Act Iii. Scene Iv.

DUNOIS [steps forward]. My heart made choice of her while she was lowly; This new honour raises not her merit Or my love. Here, in the presence of my King And of this holy Archbishop, I offer her My hand and princely rank, if she regard me As worthy to be hers.

CHARLES. Resistless Maid, Thou addest miracle to miracle! Henceforward I believe that nothing is Impossible to thee. Thou hast subdued This haughty spirit, that till now defied Th' omnipotence of Love.

LA HIRE [steps forward]. If I mistake not Joanna's form of mind, what most adorns her Is her modest heart. The rev'rence of the great She merits; but her thoughts will never rise So high. She strives not after giddy splendours: The true affection of a faithful soul Contents her, and the still, sequester'd lot Which with this hand I offer her.

CHARLES. Thou too, La Hire? Two valiant suitors, equal in Heroic virtue and renown of war! --Wilt thou, that hast united my dominions, Soften'd my opposers, part my firmest friends? Both may not gain thee, each deserving thee: Speak, then! Thy heart must here be arbiter.

AGNES SOREL [approaches]. Joanna is embarrass'd and surprised; I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks. Let her have time to ask her heart, to open Her clos'd bosom in trustful confidence With me. The moment is arriv'd when I In sisterly communion also may Approach the rigorous Maid, and offer her The solace of my faithful, silent breast. First let us women sit in secret judgment On this matter that concerns us; then expect What we shall have decided.

CHARLES [about to go]. Be it so, then!

JOANNA. Not so, Sire! 'Twas not the embarrassment Of virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson: To this lady I have nothing to confide, Which I need blush to speak of before men. Much am I honour'd by the preference Of these two noble Knights; but it was not To chase vain worldly grandeurs, that I left The shepherd moors; not in my hair to bind The bridal garland, that I girt myself With warlike armour. To far other work Am I appointed: and the spotless virgin Alone can do it. I am the soldier Of the God of Battles; to no living man Can I be wife.

ARCHBISHOP. As kindly help to man Was woman born; and in obeying Nature She best obeys and reverences Heaven. When the command of God who summon'd thee To battle is fulfull'd, thou wilt lay down Thy weapons, and return to that soft sex Which thou deny'st, which is not call'd to do The bloody work of war.

JOANNA. Father, as yet I know not how the Spirit will direct me: When the needful time comes round, His voice Will not be silent, and I will obey it. For the present, I am bid complete the task. He gave me. My sov'reign's brow is yet uncrown'd, His head unwetted by the holy oil, He is not yet a King.

CHARLES. We are journeying Towards Rheims.

JOANNA. Let us not linger by the way. Our foes are busy round us, shutting up Thy passage: I will lead thee through them all.

DUNOIS. And when the work shall be fulfill'd, when we Have marched in triumph into Rheims, Will not Joanna then--

JOANNA. If God see meet That I return with life and vict'ry from These broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaid Has nothing more to do in her King's palace.

CHARLES [taking her hand]. It is the Spirit's voice impels thee now, And Love is mute in thy inspired bosom. Believe me, it will not be always mute! Our swords will rest; and Victory will lead Meek Peace by th' hand, and Joy will come again To ev'ry breast, and softer feelings waken In every heart: in thy heart also waken; And tears of sweetest longing wilt thou weep, Such as thine eyes have never shed. This heart, Now fill'd by Heav'n, will softly open To some terrestrial heart. Thou hast begun By blessing thousands; but thou wilt conclude By blessing one.

JOANNA. Dauphin! Art thou weary Of the heavenly vision, that thou seekest To deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degrade To common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee? Ye blind of heart! O ye of little faith! Heaven's brightness is about you, before your eyes Unveils its wonders; and ye see in me Nought but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye, Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingle In the wreck of battle? Woe, woe to me, If bearing in my hand th' avenging sword Of God, I bore in my vain heart a love To earthly man! Woe to me! It were better That I never had been born. No more, No more of this! Unless ye would awake the wrath Of HIM that dwells in me! The eye of man Desiring me is an abomination And a horror.

CHARLES. Cease! 'Tis vain to urge her.

JOANNA. Bid the trumpets sound! This loit'ring grieves And harasses me. Something chases me From sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission, Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom.

SCENE V.

A KNIGHT [in haste].

CHARLES. How now?

KNIGHT. The enemy has pass'd the Marne; Is forming as for battle.

JOANNA [as if inspired]. Arms and battle! My soul has cast away its bonds! To arms! Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the rest! [She hastens out

* * * * *

SCENE VI.

TALBOT, leaning upon FASTOLF, and accompanied by Soldiers. Soon after, LIONEL.

TALBOT. Here set me down beneath this tree, and you Betake yourselves again to battle: quick! I need no help to die.

