ENGLISH LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. | Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/criticalexaminatOOuellrich t>er ju hm atfentlttl)fn Prufungrn am 2. unt) 3. @e))tem6et 1857 Im ergeknft elnlabet bet 3)trecfcr |r. /ranj §tintn. 3n^(tK: I. 3lb^onbIung : A critical examination of the poetic genius of Ben Jonson, tjon Dr. UcUitcr. II. 53cr^t iiber baS @d^ulja!^r IS'Vs? toon bent ^Director. uc^brucfcret \?on Hermann QSof. 1857. f«veat of his face," and with little success. Many efforts have been made to revive his memory, and to bring him into general notice, for two of his comedies have been of late translated by Baudissin. The excellent hints *) Shaw, outlines of Engllit. Page 38. **) S3u(^«er, ©ef^id^te ber engtifrf)en ^oefie. IS given by Ulricl *) have been faithfully made use of; though ho appears to entertain some wrong notions respecting the best of Jonson's plays ,,the Alchemist." In the above remarks, I have already examined the general situation occupied by B. Jonson in the development of English literature. I have endeavoured to show how B. Jonson, persuaded that the true form of dra- matic poetry was for ever established in the classic models, encountered the national form of the Engl, stage, and even strongly opposed its principal leaders. However insufficient and imperfect the details of this literary dispute may be, we have sufficient proof of its existence in spite of Gifibrd who takes great trouble to dei)y the fact, fearing, perhaps, that, by allo- wing it, Jonson's character might again be stained. Gifford however is surely mistaken; nor do I understand, how it can cast even the slightest shadow on a man to defend his positive convictions with respect to aesthetic subjects against any per- sonality whatever.- 13esides we know from his own words, that he stood in opposition to Shakespeare, a circumstance, however, which did not in the least exclude a very intimate intercourse with the latter. We here, for the first time, find the modern drama strongly opposed by the classic, both of which, as we shall see hereafter, were represented by different stages. It would indeed be interesting to become acquainted with ,,the "Wit -combats" of these two great men in the celebrated club at Mermaid, a place where the greatest geniusses of the literary world at those times, such as Shakespeare, B. Jonson, Beaumont, and Fletcher used to meet. But alas! nothing, on which we might rely, has been handed down to us, and we can only learn from Fuller that he saw them like a Spanish galleon and an English man of war. Master Jonson hke the former was built far higher in learning, solid but slow in his performance, Shakes- peare like the latter, lesser in bulk but lighter in sailing, could turn with all sides and tack about and take advantage of all winds hy the quickness of his vvit and invention. In these few words, the very keynote of the diffe- rence between the two men is distinctly heard, or I am greatly mistaken. But it appears to us more precisely in the Prologue with which B. Jonson opens his „£very man in his humour." This prologue, assummg a considerable de- gree of importance, in examining the aesthetic dispute, I ean not but quote it. ^) Ulrici. Shakespeare's bramotif(!^e ^mtft. 2» STuff. 1857. 14 Prologue. Thougli need make many poets, and some such As Art and Nature have not better'd much Yet ours, for want, liath not so lov'd the stage As he dare serve th'iU custonies of the age, Or purchase your delight at such a rate. As, for it, he himselfe must justly hate. To make a child, now swadled, to proceed Man, and then shoote up, in one beard and weed Past threescoi'e yeeres; or with three rusiy swords, And helpe of some few foot — and half foote words, Kight over Yoike and Lancaster's long jarres And in the tyring house bring wounds to scarres he rather prayes, you will be pleased to see One such, to day, as other playes should be, Where neither Chorus wafts you on the seas Nor creaking 'throne comes downe, the boyes to please Nor nimble spuibble is scene, to make afearc'd The gentlewomen; nov ronled bullet heard To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drumme Rumbles, to tell you when the storme doth come But deeds and language, such as men doe use : And persons, such as Comedy would chuse, When she would show an Image of the times, And sporie with humane follies, not with crimes Except, we make the msuch by loving still Our popular errors when we know th' are ill. I meane such errors as you'll all confesse By laughing at them they deserve no lesse W hich when you heartily doe, there's hope left, then, You, that have so grac'd monsters, may like men. In asserting that this prologue touches with spirit as well as with humour on the defects and absurdities of the old stage, that Lyly, Kyd, and others are evidently pointed at, GifFord is surely mistaken , and every impartial reader will willingly admit that Jonson is speaking of his own times, when he says that he loved the old stage not so much as to dare serve the ill customs of the age, i. e. the J^ge in which he lived. That this must be the case follows from the unmistakable allusion to Shakespeare's historical plays, representing the war of the roses, of which no less than four plays (Richard III. 1593, Richard II. 1594 and Henry IV. in two ^arts^ 1598) had been written and performed; when „Every man in his humour" was acted on the stage. "Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars pApd in the tyring house bring wounds to scars. « UNIVERSITY We must not wonder that he, as a faithful follower of the ancientS;, looked upon such plays as monsterS; a prejudice which has never lost its adherents up to this day. Had his criticism been more philosophical, it could not have been applied to the productions of the modern stage. He belonged to that class of men who are so deeply intrenched in some fixed idea as to ridicule all those who pursue a different course. - The exclusive tendency of Jonson went so far as to induce him to leave the Globe where his first play had been introduced through the instrumentality of Shakespeare, and to have his plays performed by the children of the Royal Chapel. These children, whose origin cannot be accurately traced, were em- ployed, as far as we may glean from scattered information, to sing in the chapel of Queen Elizabeth, and afterwards to act comedies for the amusement of the court, until they were forbidden to do so any longer in the year 1626, in consequence of its being inconsistent wntli their rehgious duties. *) Under the direction of B. Jonson, hostilities arose between the Royal Chapel, as it is commonly called, and the Globe; which, in opposition to the former, represented the national character. Ben Jonson repeatedly declared that he and these children were in the only right way; and sueh, indeed, was his influence, that for some time it became the fashion among the higher classes of society to attend his theatre more than any other, and many a poet followed his example in having his plays pei"formed by these youthful actors. Shakespeare undoub- tedly alludes to this state of affairs when he says in his Hamlet : „Thcre is Sir, an ayry of children little ey asses that cry out on the top of question and are most tyrannically clapped for it; they are now in fashion, and so berattle the common stages^ that many w^earing rapiers are afraid of goose quills and dare scarce come thither.'' How long this literary dispute lasted cannot be asserted; it is however certain that B. Jonson returned to the Globe in the year 1603 with his „Sejanus" and that even Shakespeare is named among the principal tragedians. This is all that is known about the dispute of these two great men, which, however great may have been the contrast between the fighting parties, appears not to have caused any personal hostility. All his contemporaries, on the contrary, tell us that a friendly and literary intercourse was ever kept up between Jonson and Shakespeare. *) See « Annals of the stage « by Payne Collier II. 16, 15 In order fully to appreciate the material cause of this dis- pute, I will now proceed to analyze more precisely those of his plays, which have been considered the best, both by his con- temporaries and his modern admirers, viz. the ^Alchemist,'* the ySilent woman/' and „Catiline " It is very natural that the developement of dramatic poetry in England should have taken just an opposite direction to the classic, comedy being cultivated at an earlier period than tragedy ; for aftfer the drama had devolved into the hands of the people and had become one of the chief entertainements of the nation," the comic element must needi3 gain the preponderance. The province of the comic stands much nearer to real life than that of the tragic. When the poets strove to draw the drama from the ideal sphere of mysteries and moralities, and to intro- duce it into reality, when, accordingly, they began to study life and nature, it is not to be wondered at that the drama should first appear in the form of comedy, this being essentially the expression of society. The first comedians very successfully pointed out the province on which comedy most appropriately lives and moves. The first two regular English comedies Ralph Roister Dolster and Gammer Gurton'a needle are founded on civil life and led to character comedy. It stands to reason that, in spite of the influence classic literature had on English litera- ture at this time, the political Comedy of antiquity should meet with no imitation, the character of the world having totally changed. In antiquity the whole life was merely political, all the interests of pri- vate life being swallowed up by the interests ot the state ; the an- cient poet consequently had no eyes for the sphere of private life, which could be no object of importance to him. This, however, forms the proper department for comedy, which has to deal wath the atfectatlons and follies of human nature. It would destroy the character of comedy to represent passions, in which the parties concerned are forced to the extreme limits of human powers and human nature; no more would any mysterious inter- ference with the destiny of man, suit the character of comedy. In remarking above that the ridiculous had no immediate and positive end in view in exercising its paralyzing power against a false sublime, I gave my readers to understand, that it is not its aim to create another sublime in its stead; it has indeed a positive result, but this can only be accomplished in a negative way. Comedy, properly so called, has for its object the edu- cation of the human race by correcting the imperfections of society, and by exposing them to ridicule. In extirpating the follies of mankind, comedy has an immense effect, it being impossible for a vice or foible of society which has been ridiculed in 17 public to maintain its predominance. Paganism having sunk so low, that the „haruspices", in performing their rehgions rites, were unable to restrain their laughter, when they caught each other's eyes ; this was an unmistakeable sign of its approaching downfall. As it is well known, however, that rising civilization, is generally accompanied by degeneration and corruption of manners, comedy may be most certainlv expected to flourish in a highly civilized and artificial state of existence, and chiefly at a time, when civilization has not advanced s(f far as to obliterate those strong class distinctions, which so sharply mark the professions, habits, language, and manners of mankind.