birth-place:

Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans,

And spirits; and delightedly believes
Divinities, being himself divine.

The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,

The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and wat'ry depths; all these have vanish'd.

They live no longer in the faith of reason! But still the heart doth need a language, still Doth the old instinct bring back the old

The politic Countess has in truth encouraged Max to fall in love with Thekla, in the view of binding him to the fortunes of her brother; but she is far from wishing poor Thekla to listen seriously to the suit of young Piccolomini; and a long scene follows, in which she endeavours to rouse thoughts of higher ambition within that innocent breast. In the course of this, some words drop from the old lady, which convey to Thekla the first obscure feeling that some danger is near her princely father, and from henceforward Thekla, young and radiant, has died to joy. She had lived far away upon the feeling that she was

"His daughter-his-the mighty!"— and from the moment that she forbodes his glory is about to be no more, even the love that had just begun to give her life a new charm, and an undreamed-of delight, ceases to be anything else than a deepener of her sorrows. But we have already said that we cannot analyze Wallenstein.

Octavio Piccolomini takes an early opportunity of conversing with his son alone. After a great deal of preface, he at last lays before him clear proofs that Wallenstein really has been tampering with the Swede, and then he completes the affair by drawing from his bosom the Emperor's edict, containing the sentence and condemnation of the Duke. On this parchment Max casts a single hurried glance-listens in silence, but with a visible struggle of feelings, to a few more long harangues of his father, and then starts up suddenly, "as one resolved," saying

"I will procure me light a shorter way. Farewell.

Octa. Where now ?-Remain here.
Max.
To the Duke.

What

Octa. (Alarmed.)
Max. (Returning.) If thou hast believed

that I shall act

A part in this thy play

Thou hast miscalculated on me grievously. My way must be straight on. True with

the tongue,

False with the heart-I may not, cannot be : Nor can I suffer that a man should trust

me

As his friend trust me-and then lull my conscience

With such low pleas as these:-' I ask'd him not

He did it all at his own hazard-and
My mouth has never lied to him.'-No, no!
What a friend takes me for, that I must be.
-I'll to the Duke; ere yet this day is
ended

Will I demand of him that he do save His good name from the world, and with one stride

Break through and rend this fine-spun web of yours.

He can, he will!-I still ain his believer. Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters

May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him.

How far may not this Tertsky have proceeded

What may not he himself too have permitted

Himself to do, to snare the enemy,
The laws of war excusing? Nothing save
His own mouth, shall convicit hm-nothing
less!

And face to face will I go question him.
Octa.
Thou wilt?

Max. I will, as sure as this heart beats.
Octa. I have, indeed, miscalculated on
thee.

I calculated on a prudent son,

Who would have blest the hand bencficent That pluck'd him back from the abyssand lo!

A fascinated being I discover,

Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,

Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal.

Go, question him!-Be mad enough, I pray thee.

The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor, Go, give it up free booty!-Force me, drive me

To an open breach before the time. And

now,

Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded
My secret purpose even to this hour,
And laid to sleep Suspicion's piercing eyes,
Let me have lived to see that mine own son,
With frantic enterprize, annihilates
My toilsome labours and state-policy.
Max. Ay-this state-policy! O how I

curse it!

You will some time, with your state-policy, Compel him to the measure: it may happen, Because ye are determined that he is guilty, Guilty ye'll make him. All retreat cut off, You close up every outlet, hem him in Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him

Yes, ye,-ye force him, in his desperation, To set fire to his prison.-Father! father! That never can end well-it cannot-will not!

And let it be decided as it may,

I see with boding heart the near approach
Of an ill-starr'd, unblest catastrophe.
For this great Monarch-spirit, if he fall,
Will drag a world into the ruin with him.
And as a ship that midway on the ocean
Takes fire, at once, and with a thunder-
burst,

Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew
In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven;
So will he, falling, draw down in his fall
All us, who're fix'd and morticed to his
fortune.

Deem of it what thou wilt; but pardon me, That I must bear me on in my own way. All must remain pure betwixt him and me ; And, ere the day-light dawns, it must be

known

Which I must lose my father, or my friend."

Wallenstein, meantime, in all the irresolution that precedes "the acting of a dreadful thing," is spending the midnight alone in his chamber. This remarkable man was, as our readers are aware, a slave to that superstition which influenced so many even of the most powerful intellects of that time. He was a believer in astrology-a constant student of the stars. This trait of his character throws much in Schiller's power, and not in vain.

