Original Communications.

MACAO-THE RETREAT OF

CAMOENS.

THE island of Macao has lost much of its importance in modern days. Once it was a great mart of trade. Perhaps emulation of its British neighbours, now we have become possessed of Hong Kong, will work a change. The degenerate Portuguese may rise from that slothful negligence into which they appear to have long slumbered, and render Macao again an object of interest in a mercantile point of view.

Situate near the mouth of the Bocca Tigris, and separated from the continent but by a narrow river channel, in the prouder days of Portugal, it was the principal medium of commercial communication between Europe and China. Now become comparatively insignificant, it contains a population of about twelve thousand souls, of whom one-third are Portuguese.

Approaching it from the sea, its situation and aspect much resemble Cadiz. It is a small granatic peninsula, attached to the Island of Heang-shan by a very narrow isthmus. The climate is healthy, being freely exposed to the sea air, and the place has good water, bread, and a wellstocked bazaar. The functionaries belong

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ing to the East India Company's factory at Canton were accustomed to reside here during the whole of what is termed the "dead season." On landing, the spectator has before him a semicircular bay, encom. passed with rising hills, crowned with forts, convents, churches, and private buildings. The circuit of the peninsula is about eight English miles, its extent three, and its greatest breadth nearly a mile. It was about the middle of the sixteenth century that the Portuguese established themselves here, having had temporary shelter on shore as early as 1537. They pay a ground-rent to the present day; and mandarins periodically inspect the Portuguese forts, as well as levy duties on the Macao shipping. In 1573, the Chinese erected a barrier wall, with a guard-house, across the isthmus. A civil mandarin resides within the town, and governs it in the name of the Emperor. The Chinese population of Macao is entirely under the control of the mandarin; but the Portuguese enjoy the privilege of governing themselves.

surrounding land and water are obtained. In the building many splendid statues and paintings are to be seen.

Among the objects of curiosity at Macao the cave and garden of Camoens are eminently distinguished. The latter com mands a noble view, continually varied by the numerous vessels which are constantly in sight. The romantic cave in which the poet of the 'Luciad' is supposed to have composed his great work, is shown with reverential care, and the stone seat on which, according to tradition, he sat and wrote, is of course honoured with the special attention of every votary of literature.

In the history of Camoens, the Homer of Portugal, there is much to interest. His life was a stormy career. He had great affiictions to mourn, hope gladdened only to disappoint. Beauty caught his eye and inflamed his heart, but vanished at his approach. On the 11th of April, 1542, Dona Caterina de Ataide, the object of his purest attachment, met his ardent gaze in the church of Christ's Wounds at Lisbon. He was then eighteen years of age, and full of enthusiasm. The lady was virtuous as she was fair. Their love was mutual, but hers was for many months concealed. He continued to worship at her shrine, with but slender encouragement, and when, after what in our day would be called a long courtship, he ventured to solicit a ringlet of her charming hair, she would only bestow one of the silken fillets which encircled her head, with an intima. tion that in the fulness of time a lock of hair would requite his devotion. Some imprudence into which he was betrayed, scandal says with a married lady, caused him to be banished from Lisbon. It was then that the fair one he had so fondly wooed, the beautiful Caterina, relented, and confessed to the desponding poet the passion which he had inspired. He left the presence of his mistress, and sought for glory fighting against the Moors. In a sea-fight he had the misfortune to lose his right eye, by some splinters from the deck of the vessel in which he was engaged. The courage which he displayed in many battles won favour for him, and he was recalled from exile. He hastened to Lisbon, to throw himself at the feet of Dona Caterina, and on his arrival had the affliction to find that she was no more,

To the sorrows caused by her loss, those which now grew on straitened means were to be added. The reward to which he considered he was entitled for his services he long sought in vain. He determined at length to endeavour to gain for himself independence in India. The feeling with which the resentful poet left Portugal is very distinctly transmitted to us. "The last words," he says in a letter to a friend, "which I uttered when leaving, were those

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of Scipio Africanus,' Ingrata patria, non possidebis ossa mea.'

Again he fought bravely, but indulging a satirical vein, and holding up to just derision a ridiculous parody on a tournament given by a despicable governor, procured for Camoens another sentence of banishment. The following are some of the reflections suggested to him:

"I saw the virtuous man contend
With life's unnumbered woes,
And he was poor, without a friend,
Pressed by a thousand foes.

I saw the Passions' pliant slave
In gallant trim, and gay;
His course was pleasure's placid wave,
His life a summer's day.

And I was caught in Folly's snare,

And joined her giddy train,
But found her soon the nurse of care,
And punishment, and pain.
There surely is some guiding pow'r,
Which rightly suffering wrong,
Gives Vice to bloom its little hour,

But Virtue late and long."