* The means which comedy employs in exercising its influence in opposing prevailing defects, is wit, or the ability of uniting with surprising quickness two ideas, however contrary their natures may be. To use Jean Paul's words, wit is a disguised priest who will marry any couple. The result is a contrast which produces laughter. Thus it is the negative and destructive power, quite difl'erent from humour, which includes a positive and reconstructive power. Thus we may deny altogether that humour is the primary element of comedy, i. e. of comedy, properly so called, though humour be immensely superior ito wit, so that we may call it the' completion of wit, the former quality necessarily implying the existence of the latter. The humorist should not be possessed of wit only, but also of love and sympathy, he will smile, when the satirist is incHned to frown , he considers the world a mixture of good and bad , he sees in it more weakness than crime, more folly than vice; he looks upon man as neither ridiculous nor detestable, but rather as deplorable; hence that pitying pathos which characterizes the humourist. The chief reason, however, which prevents humour from ever becoming the predominating element of comedy, and which most distinctly marks the difference between the humorist and the comic writer, is the circumstance, that the former, with all his moral gravity, is ever ready to descend to the class of those he is scourging, pleading guilty, as it were, of the same weaknesses, whilst the latter is, a judge who stands far above the object of his raillery. We readily admit the task of the humorist to be one of difficulty, it requires a natural disposition for which neither art nor the greatest efforts can ever be appropriate substitutes. *)Schiller, who had no comic vein whatever, knew and felt this, when he said, that in tragedy the object is the prevailing power, whilst in comedy the subject *) Ucbcr naioc unb jcntimetttale 35ic^t!unji. 18 must predominate, and that, whilst in the former much is done by the object, almost every thing in the latter has to be effected by the poet himself; the tragic writer being carried along by - his object, while comedy has to be maintained on aesthetic heights by means of its subject. The comic poet, therefore, appeals to our reasoning faculties, to which alone justice has to be done ; comedy deals with our better judgement, tragedy with our conscience. A poet who allows wit, that destructive power, to prevail, without allowing it to benefit by the purifying influence of humour, will not long be able to arrest our interest ; he will soon adopt the language of a moralizing satirist, which, as we shall presently have opportunity to observe, particularly marks the character of Ben Jonson. In his cold satirizmg tendency to wit, he had no idea of character comedy in the proper sense of the word, wherein humour is so apt to prevail; his powers were most developed in comedy of intrigue, which, therefore, is the proper point of view from which we may judge of Ben Jonson*s poetical genius. His tendency was chiefly that of a moralizing satyrist who, by the keen and polished weapon of his bitter sarcasm, dealt the deepest wounds on the follies of his time, which did indeed offer an abundant source for his purpose. A man even less observant than Jonson need not have gone very far to discover objects for his literary pursuits. He stood on the threshold of modern times, when new ideas were partly in collision with those, which had so strongly influenced the fenerations of the middle ages, and when, human society not eing as yet refined by experience, those new ideas degenerated into either extravagance or narrowmindedness. He scourges not only the faith in devils and ghosts, in magic and witchcraft, alchemy and the miserable remnants of old customs, but also the lax manners of the court, and ,,the Puritan wolves in sheep*s clothing," the new made knights of James I. the fanciful love of modern sentimentality; in fact, anything that attempted to exceed the sphere of common life was subject to his biting, intentional, and indeed often personal sarcasm, very different from the harmless, sportive manner of Shakespeare, who looked upon individual follies as a consequence of the universal debility, thus striking the derider together with the derided. When the point in question was to expose the defects of his age, to plunge into the common realities of life, picturing them with historical correctness and vivid faithfulness, Jonson was in his proper element, most quick-sighted for everything real, analy- zing every folly with critical judgement, and tracing it vnth mathematical accuracy in all its different phases in human society. He appears to have had less sympathy with virtue 19 than contempt for vice; the exposure and detestation of any evil quality, the correction of any prevalent folly being his primary object. But in treating the real in its combination with the ideal he was destitute of all poetical profoundness, reducing the latter to an abstract allegory, of which his „Masques" furnish a proof, showing that he was yet standing with one foot in the same middle ages, the remnants of which be was but too eager to destroy with all his satirical powers. These „Masques" are indeed httle more than the interludes, so well known in the middle ages, and, therefore, although not (juite destitute of poetic beauty in an abstract form, they are of but httle importance with regard to the object of our present treatise. But to get a clear idea of the value of his so much praised characters, it is necessary to hear his own opinion on the subject, which at once removes us into the inmost recesses of his poetic genius. In his prologue to „Every man out of his humour," Jonson calls the characters he is going to represent, humours, thus proceeding: Why, Humour (as'tis ens) we thus define it. To be a qualitie of air, or water, And in it selfe holds these two properties, Moisture and fluxure: As for demonstration, Powre water on this floore, 'twile wet and runne : » Likewise the ayre , forced through a home or trumpet, Howes instantly away, and leaves beyind A kind of dew, and hence we doe conclude That whatsoe're hath fluxure and humiditie, As wanting power to contain itselfe, Is Humour, So in every human body, The choUer, melancholy, flegme, and blood, By reason that they flow contiunally In some one part and are not continent Receive the name of Humours. Now thus farre It may, by Metaphore, apply it selfe Unto the general! disposition: As when some one peculiar qualitie Doth so possesse a man, that it doth draw All his affects, his spirits, and his powers, ^ In their confluctions, all to runne one way. This may he truly said to be a Humour. But take a rook'e by wearing a pyed feather, The cable hat-band, or the ihree-pild ruffe, A yard of shooe-tye, or the Switxer's knot On his French garters, should affect a Humour it is more than most ridiculous. This prologue includes the whole mystery of his art ; he does not intend to picture characters a^ they are found in every-day life, -but rather such as represent different shades 2* 20 of human follies, or of peculiar distortions and deformities of moral physiognomy, rendered inveterate by vanity and affectation. The very circumstance, however, of his viewing every folly from one side only, proves his tendency to have been more of a philosophic than of a poetic nature; for the poet throws himself, as it were, into the character representing the whole of mankind, whilst the philosopher, by analyzing and sifting, as it were, the human character, destroys every poetic touch; his characters resemble butterflies, which some rough hand has bereft of their brilliant and varied colours ; he was a poet of good sense, but sacrificed little to the Graces. It is then impossible not to recognize Ben Jonson in his characters, all of which bear the stamp of his own individual views and feelings clothed in poignant satire. In perfect accordance with this we find his opinion on the three unities, which he did not truly observe, but changed according to his fancy. Thus in his prologue to „the Fox," speaking of a refined comedy in which the law^s of time, place and persons are fully observed, it is obvious from the same comedy that, by what he calls the lavv^ of persons, he means nothing but the above named humours. The greater part, therefore, of his characters in this form are comparatively msignificant with regard to the chief-humour of the play; they being reflected to us, as it were, from his mirror and^ becoming more or less developed and important, as he finds it necessary to act upon them, so that our estimation of their character is entirely founded on his relative conduct, through which we may correctly appreciate their strength and weakness. In this respect a parallel between Jonson and Moliere, who in general cultivated the same field of literature would be most unfavorable to the former. Moliere has, it is true, for a long time been accused of representing nothing but general types, instead of real men or women, but his honour has of late been restored by an excellent modern critic.*) As to the form of Jonson's plays , we should be mistaken in suspecting him to have copied the Greek trage- dians or even Aristophanus; indeed, there is nothing to be found in his works of the admirable genius and exquisite taste of the Greek tragedies, nothing of the dazzling splendour of the lyric portions, so nobly contrasted by the pure, marble-like severity of the dialogue. His ideals were Plautus and Terrentius, mixed up with the satiric character of Juvenal, with whose genius the hterary character of Jonson has many points of resemblance. He seems to have •) See C. Humbert, Slb^anblungen iibcr Moliere in Wcd)it) don $errtg unb SJie^off. i8b. 18. 