Surrounded by the emblems and instruments of his dark lore, in that mysterious chamber where seven colossal kings of brass represent the seven

planets, and where there is no light except what flames from the starry crowns upon the heads of these imperial images, this lordly votary meditates upon what he has dared to begin, and fears to finish. He expects the visit of a Swedish officer-that visit cannot be received without for ever compromising his loyalty. The following is part of the fine soliloquy:

"A punishable man I seem-the guilt, Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me; The equivocal demeanour of my life Bears witness on my prosecutor's party, And even my purest acts from purest motives

Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss. Were I that thing, for which I pass, that traitor,

A goodly outside I had sure reserved,
Had drawn the coverings thick and double
round me,

Been calm and chary of my utterance.
But being conscious of the innocence
Of my intent, my uncorrupted will,
I gave way to my humours, to my passion:
Bold were my words, because my deeds

were not.

Now every planless measure, chance event, The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph,

And all the May-games of a heart o'erflowing,

Will they connect, and weave them all together

Into one web of treason; all will be plan, My eye ne'er absent from the far-off mark, Step tracing step, each step a politic pro

gress;

And out of all they'll fabricate a charge
So specious, that I must myself stand dumb.
I am caught in my own net, and only force,
Naught but as udden rent, can liberate me.
(Pauses again.)
How else! since that the heart's unbiass'd
instinct
Impell'd me to the daring deed, which now
Necessity, self-preservation, orders.
Stern is the On-look of necessity,
Not without shudder may a human hand
Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny.

My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom,

Once suffer'd to escape from its safe corner Within the heart, its nursery and birth

place,

Sent forth into the Foreign, it belongs
For ever to those sly malicious powers
Whom never art of man conciliated.

(Paces in agitation through the Cham-
ber, then pauses, and, after the
pause, breaks out again into audible
soliloquy.)

What is thy enterprize? thy aim? thy object?

Hast honestly confess'd it to thyself? Power seated on a quiet throne thou'dst shake,

Power on an ancient consecrated throne, Strong in possession, founded in old custom; Power by a thousand tough and stringy

roots

Fix'd to the people's pious nursery-faith. This, this will be no strife of strength with strength.

That fear'd I not. I brave each combatant, Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye, Who, full himself of courage, kindles cou

rage

In me too.

'Tis a foe invisible, The which I fear-a fearful enemy, Which in the human heart opposes me, By its coward fear alone made fearful to me. Not that, which, full of life, instinct with power,

Makes known its present being; that is not
The true, the perilously formidable.
O no! it is the common, the quite common,
The thing of an eternal yesterday,
What ever was, and evermore returns,
Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 'twas ster-
ling!

For of the wholly common is man made, And custom is his nurse! Woe then to them,

Who lay irreverent hands upon his old House furniture, the dear inheritance From his forefathers! For time consecrates; And what is grey with age becomes religion. Be in possession, and thou hast the right, And sacred will the many guard it for thee!

(To the Page, who here enters.) The Swedish officer ?-Well, let him enter. (The Page exit, Wallenstein fixes

his eye in deep thought on the door.)

Yet is it pure-as yet!-the crime has come Not o'er this threshold yet so slender is The boundary that divideth life's two paths.'

The Swede enters-and all is over with Wallenstein as the Emperor's general. He must now think and do for himself. It is at this moment that "the child of the house," his old plaything, his favourite hero, his daughter's lover, comes into his chamber. Max Piccolomini's influence with the

soldiery renders it a matter of first-rate consequence to fix him. But this, to do Wallenstein justice, is not his chief thought here: he loves Max. It is thus that, after some preliminary hints, he bursts out to the young soldier, who had been reared almost from the cradle within his camp :

"Wall. Soft cradled thee thy Fortune
till to-day;

Thy duties thou could'st exercise in sport,
Indulge all lovely instincts, act for ever
With undivided heart. It can remain
No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads
Start from each other. Duties strive with

duties.

war

Which is now kindling 'twixt THY FRIEND

and him

Who is thy Emperor.

Max. War! is that the name? War is as frightful as Heaven's pestilence, Yet it is good, is it Heaven's will, as that is. Is that a good war, which against the Emperor

Thou wagest with the Emperor's own army?

O God of heaven! what a change is this!
Beseems it me to offer such persuasion
To thee, who, like the fix'd star of the pole,
Wert all I gazed at on life's trackless
ocean?

O! what a rent thou makest in my heart!
The engrained instinct of old reverence,
The holy habit of obediency,

Must I pluck 'live asunder from thy name? Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon

me

It always was a god looking at me!
Duke Wallenstein, its power is not de-
parted;

The senses still are in thy bonds, although,
Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself.
Max, hear me.

Wall.
Max. O! do it not, I pray thee, do it
not!

There is a pure and noble soul within thee,
Knows not of this unblest, unlucky doing.
Thy will is chaste; it is thy fancy only
Which hath polluted thee—and innocence,
It will not let itself be driven away
From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt
not,

Thou canst not, end in this. It would reduce

All human creatures to disloyalty
Against the nobleness of their own nature.
"Twill justify the vulgar misbelief,
Which holdeth nothing noble in free will,
And trusts itself to impotence alone
Made powerful only in an unknown power.
Wall. The world will judge me sternly,
I expect it.