The varied scenes which he was fated to know, tantalised with all that love, and fame, and fortune could offer at various periods, yet doomed to disappointment, banishment, and want, might well justify the feelings he breathes in his 'Luciad : "What perils numberless and imminent

Ceaseless assail life's mutable career, Ev'n where we centre all our fondest hopes They vanish like an unsubstantial dream." And how natural is the question which the care-worn pilgrim subsequently asks:

"To what asylum shall frail man retreat,

Where pass secure the narrow span of life, That placid heaven unruffled may not launch, Its thunderbolt against so poor a worm?" He had to complain of the world; but one humble object in it connected with Camoens, we cannot but contemplate with admiring wonder his glorious slave! Antonio (a man of colour), a native of Java, having saved his life when he suffered shipwreck, accompanied him to Lisbon. There faithful to him in his extremest distress, the noble-hearted Antonio would never leave him, but begged through the streets of Lisbon during the day, to share the produce of his mendicity with his master at night. Camoens at length reached life's goal in wretched poverty.. The following inscription was placed over his remains: "Here lies Louis de Camoens, Prince of the Poets of his time. He lived poor and miserable, and died such; Anno Domini 1579." Sufficient honours have since been rendered to his memory. Those who coldly permit the struggling man of genius to sink neglected to the earth, generally are extremely liberal when the object of their admiration can nothing profit from their gifts. It would seem as if they expected to buy absolution for cruelty by a sickening exhibition of folly. Ungrateful country! thou shalt not possess my bones."

THE various stages of James the Second's life are marked by strange varieties: brave at one time; pusillanimous at another; coldly cruel and tyrannical on the throne; and a model of pious resignation in exile. These changes are presented to our view in the several stages of his existence. "My Lord Chief Justice is on his campaign," is the mirthful conceit in which he indulges while Jefferies was engaged in what writers of the period called "the bloody assizes." His conduct to his nephew, the unfortunate duke, was marked by gloomy, inflexible severity. In speaking of him, he manifests a feeling that he who aspires to be a king should never be wanting in dignity and courage; nay, he who had only aspired to a throne he considered ought never to exhibit momentary weakness. In a letter written to the Prince of Orange, afterwards William the Third dated July 14, 1685, he thus expresses himself:

"The Duke of Monmouth is brought up hither with Lord Grey and the Brandenburgher. The two first desired very earnestly to speak with me, as having things of importance to say to me, which they did, but did not answer my expectation, in what they said to me: the Duke of Monmouth seemed more concerned and desirous to live, and did behave himself not so well as I expected, nor so as one ought to have expected, from one who had taken upon him to be king. I have signed the warrant for his execution to-morrow. For Lord Grey, he appeared more resolute and ingenious, and never so much as once asked for his life."

The same sentiment is breathed by the royal uncle in announcing the death of the young duke. Writing on the 17th July, he says,―

"He was very solicitous to have gained more time, and did many things towards it, not very decent for one who had taken on him the title of King. He was beheaded on Wednesday on the Tower hill. He died resolutely, and a downright enthusiast."

Yet what can be said of the firmness of the king writing thus, who did not dare to see the nephew in the presence of two other persons, without having him securely bound:

"Barillon in his despatch of the 26th of July, 1685, says that he saw the Duke of Monmouth pass through the apartments of the palace to his interview with the King; that his arms were tied behind, but his hands free; that none but the two secretaries of state were present at the inter

-view."

DANISH POET.

THE subject of the following memoir furnishes a singular instance of successful versatility. It would almost seem as if his actual doings had suggested the fanciful character of Tristram Fickle in the farce of the 'Weathercock,' which playgoers love to laugh at. His powers appear to have been stirring within him, and to have denied him repose, till at length they could be exerted in that particular direction which has rendered him the delight and the glory of his countrymen.

Adam Oehlenschläger was born in a suburb of Copenhagen on the 14th November, 1779. His father held the situation of organist and steward at Friedricksberg, a royal country seat in the neighbourhood.