21 taken great pains in his comedies to observe the laws of space and time, but it is certainly either ignorance or interested praise in Giflbrd, to say, that the unity of time is so well observed in most of those comedies, that the representation thereof occupied scarcely an hour more on the stage than the action would require in reality; for, as we shall see hereafter, it requires the most unnatural exertion to force the intensity of action into the space of 24 hours. If the same critic continues to exhaust himself in praising the plots of the comedies, saying that such is the rigid? accuracy of his plans, that it requires a constant and almost painful attention to trace out their various bearings and dependencies: such praise will be its. own judge. It is true that Jonson was of a methodical disposition; he left nothing to chance, but, before beginning to write, sat down to arrange every circumstance in his mind. We cannot, therefore, think any the worse of him for assuring us, that it was certainly not his fault but that of the public, if his plays should meet with no approbation. Certainly these plays were his own undisputed property gained by the utmost industry, of which, as Goethe says, anybody may boast. To prove in detail the above remarks respecting Jonson's poetical genius, I shall submit to a critical examination those of his plays , which , according to the judgement of his contem- poraries as well as of modern critics have been considered as deserving of undisputed praise. Theatrum poetarum ed. 1675 tells us that" in three of his comedies, the Fox, the Alchymist and the Silent Woman, Jonson may be compared in the jud- gement of learned men, for decorum, language, and well humouring, with the ^ chiefs of the ancient Greek and Latin comedians as well as with the prime of modern Italians, who have been judged the best of Europe for a happy vein of comedy." The first comedy which we shall submit to a critical exa- mination is the Alchemist, which has been praised as a perfect model of comedy. We learn from Scott, *) that alchemy was one of the most prevailing pursuits of the day, and frequently became an object of speculation at the expence of credulous and superstitious people. To condemn this vice of his age is the aim of his „ Alchemist ;'' he there seems to have been in his element, for there is indeed no other comedy of his, in which he expresses his indignation at these absurdities of his age in a more powerful and energetic language, none, in which more ^) Discovery of witchcraft, book XIV. 22 comie or rather satiric elements are displayed. His object seemingly was, to compose a drama, which was to exhibit an unusual number of characters or rather humours , taken from all classes of society, and to mix them up with as much rival- ship, love, jealousy, and deceit, as possibly could be brought within the compass of five acts. Now, there is no difficulty in accumulating splendid characters and decorating them with cor- responding ephithets ; a much harder task is that of putting all of them into due proportion, and to make all actions appear displaying one and the same tendency, so that one leading- idea passes through the whole. This, indeed, forms the weakest part of his play; we are introduced to representatives of nearly all classes of society, who all apply to the Alchemist in ho- pes of rapidly obtaining immense wealth, by the purchase of the philosopher's stone. Thus the action of the play must needs become a lively and varied one; the attention of the spectator is constantly kept up by a number of embarassments which are however so little connected with each other, as to make the last act appear like a narrow gate, through which a number of different characters vainly attempt to escape, v^hich shows the epic to be prevailing in this comedy. The centre of the whole play is the Alchemist, who cheats all the different people out of their property, but this central point is far from being a poetic one. Besides, is it a misfortune which runs through the whole play, that the author could not get rid of pedantic classical references, often without taste and dis- cretion, a fault he had in common with many of his contempo- raries ; it was Shakespeare's good fortune to be in some degree without that knowledge, and therefore, if on no other account, without the defect. V Nevertheless there are several scenes of which we cannot •fr but approve. The fable of the play, on which we are about to ^ make some remarks, is as follows- Lovewit, a proprietor in I I London, was induced to take refuge in the country, in order to escape the infection of the plague, leaving the management of his affairs to his steward Face. But as soon as the latter found ?^ himself in undisputed possession of the house, he invited the Alchemist Subtle and his colleague Dol. -Common, intending with their assistance to cheat a number of credulous persons, ^' who appeared from all sides (how, and wherefrom, it is difficult to make out), by promising them the philosophers' stone. From this we see plainly that a twofold tendency prevails in the play. Jonson not only stands up against Alchemy as a mere means of deceit, but he attemps at the same time, to ridicule the folly of those who become the victims of their superstition. The lat- S3 ter circumstance being the chief object of the comedy, we find those who were deceived more severely punished than the Al- chemist, who with his accomplices meets with no punishment save that of poetical justice, a circumstance which seems to have escaped Uirici in his critic of the comedy. Abel Druggeil, a young merchant, who hoped to get customers by the aid of the philosophers' stone and Epicure Mammon, a representative of the degenerate customs of his time, having both been sent awa)r aftet paying a considerable sum of money, two Puritans make their ap^ pearance, the one called Parson Tribulation from Amsterdam with tis Deacon Ananias, brought here, by the same wish of obtain- ing the philosophers' stone for their pious brotherhood. Those who are at all acquainted with the history of the English stage must be aware, that the Puritans had always strongly objected to theatrical performances, because they considered them relics of paganism. It was therefore very natural for them to become the butt of all dramatists during the whole reign of Elizabeth, and that as soon as they acquired any power of their own, they were in a great hurry to close the theatres ; temporally in ^ the year 1642, and permanently in 1647. After haying explained to the Puritans the great advantage, the possession of the phi- losophers' stone would yield to their cause, promising them that by the sanative virtue of the stone they should become an im- portant party in the kingdom. Subtle continues: You shall not need your holy vizard, to winne widdowi To give you legacies; or make zealous wives To rob their husbands, for the common cause: Nor take the start of bonds broke but one day, And say, they were forfeited, by providence. Nor shall you need, one night to eate huge meales, To celebrate your next dayes fast the better: The whilst the Brethren and the Sisters, humbled, Abate the stifFeaess of the flesh. Nor east Before your hungry hearers scrupulous bones, As whether a Christian may hawk, ov hunt; Or whether Matrons of the holy assembly, May lay their haire out, or weare doublets: Or have that idoll Starch, about their linnen. This is Jonson's usual way of railing at his victims, but although this be approved of by his admirers', and praised as one of his excellencies, we can only call it a weakness of his dra- matic character. It can not possibly be the task of a comic poet, to cause his victims to appear, as it were, before the tri- bunal of his wit, heaping reproaches and abuse upon them; for 24 however just the sentence may in general be, such proceedings are neither fair nor poetic, for the cold prosaic gravity of criti- cism^ destroys all poetical illusion. The task of a true comedian consists in putting the object of his raillery into continued dis- harmony with itself, thus causing it to be its own destroyer. But this view of the comic, which must necessarily be accom- panied by humour, has been altogether neglected by Jonson. The different characters having appeared on the stage without proper connexion with each other, each representing some cer- tain humour, the real intrigue of the play begins, distinguished by the complicated intrigue and surprising disentanglement of tlie knot. The pious brothers being gone, Kas trill entered „to learn upon fit terms to carry a business and manage a quarrel fairly in order to go down and practise them in the country." Face assured him that he could not possibly meet with a better master than the Alchemist, the latter possessing ,,an instrument of his own making, wherewith no sooner you shall make report, of any quarrel, than he will take most instantly the height on it, and tell in what degree of safety or morality it lies in." Kastrill being overjoyed at this news, promised to go home for his sister Pliant, in order to see her well married by the Al- chemist's advice. She appeared, and Subtle ^oon detected by the lines in her palm that ,a Spanish count would desire her hand. Surley, the Gamester, who had already been cheated by Subtle, whose deceit, however, he had found out, no sooner heard of it, when he disguised himself as a Spanish count, and repaired to Subtle's dwelling in order to unmask him. Without in the least suspecting the Spaniard to understand their lan- guage, railling remarks were constantly dropped by Subtle and his colleague, with respect to the „pale Madrid face," who to all abuses had no answer but his „Gratia," and thus a most comical scene is carried on before our eyes. Having been in- troduced to Dame Pliant, he withdrew with her from the com- pany, to impart his secret to her and to discover to her as well as to all the rest, the defraudations of the Alchemist and his accomplices. Subtle, thus finding his tricks betrayed, was so itartled at Surley's reappearance, as to exclaim „Murder." „No, Sir,'' the other answered angrily, ,,no, Sir, there is no such thing intended. A good cart and a clean whip shall ease you of that fear," which threatenings, however, w^ere prevented from being executed by Kastrill's interference, who turned the Spa- niard out of the house, having been told that Surley had inten- ded to cheat his sister. This hardly being over, Dol. Common came rushing in with the news that Lovewit had just returned from the country, and was w^aiting before the locked door. 25 Then measures were quiekly taken that Dol. Common and Subtle "were to cross the Thames with the robbed money, Face proposing to join them as soon as he had settled matters with his master. But before this could be effected, a number of such as had been deceived and afterwards enlightened by the Spaniard, appeared threatening at the door, in order to have their money restored and the thieves punished. In this con- fusion. Face, who was aware of his master's being rather fond of roguish tricks, resolved to confess every thing that had hap- pened during his absence. He then begged his master, to as- sume the disguise of a Spaniard, to court Dame Pliant's favour, and to take the whole bootv as a dowry. To this Lovewit consented, praising the good sense of his steward, whilst the bustle out of doors was constantly increasing. Subtle and Dol. Common having agreed to make their escape with the robbed treasures, and to leave Face to his fate, were suddenly fright- ened away by the intelligence that the police was in search of them; much to their displeasure they were obliged to leave the house emptyhanded. When the constables had at last succeeded in forcing their way into the house together with the cheated crowd, Lovewit presented himself as the lawful proprietor of the estate, which the rascals had shamefully taken advantage of du- ring his absence. They consequently had to leave the house in great disappointment, whilst Lovewnt, overjoyed at finding himself in undisputed possession of the acquired treasure, which at the same time secured to him the hand and heart of Dame Pliant, was married to her on that same day, thus winding up the whole. It is evident that this play is subject to the same defects which, more or less, mark all Ben Jonson's works, and that the observation of the three unities especially, seems more oppress- ing in this play than in any other; at the same time we own that there is no small dramatic talent displayed in several scenes, which, had it been well guided, might have produced chef -- d'oeuvres for all times to come. Ulrici must surely be mistaken when he says in his excel- lent critic, that the conclusion of the comedy quite disappointed him, on account of Face, who, instead of being punished for his villanous tricks, even rises in the esteem of his master. But he appears to have quite forgotten , that it was Ben Jonson's chief object to ridicule those foolish and credulous people, who, instead of w^orking their way through the world by honourable endeavours, strove to get on rapidly by dishonesty and with little exertion to themselves. Had Face been forced to return the money to the people he had cheated, the latter would have 26 escaped the punishment which they so well deserved, by which the ethic tendency of the comedy would have been totally- destroyed. The drama has an invisible judge in the conscience of the spectators, and this having condemned the Alchemist and his accomplices, the poetical justice is entirely satisfied. A second comedy we intend to analyse is „Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, first acted in the year 1609, by the Children of her Majesty's Revells." Ben Jonson himself seems to be verv confident in this comedy, for in his dedication to Sir Francis Stuart he invites him ,,to read and to censure, not in the name of favour, but in the name of justice , and thus to exercise the noblest and manliest of virtues." The fable of this play is sin- gular; its principal character is represented by a rich, sulky nobleman with the name of Morose; he has retired from the world, society, and intercourse, these causing noise, the very thing he tries to avoid by all possible means. For the same reason he has parted with his nephew, a promising youth, and left him to his fate, thinking even of disinheriting him, because he suspects him of occasionally engaging other people to make a noise before his house. In order to be guarded against every disturbance of his retired life, he is always seen*' with a huge turband of nightcaps over his head buckled over his ears''; he has chosen a street to live in, so narrow at both ends, that it will admit neither coaches nor carts, nor anything of the common noises. The perpetuity of ringing has made him devise a room with double walls and treble ceilings; the doors and windows are kept closed, and there he fives by candleHght. We are in- formed by a friend of his nephew's , that he one day turned away a man for wearing a pair of creaking new shoes, and that this man was waiting on him now in „tennis-court socks soled with wool." In order, how^ever, to make his time pass less slowly and tediously, he resolved to get married and therefore charged his barber, who was his chief counsellor, to look out in the whole kingdom for a dumb wife of „whatsoever form and qua- lity she might be/' His nephew was apparently grieved, when these news were imparted to him, but ever since four months he had been projecting how he might best turn off the blow which threatened to deprive him of his fortune. The uncle himself appears in the second act, accompanied by his servant Mute, musing to find out a more compendious method of saving his servants the labour of speech, for all discourses but his own appear to him harsh, impertinent, and irksome and the only way of answering he allows, is that of answering by signs. Whilst he is thus arguing with his servant, who often disre- gards this rule, a friend of his nephew's, named True-wit, sud- J7 denly appeared explaining to him lu a long and tedious speech the disadvantages and dangers of getting married, and in case of the disregard of his remonstrances and good advice, he threatened with such shocking punishment, that poor Morose had to be brought to bed with the assistance of his barber Cut- l>erd who had just entered the room. Scarcely, however, had he recovered his senses , when he entreated his barber to help him as soon as possible to a lady, possessed of the above qua- lities, as it was his positive intention to marry on that same day, in spite of his nephew, whom he considered the cause of all his troubles. In accordance with Morose's nephew^, the bar- ber introduced to him lady Epicoene, who so enchanted the old miser hy her silence, that he resolved to be married to her at once. „ Admirable creature" he exclaimed, „I will trouble you no more, I will not sinne against so sweet a simplicity; let me now be bold to print on these divine lips the seal of being mine. Cutberd, I give thee lease of thy house free, thank me not but with your leg, I know what thou wouldst say. She is poor and her friends all deceased, but she has brought a wealthy dowry in her silence; go thy ways, and get me a mi- nister presently with a soft voice to marry us." But the cere- naony being hardly over, the lady who had hitherto been so silent, showed herself in a very dilferent light. „Do you believe", she exclaimed, ,,that you have married a statue or a motion only, one of the French puppets with the eyes turned with a wire, or some innocent out of the hospital, that would stand with their hands thus and a plays e mouth and look upon you ?" On a signal given, all her former friends among which True -Wit, and his nephew appeared, causing so terrible a noise, as to bring Morose near to despair, who declared that he felt „some- thing like an earthquake in his bowels." But that w^as not all, his avarice too had to suffer. The guests are extremely sur- prised „to see no ensigns of a wedding, no character of bridale, to find no skarfes and gloves for themselves,'^ and they think it most' astonishing that his nuptials want all marks of solemnity, especially with a man „that had sucked the milk of the court." This being too much for poor Morose, he hastened away and we are informed by his nephew, who had meanwhile persuaded his uncle^ that he had no share in the plot, that Morose had got on his whole stock of nightcaps, and had locked himself up in ^ the^ top of the house as high as he could climb from the noise, in order to sleep there. Yet there was no peace for him, and he went down to make an attempt of effecting a divorce with Epicoene. But scarcely had he entered the circle of the company, who were feasting at his expence, when the) sur- 28 rounded him/ declaring him to be dangerously ill and in duty bound to lie down. They long discussed the origin of his ill- ness till John Daw at last pretending to have found it out, assured him that in Greek the illness was called txavia and in Latin furor ^ extasis melancholica, that is expressed^ when a man ex nielancholico evadit Janaticus and the only means of being cured was that of having Seneca and Plutarch read to him, the moderns being not good for his disease. Morose who in all this saw nothing but an attempt of preventing the divorce, ordered a divine and a canonist to be sent for, in order to con- sult them on the measures to be taken. Both made their ap- pearance in the persons of Cutberd and Truewit, and we are condemned to hear all cases of „divortium legitimum, that is to say one principal case and duodecim impedimenta^ all of which do not derimere contractum^ hut irritum reddere matrimoniumJ' But none of fhese cases can be applied to unhappy Morose, who after all these vain attempts resolved to die in silence. His nephew then came forward and fondly embracing him, he said: „Dear Uncle, I have been long your poore despised kinsman, and many a hard thought has strengthened you against me, and now it shall appeare, if either I love you or your peace and prefer them to all the world beside. I will not be long or xgrlevous to you, Sir. If I free you of this unhappy match, ab- solutely and instantly, after all this trouble and almost in your despair, what shall I hope for, or deserve of you ? Shall I have your favour perfect to me and your love hereafter?'^ Morose. „That and anything beside Make thine own con- ditions ; my whole estate is thine." Having settled this by means of a binding document which was handed to the nephew, the latter declares as follows: „Well, here is your release; you have narried a boy , a gentleman's son, that I have brought up this half year at my great charges , and for this composition which I have now made with vou. What say you, Master DoctorJ is this justum impedimentum ^ I hope, error personae? „,,Yes Sir, in primo gradu,^^^' was the universal reply. This explanation of course winds up the play. I have thus placed this comedy before the eyes of my readers for the purpose of allowing them a look into .the hu- morous parts of Ben Jonson's works. We iind in it none of that satire, so prevailing in the one previously spoken of, but plenty of humour, which it is the author's chief endeavour to display. Humour, however, seldom appears in it in an anaiable form, nor does the absurdity of the fable allow it to show itself. If it was the object of the author, (a fact, which it is too late now to ascertain) to ridicule a person really existing, the play 29 sinks down to a mere farce , whereas, if the fable was con- structed of his own materials, as Giford assures us, he has trespassed against ,the chief principle of dramatic art. For it is necessary that the fable of a comedy should be more than barely possible, it must above all be probable, for what is not probable , will not delight a reasonable audience. We feel in- clined to apply to him the words of Boileau : Que la nature done soit votre etude unique Aut^'ur?