Already have I said to my own self
All thou canst say to me. Who but avoids
The extreme,-can he by going round avoid
it ?

But here there is no choice. Yes-I must

use

Or suffer violence-so stands the case, There remains nothing possible but that.

Max. O! that is never possible for thee! 'Tis the last desperate resource of those Cheap souls, to whom their honour, their good name,

Is their poor saving, their last worthless Keep,

Which having staked and lost, they stake themselves

In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich, And glorious; with an unpolluted heart Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems highest!

Does nothing more in this world.

Wall. (Grasps his hand.) Calmly, Max! Much that is great and excellent will we Perform together yet. And if we only Stand on the height with dignity, 'tis soon Forgotten, Max, by what road we ascended. Believe me, many a crown shines spotless

now,

That yet was deeply sullied in the winning.
To the evil spirit doth the earth belong,
Not to the good. All, that the powers
divine

Send from above, are universal blessings :
Their light rejoices us, their air refreshes,
But never yet was man enrich'd by them:
In their eternal realm no property
Is to be struggled for-all there is general.
The jewel, the all-valued gold, we win
From the deceiving Powers, depraved in
nature,

That dwell beneath the day and blessed sun-light.

Not without sacrifices are they render'd Propitious, and there lives no soul on earth That e'er retired unsullied from their service.

Max. Whate'er is human, to the human
being

Do I allow and to the vehement
And striving spirit readily I pardon
The excess of action; but to thee, my Ge-
neral !

Above all others, make I large concession.
For thou must move a world, and be the

Lose the command. Go from the stage of

war.

Thou canst with splendour do it-do it too With innocence. Thou hast lived much for others.

At length live thou for thy own self. I follow thee.

My destiny I never part from thine.

Wall. It is too late! Even now, while thou art losing

Thy words, one after the other are the mile

stones

Left fast behind by my post-couriers, Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra. (Max stands as convulsed, with a gesture and countenance expressing the most intense anguish.) Yield thyself to it. We act as we are forced. I cannot give assent to my own shame And ruin. Thou-no-thou canst not forsake me!

So let us do, what must be done, with

dignity,

With a firm step. What am I doing worse Than did famed Cæsar at the Rubicon, When he the legions led against his country, The which his country had deliver'd to him? Had he thrown down the sword, he had been lost,

As I were, if I but disarm'd myself. I trace out something in me of his spirit. Give me his luck, that other thing I'll bear. (Max quits him abruptly. Wallenstein, startled and overpowered, continues looking after him, and is still in this posture when Tertsky enters.")

Hitherto our extracts have all been from the Second Part of the trilogy, "The Piccolomini." We now proceed to give one or two specimens from the concluding one, "The death of Wallenstein." We must waste but few words in introducing them.

Wallenstein has shut himself up in the citadel of Egra, where he supposes himself to be still surrounded by soldiers inviolably attached to him; but in fact the leaders have all secretly determined to let the Emperor's vengeance take its course. A messenger enters the apartment where he is surrounded by his family. He enters hastily, and tells his story abruptly, for he conceives himself to be the messenger of glad tidings. He brings the news of the first blood that has been shed; a regiment of imperial horse has been defeated, and utterly put to the sword by the new allies of Wallenstein, the Swedes! Their leader too has fallen on the field-Max Piccolomini.

The Princess Thekla shrieks out and faints-Wallenstein himself is overcome with horror-the Swedish officer

who has told the tale retreats in confusion.

Suddenly Thekla recovers herself, and demands of her father that she may be permitted to speak to the Swede. The Countess Tertsky and the other ladies dissuade her, but Wallenstein says at once that she is his daughter, and her will must be done. She is left alone (with only one attendant, the Lady Neubrunn,) and the Swede is introduced.

THEKLA, the SWEDISH CAPTAIN, LADY NEUBRUNN.

Captain. (Respectfully approaching her.) Princess, I must entreat your gentle pardon

My inconsiderate, rash speech-How could I

Thekla. (With dignity.) You have be-
held me in my agony;

A most distressful accident occasion'd
You from a stranger to become at once
My confidant.

Capt. I fear you hate my presence,
For my tongue spake a melancholy word.
Thek. The fault is mine. Myself did
wrest it from you.

The horror which came o'er me interrupted
Your tale at its commencement. May it
please you,
Continue it to the end.
Capt.
Renew your anguish.
Thek.

Princess, 'twill

I am firm,I will be firm. Well, how began the engagement?

Capt. We lay, expecting no attack, at
Newstadt,

Entrench'd but insecurely in our camp,
When towards evening rose a cloud of dust
From the wood thitherward; our vanguard