He

This residence, which had been built Italy, animated and gay with the pomp by Frederick IV after his return from and bustle of the court in summer, was left in winter almost deserted, under the charge of the poet's father. The poet was left to wander at will through the lofty, magnificent, and solitary apartments, to gaze on the portraits of kings and princes; and surrounded by these splendours, not his own, to pore over romances and fairy tales. At the age of twelve he exchanged the freedom of the country, and the stately rooms of the royal residence, for a narrow lodging in the town, to commence his studies, under Edward Storm, a Norwegian, a poet, and a man of talent. Though Oehlenschlager's reading had been of the most desultory kind, Storm saw in his activity, and the energy with which he pursued those studies which interested him, the promise of improvement. had been overheard in the chapel of Friedricksberg, when he thought himself alone, delivering extempore discourses from the palpit, much to the satisfaction of the clergyman, who happened on one occasion forthwith advised his father to make him a to listen to him from the sacristy, and preacher. Whatever he learned himself he instantly set about communicating to others. Having promised to give one of his young friends instructions in anatomy, he prevailed on him to accompany him to Friedricksberg, where he had procured the skeleton of a child for the purpose of demonstration. The friends were to sleep in the same room; the skeleton, after the conclusion of the lecture, was left on the table; and the lecturer and his pupil had dropped asleep. Suddenly they were awakened by a knocking at the door, and lay motionless with terror, thinking that the owner of the skeleton had come in person from the tomb to reclaim his bones. Great was their relief when they found that it was only the old maid servant, who had come to bring the anatomist his night-shirt. At school,

instead of being devoted to Latin and history, he took the direction of stageplaying, dramatic composition, and pugilistic exhibitions. The latter were, indeed, in some measure forced upon him. His father, who was not very well able to defray the expenses of his education, had, as a good speculation, purchased from the keeper of the king's wardrobe a number of faded suits, out of which the young poet had been equipped for school. "There I walked about," says he, "for a long time in coats which had once figured on the backs of crown princes, and stiff boots which had been worn by kings, while my pantaloons were made out of the cloth which had covered some old billiard table, now out of commission." This strange raiment, his long dark hair straggling over his shoulders, and his tall thin figure towering above the rest, "like the minster over the houses in Strasburg," rendered him at first the butt of the school; and it was only after bestowing a sound drubbing on some of the ringleaders, that he was allowed

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wear these memorials of ancient grandeur in quiet. Once fairly naturalized, his liveliness and ingenuity rendered him a favourite. He headed the sports of his companions, and organized a regular system of stage plays, the young poet him. self being generally the composer and the principal performer. "My dear child," Storm used sometimes to say, "you are a greater poet than Molière; he used to think it quite a feat to write a piece in eight days, you manage the matter with ease in one.' Occasionally some blundering comrade ruined the effect of Oehlenschläger's most impassioned scenes by some unlucky contre-temps. He and his comrades were one day performing a very touching piece, in which the heroine was to faint on being informed by a truculent father that she was not to wed her lover. The despairing father, who could not remember a word of his part, but who with a strange perversity had bestowed his chief attention on the stage directions, looking at the fainting lady, repeated with much gravity, "During this time the other characters support her;" and after uttering this affecting apostrophe, immediately disappeared. A well-administered blow from the prompter sent him back upon the stage, and, like an application of animal magnetism, restored at the same time the memory of the performer.

Approaching his sixteenth year he became more diligent; praise and rewards had occasionally been bestowed upon him; he had acquired a passable knowlege of history, geography, and his mother tongue; understood German well, French indifferently, and had a superficial acquaintance with the sciences. Like Shakspeare, he had little Latin and less Greek. His

father's first intention had been, that he should devote himself to merchandise; but ignorant as he was of English, and a bad arithmetician, he had no inclination to commerce. To his great relief, the merchant into whose counting-house his father had hoped to introduce him could not receive him, and so the obnoxious proposal was dropped, and he prevailed on his father to allow him to resume his studies, with the view of passing his examination in arts, and again plunged into belles-lettres and poetry. It is singular that most of his early efforts should have been in the comic and satirical vein. The gaiety of youth is instinctive, not reflective, while comedy, with its exhibitions of the weaknesses and absurdities of life, is the result of an enlarged experience of society, reflection on its follies, and of those feelings of vanity and vexation of spirit which that experience and reflection give rise to. In such a mind as Oehlenschläger's we should have imagined that the tragic or epic would have pre-occupied the ground which might have been assigned to the comic or idyllic; but, probably, his choice was influenced by no deeper principle than imitation, and the chance which had thrown Holberg's Comedies, Wessel's Liebe ohne Strumpfe (Love without Stockings), and such parodies on the sentimental school into his hands before the grave pieces of Schiller and Goëthe.