*, qui pretendez aux honeurs du conii(jue. 1 should, however, but imperfectly discharge my duty, if I only made my readers acquaiated with Jonson as a comic poet, his tragedies being most important towards forming a true idea of his poetical genius. The muse of Poetry, w^ho had sometimes been his companion in the province of the comic, entirely for- sook him," when he touched the tragic chords. There are but two tragedies of Ben Jonson's extant, to familiarize us with his idea of the tragic, „Sejanus his fall, first acted in the year 1603" and „Catiline his conspiracy, first acted in the year 1611." It is not af all surprising that Ben Jonson has borrow- ed the materials for his tragedies from antiquity, for in his times there was hardly any one possessed of so profound a knowledge of the same, as Ben Jonson. His tragedies would indeed be unrivalled, if it were the purpose of the tragic art to produce a true picture of the times which the author wishes to represent. At any rate they are exellent studies of Roman history, and, therefore, not without interest for the historian, the i more so, as Ben Jonson quotes the passages from Tacitus allu- I ding to the Incidents, and gives sometimes an almost literal I translation of the speeches of Cicero against Catiline. The { true essence of dramatic art being thus entirely misapprehended, ; classical learning supplied the place of free creative genius. In I short, both his tragedies are nothing but history clothed in dia- i logues, where not even the most trifling circumstance is omit- | ted. In this respect, Ben Jonson indeed resembles that painter who, wishing to produce a most striking likeness, brings every httle^ spot and wrinkle on his canvas. But can mere history be poetical? ^ Can a mere enumeration of historical facts produce a moral impression on the human mind? Is it not the very task of the poet who undertakes to write a drama, founded on history, to lay open the invisible thread passing through the whole, to search and bring to light the poetic materials, which, like the gold, hidden in the bowels of tbei earth, must be sought in the^ depths of the human heart. There are indeed few aesthetic subjects on which more controversy has been raised than on the true idea of the historical drama. Whilst Roet- 30 scher, following the example of Schiller, admits poetry to pos- sess an absolute supremacy over history, which may be dispo- sed of just as the poet pleases , and which he may simply adopt in case of his not being able to embellish history, it has been asserted, on the other side, that a drama can not possibly be called historical, if the author only borrows from history the mere names for the persons and actions which he wishes to represent. His task being to write a historical drama, as Ulrici tells us, he is bound to follow history, the more so, because history, or rather the historical idea upon which the drama is founded, is itself poetical. It is, however, not to be denied, that it is a most difficult task for the dramatic writer, which there- fore only few men of genius and of powerful mind have suc- ceeded in accomplishing, viz. that of being in perfect accor- dance with history, and at the same time of reveah'ng the true poetic idea that pervades the whole. The one principle of the historical tragedy has been conscientiously observed by Ben Jonson, so that I have but little to add with respect to the contents of his historical tragedies, as he has accurately follow- ed the accounts of Sallust, and frequently interwoven parts of the speeches of Cicero. Yet his robberies of the ancients in both his dramas are so open, that he can hardly be called a plagiary, but he enters like a monarch into his domains, and what would be theft in other poets, is victory in him. The scene opens with the appearance of the Grhost of Sulla, who, sent up by Pluto from Hades endeavours to stir up Catiline with bloody revenge against the Roman state, in order to in- duce him to commit his crime. „Make all past, present, future ill thine owne ; „And conquer all example, in thy one. „Nor let thy thought find any vacant time ,,To hate an old but still a fresher crime. „Drown the remembrance: let not mischiefe cease „But, while it is in punishing, increase „Conscience and care die in thee, and be free „Not heaven itselfe from thy impiety.'' We hear these shocking pi^inciples, which remove us at once into the corrupt Roman world, pronounced in the third scene in the assembly which Catiline has called together to deliberate on the measures to be taken, in order to induce the Romans to vote for his election as consul. Catiline urges the assembly in a few eneregtic and impressive words, to embrace the favourable opportunity presenting itself at that moment, pro- mising them the most favourable result. „Friends," he exclaimed, „Think you that I would hid you graspe the wind Or call you to th'embracing of a cloud? 31 Put your known valures on so deare a businesse And have no other second than the danger Nor other Gyrland than the losse? Become Your own assurances. And, for the meanes, Consider, first, the starke security The Common- Weahh is in now; the whole senate Sleepy and dreaming no such violent blow; Their forces all abroad The enthusiasm called forth by the speech of Catiline is enormous. All the conspirators promise faithfully and solemnly to follow him, and to strive with all possible means to procure him the Consulate, in order with all safety to obtain the object they had in view, viz, the total destruction of the state. But, that a villain can never be trusted, nor his most solemn oaths believed, we see in the following act, in which one of the accomplices betrays the secret of the intended conspiracy to Fulvia. The third act introduces us into the meeting of the electors who have just proclaimed Cicero and Antonio consuls for the ensuing year. The former is invested with his new office by a very long and pathetic speech of Caesar's, which puts a stop to the action of the play, so that, having in a small degree won upon our attention in the first two acts, Jonson now brings us into a state of utter listlessness. Although the next plan of the conspirators, i. e. the election of Catiline is thus frustrated, yet they do not desist from their vile designs, and an other assembly called together in the house of Lecca, allows us one more glance into the excessive villanv of their pursuits ; nay, it appears, as if their base intentions had increased in violence by the obstacles they had met with. „lt likes me better, that you are not Consul. I would not go through open doors but break them; Swim to my ends, through blood; or build a bridge Of carcasses; make on, upon the heads Of men, struck downe, like piles ; to reach the lives Of those remaine, and stand: Then is't a prey, When danger stops, and mine makes the way." Meanwhile the conspiracy has been betrayed to Cicero by Fulvia; air particulars being known to him, he takes the most energetic measures to prevent it. In the follow^ing short scene we become acquainted with Caesar's connexion with the con- spiracy. Without openly joining the criminals, he approves of their heinous plans and urges Catiline to carry them into effect as soon as possible. He tells him ,,that actions of depth and danger were the more dangerous and difficult to be executed, the longer they were deliberated upon and deferred." He acts in a cunning and crafty manner, keeping in the rear of danger, 32 and wishing to take his share in the victory, though not in the combat. We hear him pronounce the shoeking principle, that the successful accomplishment of a base action turns it into a virtue, and that, moreover, it is proved by experience that small cnmes often meet vs^ith punishment, whilst great ones are but too frequently pardoned and rewarded. Besides we know from history, that he afterwards rose in the senate, vehemently declaiming against the execution of the imprisoned conspirators, so as to become himself suspected of having entertained a secret correspondence with them. The 'catastrophe is effected by the disregard of Caesar's advice and the indefatigabe vigilance of Cicero. The fourth and fifth act contain hardly anything but the minute recital of the proceedings of the Senate which, however instructive they may be for the historian, making him acquainted in a very learned manner with the position Rome occupied at that time, ypt they are entirely undramatic. Seldom is there to be found in them a naturally tragic height, for instead of captivating our imagination by the charm of action, displayed before our eyes, Ben Jonson contents himself with reciting long speeches which would tire even the most patient listener. We frequently hear the greater part of Cicero's speeches literally translated. The only thing that is perhaps not without interest for us, is the skill, Ben Jonson displays in representing the characters of the orators by their different manner of giving vent to their feelings. Whilst Cicero in his long winded speech and select phrases displays a most fervent patriotism, we find Catihne pouring forth his fury in a most abrupt manner. Cicero commences: „What may bee happie and auspicious still "To Rome and hers. Honor'd and conscript fathers If I were silent and that all the dangers Threatning the State and you were yet so hid In night or darknesse thicker in their brests That a,re the black contrivers! so, that no Beame of the light could pierce them : — yet the voice Of Heav'n, this morning has spoke loud enough T'inslruct you with a feeling of the horror ; And make you fi'om a sleepe as starke as death Doest thou not blush pernicious Catiline? Or has the palenesse of thy guilt drunke up Thy blood, and drawne thy veines, as drie of that As is thy heart of truth, thy brest of virtue? Wither at length wilt thou abuse our patience Still shall thy fury mock us? To what licence Dares thy unbridled boldnesse runne itselfe Doe all the nightly guards