IV
My brother had received a new book from Germany. It was a tragedy,
and the first attempt of a Saxon poet of whom my brother had been
taught to entertain the highest expectations. The exploits of
Zisca, the Bohemian hero, were woven into a dramatic series and
connection. According to German custom, it was minute and diffuse,
and dictated by an adventurous and lawless fancy. It was a chain
of audacious acts and unheard-of disasters. The moated fortress
and the thicket, the ambush and the battle, and the conflict of
headlong passions, were portrayed in wild numbers and with terrific
energy. An afternoon was set apart to rehearse this performance.
The language was familiar to all of us but Carwin, whose company,
therefore, was tacitly dispensed with.
The morning previous to this intended rehearsal I spent at home.
My mind was occupied with reflections relative to my own situation.
The sentiment which lived with chief energy in my heart was
connected with the image of Pleyel. In the midst of my anguish, I
had not been destitute of consolation. His late deportment had
given spring to my hopes.
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