He felt strong delight in romance reading, and particularly works in which spectres and chimeras dire formed the machinery of the story. Hoffman had not at that time astonished the world by his ghastly phantasmagoria, in which the devil and his angels seem perpetually on the broad grin, and the reader wandering among doubles of himself, and passing inexplicably from the regions of this lower world into a land of shadows, and from fairy land back to reality, feels himself throughout, as it were, in a hazy, troubled, oppressive, and night-mare dream. Weber's romantic legends of the olden time he read with approbation; but for the genuine ghost story, which makes the knotted and combined locks to part, and the reader to feel as if he were undergoing the operation of scalping, Spiess was the man! Over his horrors Oehlenschläger loved to pore, till the fantastic began to overpower the satirical tendency in his mind, and the common events of life to be overshadowed by an atmosphere of terror. On the road, for instance, between Copenhagen and Friedricksberg, stood the public place of execution, in a waste field looking towards the sea, the wheel and gallows reading a moral lesson to the traveller and the gentlemen of the shade, as they past. During the dynasty of Spiess and his brethren, a criminal had been executed

at this spot. Oehlenschläger had gone one afternoon with his sister and the servant to the Suderfeld, to gather some walnuts, which the gardener had still left on the topmost branches of the trees. His sister had been rather silent and gloomy during their walk;—the sun had set, the autumn evening was closing in. Suddenly she proposed to him to go out to the field and see the dead man. Ashamed to decline following where a female offered to lead, he assented, though the nut which he held in his hand actually fell to the ground in the extremity of his terror. When they came to the high road, opposite to the place of execution, his sister and the servant would go no further. "But some irresistible power," says Oehlenschläger, "seemed to impel me on, like a bird into the jaws of the rattlesnake. I had never been there before, but now I sprang over hedges and ditches to shorten the way. I drew near to the terrific spot in the lonely field. The sun had gone down; the darkness of an autumnal evening rested upon all. I did not dare to look up. I saw only the green sward beneath me, and its risings and hollows, as I hurried over them, seemed to heave like the waves beneath my feet. At last I saw the dark pillar right before me. I looked up: a pale and bloody head grinned at me from the stake, beneath which lay a severed hand. A headless carcase was stretched upon the wheel, and the arms hanging down, and the legs covered with woollen stockings. A panic terror seized me; I took to flight; I thought the criminal was at my heels, nor did I venture to draw breath till I reached the high road and rejoined my sister and the servant."

These wanderings of a heated imagination, it may be supposed, are symptomatic of no great progress in the graver studies to which the attention of Oehlenschläger should have been directed. In Greek he utterly failed. Had he been allowed to commence with Homer, or Herodotus, or even with the historical books of the New Testament, something, he thinks, might have been done; but the doctrinal and argumentative Epistles to the Romans and Corinthians he found himself unable to master, and began to feel that the Temple of Fame was shut against him.

It was during this period of despondency that the idea of devoting himself to theatrical pursuits, as a profession, occurred to him; not that he had any particular attachment to stage-playing, or any very romantic conception of the pleasures of an actor's life. His motives were, in the first place, to procure the only means of gratifying what had now become a habit, and almost a necessary of life with him, his taste for witnessing theatrical representations:-a passion the more violent, perhaps, that he had scarcely ever had a farthing of his own

wherewith to gratify it secondly, as musical composers prepare themselves for their art by familiarizing themselves with the range and compass of instruments in the orchestra, Oehlenschläger, who seemed to feel that dramatic poetry was not unlikely to be his ultimate destination, thought that the best school in which a knowledge of stage effect was to be acquired was the green-room, and the stage itself. One path of dramatic poetry seemed at that time almost unoccupied: the success of Holberg's comedies had turned the course of Danish poetry decidedly into the channel of the comic. Tragedy, except in a few translations from Lessing, Kotzebue, and Shakspeare, had already been scarcely cultivated at all. Samsoe's play of Dyvecka, no doubt, by the nationality of its plot, the brilliancy of its decorations, and above all, by the sudden death of its author, just as it was in the course of rehearsal, and the Secretary Sanders's Niel Ebbesen, a melo-dramatic Pizarro-like effusion, also on a national subject, and full of gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder,' had excited considerable attention in their day, but failed to maintain any permanent reputation.

This plan, which had haunted his brain for some time, was at last suddenly resolved on: his father, always too ready to gratify his whims, agreed to it; and his mother, though she would willingly have seen him devoting himself to another employment, was silent. He was introduced to Rosing, the star of the Copenhagen stage, and embarked in a course of fencing, singing, and dancing, as preparatory to his appearance on the boards. He had been too much accustomed to theatrical displays in his early life to feel any great apprehension on his first appearance, which seems to have been attended with no remarkable approbation; and though some of his subsequent performances were more favourably received, it did not seem by any means clear that the Copenhagen public would

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certainly go to his benefit;" on the contrary, his appearances, generally speaking, were rather tolerated than applauded. Oehlenschläger, never much enamoured of an actor's life, and now more thoroughly awake to its annoyances from personal experience, soon thought he had reaped all the advantages he was likely to derive from it in reference to his culture as a dramatist. An acquaintance with two brothers of the name of Oersted, the one a student of law, the other of medicine, tended to increase this feeling; the jurist did everything in his power to induce him to abandon the stage, resume his classical studies, and devote himself to law. With the poet, a total change of profession, a transition from gay to grave, was a light matter; he