kept on the palace The Cities watches with the peoples feares 33 The concourse oi all good men, this so strong And forlified seat here of the Senate, The present lookes upon thee strike thee nothing?" The description of the catastrophe which was never per- mitted to take place on the ancient stage from a scruple, founded, as we are persuaded, not on a principle of taste but of religion, is here put into the mouth of retrejus, and is certainly among the finest declamatory passages in English poetry, but too long to be quoted here. Thus far the exposition of the material contents of the tragedy which, as the reader is aware, mostly agrees with the accounts of Sallust. Considered as a historical picture we cannot deny that it claims our interest by the number of statelv speeches contained in it, and its frequent exertions to surpass the vulgar and to adopt a noble pathos ; considered as a drama, however, we are 6bliged to allow that Jonson's Catiline trans- gresses the principal rules of tragedy, \vhich were to him nothing more than the representation of the horrible and terrible, by which feelings are generated of a far lower order than those which are awakened by the truly tragic. For in the latter, suffering and de-ath follow those who have violated the eternal laws of moral necessity ; but when we see the heroes who have engaged our love and sympathy hastening to their own ruin, the conviction is forced upon us, that the power which destroys them, is one which is neither strange nor inimical to ourselves ; our grief and compassion grow into the full persuasion that we too are under the same allgoverning superintendence, to which we are inclined to sacrifice our egotistical strivings ; so that as O. Mtiller*) has beautifully expressed it, instead of ve- hement longing for the happiness of individuals, instead of the fear of dangers which threaten mankind, the heart of the spec- tator is led to contemplate that Eternal Power which guides the destiny of man. At the end of every act there is a chorus containing moral reflections arising from the subject, which, being but loosely attached, are most likely intended by the author to make up for having thus long trespassed on our patience ; for what else could possibly be its purpose, as Ben Jonson himself disclaims all in- tention to imitate the chorus of the ancient stage, for which as he says, the English stage could neither afford state nor splendour. Let us now see, how Gifford defends his favourite, as regards his tragedy.- His is decidedly blind to its principal fault which we have just been pointing out, and the only thing he disapproves of, is the scholastic plan on w hich the whole play *) Ottf. Muller Einneniden 187 p. I 34 is founded, the difference between the dramatis personae and the spectators being too wide. Had he drawn men, he says, instead of Romans, his success might have been more assured. But herein Gifford is totally mistaken, for is a dramatist to be blamed for exhibiting the character of a drama to the spectators of his days precisely as they appeared to those of their own? Is it not rather a peculiar excellence in Shakespeare to have so admirably seized the spirit, tone, and thought of the antique world, that in his different Roman plays the characters of the Romans are as distinctly delineated as the Roman people was at the periods which he is to represent? It is certain that at the time when Jons on wrote his Catiline, he had already had plenty of opportumity of admiring Shakespeare's historical tra- gedies, and this may perhaps have been the reason why he so widely deviated from the classic models which in his comedies he appears so forward to enforce. Hurd has entered into an elaborate exammation of Jonson's tragedies, the object of which is to show that, as the laws of the drama confine the poet to one particular action, it is wrong to dwell on its concomitant circumstances ; but his attacks are unjust and absurd, and his criticism only shows, that he has entirely mistaken the nature of the romantic drama. I might now in the same manner submit the other tragedy of Ben Jonson to a critical examination, but as it Is subject to the same deficiencies as Catiline, and Its principal character Seja- nus even perhaps of less interest for us, we may pass over it in silence, the more so, because my principal aim was not to ana- lyze all the plays of Ben Jonson, but to examine his poetic genius pervading through the whole. After all that has been said, there can, 1 think, be no difficulty in answering the question which has been so often made, why Jonson, whose laurels at the time of Addison were yet unwithered should have fallen oft' in the general esteem in spite of the many attempts that have lately been made in England and Grermany to call him back Into life, and restore him to our love. One circumstance which has assuredly been a great obstacle In the poet's lasting po,pu- larlty. Is the nature of his plays as above described. He thought himself called upon as a critic to extirpate frona the Intercourse of real life with poignant satire what he considered a pest to society. He Is therefore careful to warn his audience that it is less Ills aim „to make their cheeks red with laughter"^ than to feast their understanding and minister to their national Improve- -ment. Besides it must be allowed that Jonson was destitute of that deep sympathy wdth human nature, which is the source of graceful language as well as of tender thought. This we see most clearlv in his not having produced a single female character, on which we could linger with pleasure, and which could give 35 us an idea of any of those pure feelings of which a woman's heart is capable. His female characters only fill us with disgust, these being nearly all representations of the lowest passions. Jonson is so eager to accomplish his purpose, that he does not at all perceive that he has quite wearied his auditory, and that he continues to finger his instrument long after it has ceased to vibrate in any ear but his own. If then we ask how it was possible that in spite of all these decidedly undramatic qualities Jonson with, his school could so long mamtain his position on the stage, as to stand at the head of the dramatic art, and to occupy a place even superior to that of Shakespeare, w^e may anbwer, that it was less the deeper, and as it were coyer merits of Shakespeare's genius which re- quired a deeper sympathy and more intense study to reveal their hidden treasures , but that it was more the realistic ten- dency of the time which kept up such literary productions. I have just been representing the endeavours of Ben Jonson as a struggle against the traditions of the middle ages; it was a period of transition, therefore, in which Ben Jonson's writings were reflected. No wonder then that his plays should be remar- kable for their harshness and roughness, which must accompany every transition period in science as well as in art and life. Moreover every body will find himself mistaken in see- king the spirit of the drama in the dead letter ; it must dwell in the mind of the spectator in long expectation, in the fear and terror w^hich seize him, in short in all that education and moral impressions have engrafted into his soul. Jonson's endeavours, though yet in embryo, foreboded those dissolving and destructive prolemics, which,* in religious respects as well as in politics arrived at their pitch in the IS*** century on the continent, and half a century before this in England. Jonson had cleverly succeeded in making use of this realistic tendency, and in displaying it in his comedies. The public of his time therefore took little notice of his want of poetical ideas and of his trespassing on dramatic art, which has for its chief object the improvement of human society, and applauded his pieces, because they answered the spirit of the time. But as soon as this changed, Jonson's laurels faded, and when he in his noble and generous eulogy on Shakespeare tells us „that he was not of an age but for all times" he seized the characteristic of which the reverse may in some degree be applied to himself. Nevertheless we can per- fectly understand after what has been said, that his contemporaries esteemed and honoured him, and inscribed on his monument in Westminster Abbey the true and characteristic epitaph : O rare Ben Jonson! 3* Jt)a« Secret * (EoUegium bcjianb au« : bem 3)ircctor Dr. vig) e I n e n , ^en ^errcn dlaflfen = Orbinaricn: Oberle^rer 2)u{)r (H^ SSei^no^ten), Dbcrlc^rer Dr. @^auent>urt^, <^onig«^cim, Dr. Stammer. Dr. SBir^ unt @rf; ben pencil Dr. Uc liner Qur B^it e»angeUf(^em DletigionSte^rer} unb 4s e^ (feit SBct^na^ten), bem fat^oUf^en aHeliQion^* Icjirer ^errn da^Ian fiangenborff unb bejfen ^iac^folger feit Djiern, $errn (£a^)tan Suf , unb bem ^nii^tnit^xn unb ^Kaler ^errn ^rofejfor ^onrab. - fSexta. 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S3otant! tm (Sommer. !I)a^ SBi^tigflc au« ber Drj^anograpMe ; Scf^rciBung unb 3^i^Sli^^^^it^3 ^^^ gcfammeltcn ^flanjcn. ^ge^. 4. @eogTa))Me. 2 ©t. Mgemeine SSorBcgriffe. Uc^erp^t bcr ?flnb* unb 2)^ecre«raume ; Zopo%xap^u »oit ^uropa. @rf. B. Spradjnu 11 ©tunbcn njo^cntli^. 1. 2)cut[(i^. 5 en woc^entlt^. 1. Oietigioitgle^te. 2 ai i^inne'fc^e S^jtem; 'iBef(i^rei6ung unb 3«^9ii«i»ci^w^9 ^^^ gefammeltcn ^jllanjen. ^gec^. 4. ^eo^ra^H^- 2 ®ebrau^ ber B^iten unb 2)ioben, 95emer!ungen iiber bie franjoftfc^e SSortjiellung wurben eingeiibt unb bie in ben 5lbf^nitten »or!ommenben 9legeln au^wenbig geternt. 5lfle 14 2:age ein franjojtf(^eg @cri))tum. 2Bir^. 1. Sei^nfn. 4 @t. %xm^ ^anb^cic^nen ton gefc^macfeotten gormen unb einfac^en SSer^ierungen, n^el^e in »ergro^ertem SWafflabe auf 39 bcr @(^ultafel uor^cgeicijnet wurben. — Sinear^cic^ncn geomcttifcfjcr (5on= firucttoncn , arc^iteftomfi^cr ®Itebcr, ^ofiamcntc unb ®efd^c na(^ gcgc= tcnen fWa^tocr^dltniffen, netji 5lngabe bcr (S^attenlinicn, nut ^cber unb $uf(^c auSgcjci^nct, nad^ SSorjeidjnungen auf ber (Sc^uUafcI. ^oji. 2. @(^onf c^rcibcn. 3 6t SBxcber^olung bc^ in 6cjta 2)urc^= genommcnen. iic ©cubtcrcn fc^riebcn beutf^e unb fran^pjtfc^c ^en!- Jpruc^e aug ^iiljiett unb ^U^, ober au^ ,bem ©ebdi^tniffe , mtt *S3enu|ung bcr @(|TiftformcntafcI. (^r!. 3. ©cfang. f. eejta. @rt Qiiarta. Drbinariu^: Dr. (Stammen A. 'laailfntfdiafttn. 15 . ^a^t^ Jc^te^ung ctne^ 5^retfeg ju ciner ©crabcn unb jroeicr ^rcifc ju cinanbcr. ^?!b^dngig!ctt bcr eclamiren au^menbig ^eternter ©ebic^te, einc anbere gu freicn SSor* tragen ^rofaifc^er (8tu(fe oermanbt. ite fc^riftU^en 5lrbeiten (afle 14 Zai^t M^ 3 SJo^en) bejtanben meiften^ in ^rjd^Iungen unb lleincrn ©^ilbcrungen. ' ^l^oni^^^eim. 2. gran J of if ^. 