBERT, who stands on the other side of the Book, and nearer the foreground.) List to the Story of the Fallen Master. (He reads the following from the Book: yet not stand And after forty weeks, the Lord returns, He said: There were no stones (but he had sold them For filthy gold;) so wait yet forty days. In forty days thereafter came the Lord, And cried: Where is my temple, Baffometus ? Then like a mill-stone fell it on his soul Of thy own seed, who shall redeem thy trespass. The head alone continued gilt and living; (To ADALBERT.) This is the Story of the Fallen Master. ADALBERT (looking at the HEAD.) HEAD (with a hollow voice.) Deliver me! ARMED MAN. Dreaded! Shall the work begin? CONCEALED VOICES. Yea! ARMED MAN (to ADALBERT.) Away! (Pointing to the HEAD.) ADALBERT. I dare not! HEAD (with a still more piteous tone.) ADALBERT (taking off the chains.) Poor fallen one! ARMED MAN. It seems so heavy! vellous "Story of the Fallen Master," to shadow forth. At first view, one might take it for an allegory, couched in masonic language,— and truly no flattering allegory,—of the Catholic Church; and this trampling on the Cross, which is said to have been actually enjoined on every Templar at his initiation, to be a type of his secret behest to undermine that Institution, and redeem the spirit of Religion from the state of thraldom and distortion under which it was there held. It is known at least, and was well known to Werner, that the heads of the Templars entertained views, both on religion. and politics, which they did not think meet for communicating to their age, and only imparted by degrees, and under mysterious adumbrations, to the wiser of their own Order. They had even publicly resisted, and succeeded in thwarting, some iniquitous measures of Philippe Auguste, the French King, in regard to his coinage; and this, while it secured them the love of the people, was one great cause, perhaps second only to their wealth, of the hatred which that sovereign bore them, and of the savage doom which he at last executed on the whole body. But on these secret principles of theirs, as on Werner's manner of conceiving them, we ADALBERT (taking it from the Bust, and laying it softly are only enabled to guess; for Werner, too, on the ground.) The Cross of the Good Lord that died for me? ARMED MAN. Thou shalt no more believe in one that died; ADALBERT. Take pity on me! ARMED MAN (threatening him with his sword.) ADALBERT. I do 't with shuddering— Step! has an esoteric doctrine, which he does not promulgate, except in dark Sybilline enigmas, to the unitiated. As we are here seeking chiefly for his religious creed, which forms, in truth, with its changes, the main thread whereby his wayward, desultory existence attains any unity or even coherence in our thoughts, we may quote another passage from the same First Part of this rhapsody; which, at the same time, will afford us a glimpse of his favourite hero, Robert d'Heredon, lately the darling of the Templars, but now, for some momentary infraction of their rules, cast into prison, and expecting death, or, at best, exclusion from the Order. Gottfried is another (Steps over, and then looks up to the HEAD which raises Templar, in all points the reverse of Robert. itself, as if freed from a load.) How the figure rises ARMED MAN (pointing to the Head with his Sword.) Go to the Fallen !-Kiss his lips! -And so on through many other sulphurous pages! How much of this mummery is copied from the actual practice of the Templars we know not with certainty; nor what precisely either they or Werner intended, by this mar Ask not!-Man's being is a spider-web: A servant of eternal Destiny, which earthward strives to press the net: It purifies them from the vulgar dust, GOTTFRIED. Yet each man shapes his destiny himself. ROBERT. Small soul! Dost thou too know it? Has the story Come down to thee? Dream'st thou, poor Nothingness, It dies with him; and one day shall the pilgrim 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! (As his eye, by chance, lights on Gottfried, who meanwhile has fallen asleep) -Sound already? 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 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 in its ramifications the best heads and hearts 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 Sup pression 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 |