5 (St. SSieberHung beg V. ^tbf^nitte^ in on 53u(^jiat>en * ^ugbriiden. 5lu3* jie^ung ber Ciuabrat * unb ^uM! = SBurjeln aug 3«^tf « «nb au8 33uc^* PaBeu'^u^brutfen. ®Iei(^ungen M 1. ©rabe^. 9ia^.^eig' ^ufgaBen= (Sammtung. stammer. 3. ^xatti^^t^ 9f?ec^nen. 1 @t. 3wf<^wii"^«9«Wte 9flege( be Jri. 9led^nungen nitt i^t unb bie 53ett)egung fejier unb flufjtger Slor^cr. 5)ie J^uft^um^e unb H^ barometer. 5lugfui>rU^ere 33e^anblung ber SSdrmete^re. ^einen. b. (E^emie. 5lnfangg 2, f)?ater 3 @t. 2)ie SO'ietalloibe unb bie lei^ten TlttaUt nebji i^ren wic^tigeren SSerbinbungen. en aie^etitionen ber @c^filer biente al« ©runblage ba« ^anbbuc^ t)on $6^. ^ontggf)eim. 6. ©eograp^e. 1 @t. 5:o»jif(^e unb ^)oIitif*e ©eograp^ie »on 5ljten, 5lfrtca unb 5lmerica. Uebungen im 5tartenjeic^nen. au^?tre3eln ber ©rammati! 9lurfjt^t genommen murbe. 'Mt 14 Xa^t wurbe ein ange= mefeneg $enfum auS bemfelben Suc^e gearbeitet unb »om 2e^rcr corrigirt. — %n bie 6teIIe ber (Ijercitien traten ^dufig @jtenH)ora(ien. Ueltner. 44 3. @n^Uf(^. 3 et. «?lu« SoIuntbu« i>on 9S. 5r»tng wurben in ghjei mo^cntti^cn Se^rjiunben Sa^). 12—22 gclefen, in engUf(|cr (ivi^rer cortigirt. UeUner. 1. 3eic^nen. 2 (St. gortfc^ung bcr Uebungen in Ztxtin] 3ei(^ncn »on (E^IIoiben, ©))ic^!Ioiben, ^i):pocl}Hoiben, bte erjicn ©lemente ber SSer^a^nungen ber Slabcr. 5lu^erbem ^rojectitjifd^ce unb freieS -^anb^eic^nen. donrab. 2. @^5nf^reiben. 1 6t. v^i^reiten nadj be« 8c|irer« 9Sor- fd^riften, [owie freie Uebungen 6et ben ©eubteren. @rt 3. ©efang. f. |>drifc[)en 2;rigonDmetrie nebp einigen ^21ntt)enbungen auf bie mat^emat^ifd^e , ©eogra^^ie. ^ ein en. 3. ««aturle^re. 7 @t. a. ^i)'g\it 4 @t. a^lagneti^mu^. (Elcctricitdt bur^ gieibung unb SSert^eitung. ^^broetectrif($e @tr6me 45 unb t^rc aJlafbejiintmung. 2:^crmo*(5Icctrtcitdt nebji Ulnwenbungen auf Me (ira^ilenbc SSdrme. SSirfung elcctrif^er (Strome auf cinanbcr unb 3nbuctiou«crf^einungen. @Iectro=3)^a3netigmug (3:elegrap|iie) unb 2)iagneto» ^lectricitdt. — ©rgdnjungen aug bcr C^ti!. <^eincn. b. ^^emie, 3 (St. SScr^oIlfidnbiguitg bc« $cnfum^ ber ©ecunba. (i^emie ber fc^wercn SOletaCe unb i^rer SSerbinbungen , mit bcfonberer S3cru(fft^tigun9 bcr Sle^nologie. 3um Sc^tu^ bie ^rin^tpien ber ^a^^ 5tnal^fen. 2)er Unterrii^t wurbe gum ^rojen 2:i;eU in franjoftfi^er ©praise gege^en. Stammer. i)\t pra!ti[(^en Uebun^en im Sa6oratortum rourben^ tro^ ber be* f(^rdn!ten 9ldumU^!eiten in gemo^nter 2Beife fortgefe^t. ©dmmtli^e ^rimaner bet^eiligten jt(^ baran in 2 befonbercn woi^entlic^en 6tunben, fowie pm 3^^eil tt>d§renb ber ^aufen. @§ tt)urben t^eit^ 9leactionen roieber^olt, t^eil^ qualitative ^nal^fen auggefii^rt, t^eil^ c^emifd^e $rd* parate bargejtettt, unter 5Jnberem: ^^lorf^njefet, $^og))|orfdure, ®alpeter= fdure , SJJol^bbdnfdure , ©(^mefeteifen ©ifen^Iorib , ^u^fer^Iorib , fein t>crt(ieilteg ^u^fer, f^wefelfaure^ 3)ianganDj»buI, 3?ianv3anc{)Iorur, ^tattn=* ^lorib, fatpeterfaurer ^aript, xoi^t^ ^lutlaugenfalj , @c^iepaumt»oIIe, <5oKobium/ Sen^oefdure, @f|tgfdure, Stearinfdure, (E^rpfamminfdure. Stammer. 4. S'iaturgefc^i^te 1 8t. feit 9'Jeujal)r. S^ftemati! unb ^IJ^^itofogie ber n>irl^etIofen 2:f)iere, mit Temonjirationen an ^rd^jaraten unb 5lbbilbungen. ^^t^, 5. ®ef^i(^te. 2 St 3uerft ©ef^ic^te ©nglanb^ unb f^rant- rei^g in ber te^ten ^eriobe be^ 2)'iitte(alter« ; bann ©efc^i^te b^r neuern 3eit »on ber ©ntbedung toerica'g ti« jur franjojtfdj^en 0le»otution. 3ur 9le:petition bebienten jt^ bie Sc^itler M ^anbbu^^ t)on $u^. |)onig«^eim. 6. ©eogra^j^ie. 1 @t. SD'iat^ematif^ * p^i^ftf^e ©eograp^ie. @c|auenburg. B. Spradjoi. 10 ©tunben wo^enttic^. 1. 2)eutf^. 3 et. ©ef^i^te ber beuf^en gf^attonalfiteratur bi^ auf ®ot^e unb ©(Skitter einf(^lief (i^, nebjt S^iitt^eilung »ie(er *Proben. ©elefen unb erHdrt ttjurbe im ^Binter ©^itter'^ ®ebid)t ,;Un bie tunjller," unb „Die Sungfrau Don Orleans," im Somraer „$)ie !Braut »on SD^iefjina". SO^lonatlid^e freie ^(rbeiten f. u. Sc^auenburg. 2, grau^ofif^. 4 6t. 23e5ugli(^ ber Secture murben 2 ©tunben auf Guizot, Histoire generale de la civilisation en Europe toerUJaubt unb f^^ra^U^ unb ^ijiorif^ le9on 16 — 30 inci in fran^ojtf^er Bpxa^t crfldrt ; bie 3« @tunbe auf 2)iotiere'« Avare unb Scribe'^ le verre d'eau, unb enblii^ bie 4. auf ben SSortrag ber fr. S^ationalliteratur »on i^rem ^Infange W auf bie 3eit fioui« XIV. verwanbt. 5lbnje$felnb TOurbe au^ txi^ erjie S5u(^ aug Serine r' 3 SOid^rigem ^riege in'3 46 f^ran^ofif^e ubcrfe^t. 5lttc 4 SBoc^en wurbe eine freie frattg6jtf(^c %xUxi gcma^t unb »om fic^rcr corrigirt. ^ UcUner. 3. @nglifd;. 3 @t ©g wurbcn au^emd^Itc t^ (Bommtx^ fein Macbeth kgonncn unb in englif(^er (S^)ra(^c erfldrt. 3^^ ^iwcr anbcrn tt)oc^entIid)en €tunbe wurbe bie ®cf(^i^tc bcr engl. S^Jationallitcratur bc« 16. unb 17. 3a§r^unbert« in cnglifc^er @)jrac[)c ^oigetragen , fo mic auc| t^eilmeife bic ©rammatif re^?etirt 5l&n)e^fclnb njurbc auc^ ta^ erjte ^u^ au^ @c^iUcr'« breifigid^rigcm Slrtcge in'^ (Sngltf^e ukrfe^t. 5lIIc 4 SSo(i^en wutbe cin 5luffa^ gcliefert unb t)om Secret corrigtrt. UeUnet. C. 3^trti9ktittn. 1. 3^i^tt^ii- 2 erfe^ung ber ttctreffcnbcu UeBung^jiurfc au^ 1 @t. ficcture. Cic. pro Roscio Amer* (beina^e gang) gelefcn unb erfldrt; bic 3 crpcn Sapttet wurben au^wcnbig gelernt. 1 @t. combimit mit 5lbt^. II. 5lu^ Caes. de bell. Gall, murben jBu^ IV ganj, bami won ^u(^ VII, dap. I XIII utcTfe^t unb pm gro^ten ji^eitc au^ retrot)crtirt. ^^ o n i g ^ |) e i m. 1 @t. comMnirt rait ^bt^.. II. Die ^nfangsggrunbc ber ^rofobie nac^ ®i6crti. ^lug SSirgil'^ 5lencibc, fei^^tcm Su^c , tt)urben 570 SSerfc jiatarif(^ gclefen unb bie crjien 250 S^erfe au^menbig gclcrnt. «^cincn. 2)ie 3fl§l i>^T^ ^tti latcinif^cn Unterric^tc t^ieilne^mcnbcn \)lxavi\^, beutf^e ®e- fc^i^te fur ec^ule unb -^au^. — JV. $6^, ©runbrif ber ®efd^i(^te M ^tttert^umg. 7. ®eogra:p^ie. SSie^off, Seitfaben fvtr ttn Unterric^t in ber toptf(^en, :potitifd^en unb mat^emattf^en ®to^xapf)Xt (ber le^tere 2;^eir nur in ^rima.) 2)eutf^. 1. Ql(u%n)d§tte ^ramen ton @ chiller unb Odtjie. — Hermann unb 2)orot^ea. 49 II. aJJager, bcutfc^e^ 2efebu(i^ fur bie obern ^laffen. III. unb IV. ^ui, beutf^cg fiefeBu(^ fur bic mittlcrn ^(affcn bcr ©^mnajten. V. unb VI. ^uljiett'^ @ammlung au^txM\)iUx nit bet ®c|^ule. i^rrorbnungen ber norgefe^ten i)o\)tn 3t\)oxhtn. 1. 9Son bem ^. iRinijierium ber geijiUc^en, Unterric^t^* unb Siebi- cinal'^lngelegen^eiten — 28. ^l^ril 1857, — iibcr bie gefi^i^tlic^en unb geogra^j^if^en fie^rbii^er, welder gufotge „ba0 ^eftef^reiben ju befeitigen 4 50 itnb ben Sc^utern nur ju gcjiatten ifl, fx6) ein^clne, bem gefcrer not^ig fc^cinenbc @rgan5ungen (ober SWobiflcationen) beg eingefu^rten 8eitfaben« gu notiren." 2. S3on bemfetben ^o^en 2)^im|ierium — 28. ^l^ril 1857, — be* treffenb bic gu erjicIenDe Uebereinjiimmung in ben @^ulbu(^ern fur bie »erf^iebenen ^nfialten berfelben irb, jebem ^nlafe .^u einent 2}(Hf [^rau^e beg @onntageg p gerienretfen feiteng ber Sillier §u begc^nen. ^a^ neue ©(^ulja^r begann am 9. October mit ber Qlnmelbung unb 'JlJrufung ber auf^une|menben c unb ®efang begins, ^ielt ^err Oberle^rer >, Dr. (Sc^auenburg bie gejirebe , inbem er ftc^ »erbreitete „uber bie «^/^- melfeitigen SSirfungen, welc^e bag S(^ulleben auf tit ^altung t>ti jugenbti^en ©etjieg augiibt." 2)ag Suratorium ber urbe, erfitttte eg biefelbe traurige ^flic^t, banfbar unb in SBebmutl? eingeben! ber un\?erdnber(ic^ wobl- woUenben ®ejtnnung t>t^ SSerewigten gcgen hit 5ln|ia[t unb ingbefonbere beg freunbli^cn Seijianbeg, mct^en er i^r im 3a^r 1850 na^ bem ZoU i^reg e»angetif(^en Sfleligionglebrerg burc^ Uebernabme »on befen Unter= ri(^tgftunben in ben oberen ^laffen eine Idngere ^tit i^xntnx^ geleijiet batte. (e. q3rogr, \>. 3- 1850.) (Segen i^tem 5inbenfen, griebe ibr.er 5lf^e! — 3)a bag feit einigen 5abren bereitg ofterg tt)ieber!e^renbe 33ruji* unb ^algfeiben beg Oberlebrerg ^errn ^ubr, gend^rt, wenn ni^t b^rvorge* rufen bur^ bie ^nfirenpngen , ml^t bag 5larrengerafel*) »or bem, ©^ulgebdube bem fiebrer tjerurfac^t, unb „burc^ bie bumpf=feu^te me^bt* *) 2Bte berettg im ^rogr. beg 3Q^rc8 1855 bertc^tet njorbcn tft , finb na^ einer burdf) bie ^. ^^j'oliget = 'Direction bemirftcn amtttd^en 5lufna^me on einem getDo^nlid^en Sod^entage (19. ©cj. be§f. 3.) ouf bem iBofaltpflafter ldng8 ber 3iealj(f)ule gnjifd^en 8 unb 12 W)v nic^t npeniger aU 8 ^oftmogen, 13 ^Drofd^fen, 86 gro^e Jtarren unb 223 J&unbe!arren ^affirtl 51 tif^e Suft, mit welder feine 9l5umc crfullt finb"*), jt^ in eincr SBeifc geflctgert WU , t>a^ i^m t>u dr^tlic^e SBctfung gegebcn roax , jt^ einigc 3af)rc ^inl)urdj t»ev l^e^rt^tigfeit gdn^ti^ ju ent^alten, fo fa^ cr ft^ gcnot^igt, nod) am @^IuJ bc3 vorigen ^6)uiia\)xt^ nm cincn gnjcijd^rtgcn Uriaub untet bem 5lnerbtcten einer angcnufencn 9icmuneration jur S3ejircttung fciner (StcUtoertretnncj nac^jnfuc^en ^er »on bem (Euratorium befurtijortete 5tntrag fanb tnbeffen nidjt bic Bnjitmmung bc« So^Uobli^en (i)cmeinberat^e^ , melme^r warb t)on bemfclben bcm QCnnfc^e beg vlpcrrn 2)u^r golgc scgcbcn,, faflg man ben na*(^efucbten Urlaub ntc^t gemd^rcn ju !6nnen glanben foflte, in 0?u^cftanb i>erfe|t ^u tt)erbcn. So fc^ieb bcnn berfclbe, noc^ im bejjen 90'iannc^alter jic^enb , urn SBei^na^ten au^ feinem tjieljd^rigen SSirtung^hcifc. ^ie 5lnjialt ^at in i^m einen fie^rcr t)on ben grnnblic^jJen nnb toielfeitigjien ^enntniffcn unb t)on ^unftlic^per, ^ingebunggt>o(Ijier 33evufgtrcue tjerloren, n?elc^er feit i^rer ®rnnbung bem Sc^Ter-(S,oIIegium in un»erdnberli(^cr 2iebe ange^ort unb ebenfo fegen^* reic^ burcl SJort unb 3BanbeI fur bie reli^tofe unb jtttU(J)e (Sr^ie^ung i^rer ©^liler gett)ir!t ^ai, cB er un»erbrojfen unb mit ^tufbietung aller .trdfte in gefunben me in !ran!en 2:agen, fo lange e^ immer anting, i^re n)ijfenfd^aftlid)e gotberung jtc^ f^ai angelegen fein lajfen. 2)em anfprucb^tofen ^^ianne unfern innigjten unb n^drmjien T^ant fur ben 5lnt^eil auSjufprec^en , melc^cn er an bem glu(fIi(J)en 5luft»Iu^cn unb ©ebei^en ber jungen ^Injialt %t^aU Hi, iji fur un^ nic^t Mog *Pf[i(^t, eg iji ung ^erjen^beburfni^. SJicge bie entf^iebene ^i^ejferung, weli^e in feinen Seiben, feitbem er ji(^ ben ^njircngungen feine« 53erufeg nic^t me^r ju unterjie^en ^at, 'eingetreten iji, balb eine tJoKfommene fein, unb er bann lange no(^ , gejidrft burd) bug erbebenbe ^ett)uftfein treuer ^ftii^terfuUung, fc^ einer ungetriibten ©efunbbeit erfreuen! 3ut Srgdn^ung beS Sebrer = (5,otIcgiumg warb ^err Dr. SBefener aug J)ulmcn berufen; aber nur ttjenige Jage \)attt er unterric^tet , atg eine jiar!e ^rfdltung , toon melc^er er bereitg M feiner ?ln!unft befaden roar, einen 931ut^ujien ^ur golge \)atk unb einen fo ernjien (5,|ara!ter anna^m, ta^ er auf ben ^ati) fetneg ju ^ulfe bter^er geeilten 93ruber3, beg ^Ir^teg ^ertn Dr. ^iBcfener ju ^iilmen , jic^ genot^igt hf) , auf bie biejtge (Stelle ju tjerji(^ten, befonberS „rot\\" , mie eg in bem be^uglic^en xdmU%r[aIf>ja^rcg ju untcrri(^tcn , fo tt)arb cine ©tctttocrtrctung mit (Scne^migung bcr ^o^cn Sc^orbe angeorbnet, fur n^clc^c ^^crr SPlaler £noff unb, nac^ bcflTcn Serufung urn 2Bei^na^tcn an ta^ 5t. ©Vmnaftum ju 3)uiSf>urg, btc ^crrcn Tlaltx .^olt^aufen unb ^oji gcnjonncn ttourben; tc^tcrer fe^te aug gebac^tcm ®runbc nac^ Ojicrn noc^ ben ^tid^tnunttrx^t in ben btci untcren ^lafen fort. Seibcr ^aBcn njir bic ^ffic^t, no^ toon eincr a^ eg gum Ic^ten SJialc gef^c^cn fei ! |>crr ^a^ox ^rafft, in gleic^er @tgenf(^aft na^ (SIberfelb berufen, *) SKortc beg Bcjiigttd^en arjtltd^en 3cugntf[c«. 53 legtc mit bem ^nfang M oti[^en Set;rern unb djtern a)iitfc^ulern am 10. a)iai b. 3. t)k |. Jg>anblung. 5lm 25. ^lugujt fanb unter bem aSorji|e beg ^ommiffar^ ber ^onigl. O^egierung ^txxn ®eiftli(|en unb @(^utrat|eg ©ebajiiani unb im Seifein be^ ^ommifar^ M duratorium^ ^errn 2)e(^anten unb ®eijilic^en ^ai^t^ 3 e jt e n bag miinblic^e ^biturienten * ©samen jtatt, p tt)el(^em jtc^ 4 @^ulcr ber ^^^rirna gemetbct fatten. Me er^iettcn bag Bcugnif ber aieife, ndmlii^: 1. .@ujia» 9(1 e ring 33 o gel, aug Sffelburg M (Smmeri^, c»an= gelifc^, 20 3a^r att, 3 3a^r anf ber e^ule, 2 3a|ir in ^rima/ mit bem ^rdbicate: 0le^t gut. 2. fiamBert ^ringg, aug S3ilf, Ut\)oix\^, 21 3a^r alt, 6 3al;r auf ber ©c^ule, 3 3a^t in $rima, mit bem ^rdbicate: ®nt. 3. 5llfreb @iebel, aug (gIBerfelb, etoangelif^, 18 3a§r alt, 6 3a|)r auf ber @^ule, 2 3a^r in ^:prima, mit bem ^rdbicate : 9te(^t gut. 4. 5lugujt etein, aug 2)uffelborf, c^angelifd^, 15 V^ 3a^r alt, 5 Sa^r auf ber ©^ule, 2 3a^r in ^rima, mit bem ^rdbicate : @e fir gut. S'lering 93 i) gel unb @iebel njibmen [t(^ bem 25erg«*unb ^iitten= fa^e, Stein bem ^aufmanngjianbe, ^ringg bem SKafc^iuenbau. SBd^renb beg (Sommerg njurben, fo oft bie SSittcrung eg gejtattete, mit ben einjelnen ^lajfen ^otanif^e (Sjcurjtonen unter fieitung beg |>errn ^it6) »orgcnommen. ^ag @ilentium fur bie brci nntern ^laffen warb \>on me^t aii 50 S^iilern Befuc^t. ^Ig Crbner ^a6en folgenbe Sc^uter einer (obenben (Srwd^nung ftc^ tpfirbig gemac^t: ®iebel in I, 3o^nen, (SngeU unb @teeg in 11, Tihlltx in III, ton ^ofed unb Bremer in IV, (Sc^miJ in V, ®ei!on)i^ in VI. 54 @in ^offnungg»oIIer @c^uler, ber Ztxtiantx Jg>einri^ dramcr, tt>arb un^ burd^ ben 2;ob cntriffcn. Sine (Sammlung ^um QBejien- ber @^u(crBibltot^c! crgaB in I. 4 X^Ir. 1 (ggr. 6 $f., in II. 6 J^Ir. 1 ©(^r. 7 «Pf., in 111. 5 t^x. 15 €sv., in IV. 3 l^lx. 2 ©gr. 6 ^l, im ©an^cn 18 2;^tr. 20 e^r. 7 $f. '^ierju Urn bcr ^aflfenBcjianb am (Snbc i)t^ 3al;re0 1855 mit 1 Z^lx. 10 @gr. 4 qpf.; ferner bic »on abgdcnben €(^iilern (©clfamm, 93erger unb'^o^I) gcf^enftcn Scitrdge »on jufamnien 6 Sl^lr. ; cnbltc^ no(^ 21 6gr. al^ Ucberrcjic »on gu anbcrn B^^etfcn in 111. unb V. »cr* anjlatteten ©ammlungcn. T)u ®cfammt[ummc Betrug bcmna(| 26 %^x. 21 (ggr. unb 11 ^f. ; bic *aug biefcr durante gcma^ten ^lnf(^affungcn tt)erben n)citcr nntcn i^rc ©rmd^nung ftnben ; bic aicd^nungSablagc bagcgcn fann crfl im programme i>e^ nctc^jitcn 3a^rc^ crfolgcn. III. (Statiftifc^e 9^ac|^ttc|itett* 3)tc (Sd)iiler§a^l bctrug im ticrfloffencn @c^utj;n^r tm ®an^cn 204; tion i^nen ge^orten 12 ber ^rima, 39 ber @ecunba, 29 ber^ertia, 37 bcr Duarta, 40 ber Duinta unb 47 ber ^ata aw, ferner n?aren 115 etian* gelifc^er, 85 fat^oHfc^er (Sonfefjion unb 4 tfrnelittfc^cn ©lauben^; cnblid? 108 uSer 14 5a^r a\t unb 25 au^njdrttge. -2lufgenommen wurben im SStntcrfemcjier 51, im ©ommerfemefier 10. IV. He^tmiHeL ®d j!nb ^ingugcf ommcn : 1. %}xx ^^^fit A. 2)urd^ ©d^enfung: 2)ie bieljid^rigen ©d^mler bcr ^ertia u6erga6en bem 33er{(3^tcrflattcr fiir baS i)^s?fifaltf(i)c Satinet ctn ®t\^tr\t toon 11 Z^lt. 18 @gr., ferner ber au^gefc^iebenc Wmaner Sil^elm Oii^arfe 3 ^^fr., btc 6ecunbancr @. 3«iil)Itng^)auS 5 X\)lx. 20 @gr., ^. ^nci^t 4 J^lr., Suntfcrg. torff 11 ^i)lx. 10 ®gr. 2)cr 33etrflg ber im ijortgen ^rogramm an* gefii^rten, noc^ gu tiernjcnbcnbcn ©elbgcfc^enfc war im ©an^en 14 ^^Ir. 7V2 6gr. %n€ biefcn SKitteIn njurbe ber @rf;ure fiatt beS 6i6^erigcn Qlm^cre'fdjen Ql:^3:paratea fiir clectrtfc^e (gtrome ein neuer unb aottfidn* btgerer ijon iS^effel in (56tn gegen 16 ^^Ir. gcliefcrt. S)tc fiir ben Sfleji, jufammen 33 ^^Ir. 25 rift fiir allgemeine (Srbfunbe, neue g'^'^g^ ^^^"^ 1 unb 2, 1856 unb 1857. — ^lUgemeine (SiS^uljettung 1856. 6. Qnx (S(^uler6i6ltot^ef. A. $Dur(f> @d)enfung: SSom 35ertc^terjlatter : $u|, M)r6ud^ ber tiergletd^enben (Srbfcefd^retbung, T^retBurg 1854. ~ 3Som Duartaner ^irborf: ^lleranber 3)?enjifoff, fc ja^lung toon 9Heri|. @tret(^, Onfel ^^om'a «^utte, fur bie Sugenb tjearBeitet. — 3Som Duartancr «^oc^: ^x. Hoffmann, 5prufungen, etne (Srja^lung. B. Durd> Qlnfauf: ^loi)!p, ®efd^i^tgfci6liot^ef fiir Sefer aKer ©tcinbe, 2 SBbe.; ^an. notoer 1856. - ^tefel, 2Beltgefc^t(^te , ^Banb lilj greiBurg 1856. — .Corner, tttujirirte geogra:p^tfc|e OBtlber au0 ^reu§en^ 1. SBanbj Sei^pjig 1856. - 8tar>l, QBunber ber Safferitjelt ; Seiipjig 1857. — Qlrenj, bte (Sntbe(!ung6reifen in SRorb-^ unb 5[«tttel*^(frifa ] ^tlpjig 1857. - 2)ag «u(^ ber Sunber, 33anb II; Sei^§tg 1856. - JBernbt, SHufirirteg ®olbatenbu(^) ^^ei^jig 1854. - S)ag 58u^ ber J^ierwelt, «b, II; JJetlp^tg 1854. — 2)a8 m^ ber Ofielt, t)on ^^r. Hoffmann, 3af)rg. 1847. — !!8effer, ber ^eiltge (SolumBan ; Sei^gig 1857. — ^^eobor, etne ©rjd^lung far bie Sugcnb, toon peregrin. — "^ureliug unb (Edfonia, eine Srjd^lung au§ ber 3eit ber (S^rifientoerfolgung, toon S e § m a n n ; ^ugaBurg 1857. — 57 ^(maKe (Sorjtni', obet ®ott fd^fi^t btc Hnfd^ulb, ^r;^a^Iung tion ^Inna 33 rug; ^lugSburg 1857. — (E^arlcS SatI, ber gf^egerfclabe ; QBttten. 6erg 1857. — ^Tie @tief6ruber, ober trie ber 6ame, fo bte i^rudjt, ^r* jd^Iung toon gran 5 !Warta 39rug; QfugSSurg 1857. — «§elianb, be* arbeftet tion Simrocf. — miiUn, ^oSmif^e ^^i)j!f (3. ^^^etl- beg Se^r6uc^e0 ber ^^ijftf unb a)?etcoroIogte). — 7. ?5 » r ® e g r a :p ^ i e. 9Banb!arte »on ^alajltna, ioon ^ie^ert; 33erlm 1857. - ^in 3n^ buction^globuS. 8. 3)^ li n 5 f a m m I u n g. ^iefet6e f^at roetterc 33ereic^erungen erfa^ren burd; @efd^en!e bon (Sciten beg ^errn 3)am:pff(i^tff=Sonbucteur^ OtierUc!, ber bte ^tnjlatt f^on tm ioorigen 3al;re burc^ d^nltd^e ©efd^enfe ju ^anf tier^flidf^tct- ^aitc 3)ieS 3)^al jinb eg ni^t weniger aU 20, gum i^^eil feltnere unb irert^^ tiotte ^Rm^m, bte jur (Sammlung ^tnjugefomnien j!nb. Mx atte oben ern^a^nten ©efd^enfe f^re^en njtr ^tetmtt noc^inalg tm S'Jamen ber Qinflalt uninn aufric^ttgjten Danf au^. V. tttttetttc^t ffit ^anbt»ettct. iDer unentgctbltc^c Unterrtc^t fur ^efcHen unb Sebrlingc au« bem ^anbnjerlcrjianbc fanb in folgcnbcr SSeifc ftatt: 1. ©onntagg, »on 9 — 12 U^r, B^i*^"^" i" brei getrennten ^laffen. Setter: bte ^erren ^rofefor donrab, aJialev .^ol tbauf e n unb SWaler ko% @^ulerja^l bei |)errn ^onrab tm 2Btntcr=€emefier 64, tm @ommer=®eme|ier 50; bei ^errn ^olt^aufen 58 tm Sinter, 47 tm on 6 — 8 U^r. 3n ber 1. illafe — mit 19 S^itlern — murben ©efc^aftSauffa^e, ^)rafttf(^eg JRec^nen unb bte 9lnfangggrunbe ber ©eometric unb ^llgebra t>on |)errn ^bolf ijorgenommen; in ber 11. 5llaffe - 29 ^c^uler — tieinere ®ef(^aft«auffd^e, Slec^nen unb fiefen mit ^iidjtdjt auf 3nt)alt unb gorm, t)on ^errn Oje; in ber HI. Piaffe — 37 (B6)uUr - 2efen, ®^reiben unb Ote^nen tjon ^errn ^bolf. b. 3m @ommer, SD^ontagg ton 6 — 8 U^r, in ^wei getrenntcn (Elajfen. 3^ ^^^ obern — 14 <8d:iiler — [e^te ^err Oice, in ber untern — 27 ©d^uler — ^err "Jlbotf ben Unterric^t fort. 58 Uehetfid^t bet dffentltc^en ^tttfung im Seic^enfaalc bet 8iealf(^ule. iDH 1 1 tv c^ ben 2. (BtpUmbtx : «8ormtttaG« tion 8 — 12 U^r. V. ^lbtt;cilung im fiatcinif^en. Ueltner. Sexta P^^^^"- ^i^^- i^tni^d). (S r !. (©coGta^^ie. @rt Quinta paturgcf^ii^tc. (ijcc^. S^lac^mittagg- uon 3 — 6 U^r. OiiHrfn )2)iat^cmattt eta mmcr. i'Viat\)maiit. Stammer. ^ )^xan^bm' ^iv^. Tertia meWi^te. ^onis^^eim. 'SO'iinevalogie. djei^. 3) n n e r ji a g ben 3. (Se^temt>cr : SSormtttagg »on 8 — 12 U^r. 1. unb 11. ■^iM'^etlung im Sateinif^en ^onig^^eim. Secunda i ^^^^"^^ etammer. MW^- '^einen. jdnglifc^. Ue liner. Prima Igranjoitf^i. Ue liner. f^efc^id^te ^onig^l^eim. *5)te 'ijjrobefd^riften unb B^ic^nungen ber Olea(f(^uler Itegen an beiben Jagen ^ur (ginjt^t offen. ^^ac^mitta^g urn 3 Ut;r. 91 c b e it t> u n g. ^cfang: ^iac^flang unb Sebnfuc^t, md^ ^. 5t render ijierjiimmig t)on 8, (J r !. ^^c^ievmagen, VI. 2)ie ^irten!naben, »on (JrifaUn. 3flat)en^but9, V. @raf ^bertjarb im 03ait, »on 2B. 3im merman n. B^otti, IV. Est! Est! i)on ®il^. Soulier. SB r e JD e r , 111. QSertram be S3orn, i)on U M a « i>. SngeH, 11. Le meunier de Sans-Souci, par Andrieux. (i^efan^: SSonberfi^aft, nac^ (E. 3J>tlner tjierjiimmtg »on fi. ©rf ?5luf, VI. 3)ie traurige ®ef^i^te t)om bummen ^dn^c^en, »on :? n) e n jl e i n. .^aujaufen, IV. L'aveugle et le paraljtique, par Florian. Tixkllex, 111. ^ie @otte«mauer, »on S3 rent an o. 59 .^renter, iV. ^roten'g ^ufo^jferitng, t)on 9Win bi n g. , m6) cinem altbcutfc^en @ebi(|t au« bem 12. 3a^r^., OJ^uftf »on gr. @b. OBilfinci. S3 be, Vi, 3:a3 @r!enncn, tjon SSo^I. 2)^0 (!, V. *Der @c^mieb »on Solingen, »on ©tmrorf. 3 U n g , 111. Pelisson dans les fers, par Delille. ^irborf, IV. 5)e« fremben tinbe« f)n\i^tx '(i\)xx% t)on Olucfert. Celbermann, 11. Tit @trapurger Xannt, »on Sftucfcrt. C^efang: SSanbcrcrg gfJa^tlieb, 2RuP »on «. 51 1 e i n. (*)et!ott)t|, VI e^rc Q3atcr unb a)tutter, von 3ung*SttUinc|. @(^He^er, 11. Burial of Sir John Moore, by Wolfe. '21bfd^ieb^rcbe beg 'itbituvienten €)icbel iiber ®6t^e'g @^ruc^: ®ag' t(^, me i(^ c« benfe, fo fc^eint burc^aug mtr, e^ bilDet 9^ur tai fieben ben Tlann unb wenig bebeuten bte SSorte. ^ntlaffung ber ^Ibtturienten. (iiefang: ?lbf(^ieb, a^lelobie »on m^imm\^ »on fi (5rf. 5^ac^ bem @c^{u^gefange »erfammeln ftc^ bte Sc^uler in i^ren (Elaffen, urn i^re Beugntfe ju empfangen unb ubev ibre 3Serfej^ung0fii^igf eit in bo^ere dlaffen bag 9^d^ere ^u »erne^men. IWittwo^ ben 7. October, SWoigeng ^wifci^en 8 unb 10 U^r, im ®ebdube ber Olealf^ute '^fnmelbung , unb »on 10 U^r an ^rufung ber neu auftune^menben ©(filler, n?el(^e jtc^, mit Beugniffen tjerfe^en, unb wo mogU^ in 93egleitung »on i^ren ©Item ober beren @tell»ertretern bort einjuflnben ^aben. 5) n n e r |i a 9 ben 8. October, tjon ai^lorgeng 8 U^r an, 55erfe^un0«= Vrufung. ^reitag ben 9. October, ^Worgeng 8 U^r, ^^rnfang be8 Hnterri^tg. 2) er 5) ir e cto r : Dr. ^einen* UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Rt^b LD MAY26i9by 8 \i ;v« "wrf* >.«•"■ "»^" »^»' OCT 2 9495s bEC'D LD ^^'^'''^IbEG 12 19B2 24Jan'6SMK iAN r-i 1^'^ ' ■AY2 1963'^f!?5-.cr o„ REC'D LD ljUNl4'65-lPM LD 21-n)0m-ll,'49(B7146sl6)476 ve 1 I An A U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES III ill CDM7b^DE3b M v»v.- c^'-