FASTOLF. O day of woe! [Lionel enters. Look, what a sight awaits you, Lionel! Our General expiring of his wounds!

LIONEL. Now God forbid! Rise, noble Talbot! This Is not a time for you to faint and sink. Yield not to Death; force faltering Nature By your strength of soul, that life depart not!

TALBOT. In vain! The day of Destiny is come That prostrates with the dust our power in France. In vain, in the fierce clash of desp'rate battle, Have I risk'd our utmost to withstand it: The bolt has smote and crush'd me, and I lie To rise no more forever. Rheims is lost; Make haste to rescue Paris.

LIONEL. Paris has surrender'd To the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'd With tidings.

TALBOT [tears away his bandages]. Then flow out, ye life-streams; I am grown to loathe this Sun.

LIONEL. They want me! Fastolf, bear him to a place of safety: We can hold this post few instants longer, The coward knaves are giving way on all sides, Irresistible the Witch is pressing on.

TALBOT. Madness, thou conquerest, and I must yield: Stupidity can baffle the very gods. High Reason, radiant Daughter of God's Head, Wise Foundress of the system of the Universe, Conductress of the stars, who art thou, then, If, tied to th' tail o' th' wild horse Superstition, Thou must plunge, eyes open, vainly shrieking, Sheer down with that drunk Beast to the Abyss? Cursed who sets his life upon the great And dignified; and with forecasting spirit Forms wise projects! The Fool-king rules this world.

LIONEL. O, Death is near you! Think of your Creator!

TALBOT. Had we as brave men been defeated By brave men, we might have consoled ourselves With common thoughts of Fortune's fickleness: But that a sorry farce should be our ruin!-- Did our earnest toilsome struggle merit No graver end than this?

LIONEL [grasps his hand]. Talbot, farewell! The meed of bitter tears I'll duly pay you, When the fight is done, should I outlive it. Now Fate calls me to the field, where yet She wav'ring sits, and shakes her doubtful urn. Farewell! we meet beyond the unseen shore. Brief parting for long friendship! God be with you! [Exit.

TALBOT. Soon it is over, and to th' Earth I render, To the everlasting Sun, the atoms, Which for pain and pleasure join'd to form me; And of the mighty Talbot, whose renown Once fill'd the world, remains nought but a handful Of light dust. Thus man comes to his end; And our one conquest in this fight of life Is the conviction of life's nothingness, And deep disdain of all that sorry stuff We once thought lofty and desirable.

SCENE VII.

Enter CHARLES; BURGUNDY; DUNOIS; DU CHATEL; and Soldiers.

BURGUN. The trench is storm'd.

DUNOIS. The victory is ours.

CHARLES [observing Talbot]. Ha! who is this that to the light of day Is bidding his constrained and sad farewell? His bearing speaks no common man: go, haste, Assist him, if assistance yet avail.

FASTOLF. Back! Keep away! Approach not the Departing, Whom in life ye never wish'd too near you.

BURGUN. What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood!

FASTOLF. Off, Burgundy! With th' aspect of a traitor Poison not the last look of a hero.

DUNOIS. Dreaded Talbot! stern, unconquerable! Dost thou content thee with a space so narrow, And the wide domains of France once could not Stay the striving of thy giant spirit?-- Now for the first time, Sire, I call you King: The crown but totter'd on your head, so long As in this body dwelt a soul.

CHARLES [after looking at the dead in silence]. It was A higher hand that conquer'd him, not we. Here on the soil of France he sleeps, as does A hero on the shield he would not quit. Bring him away. [Soldiers lift the corpse, and carry it off. And peace be with his dust! A fair memorial shall arise to him I' th' midst of France: here, where the hero's course And life were finished, let his bones repose. Thus far no other foe has e'er advanced. His epitaph shall be the place he fell on.

* * * * *

SCENE IX.

Another empty space in the field of battle. In the distance are seen the towers of Rheims illuminated by the sun.

A Knight, cased in black armour, with his visor shut. JOANNA follows him to the front of the scene, where he stops and awaits her.

JOANNA. Deceiver! Now I see thy craft. Thou hast, By seeming flight, enticed me from the battle, And warded death and destiny from off the head Of many a Briton. Now they reach thy own.

KNIGHT. Why dost thou follow me, and track my stops With murd'rous fury? I am not appointed To die by thee.

JOANNA. Deep in my lowest soul I hate thee as the Night, which is thy colour. To sweep thee from the face of Earth, I feel Some irresistible desire impelling me. Who art thou? Lift thy visor: had not I Seen Talbot fall, I should have named thee Talbot.

KNIGHT. Speaks not the prophesying Spirit in thee?

JOANNA. It tells me loudly, in my inmost bosom, That Misfortune is at hand.

KNIGHT. Joanna d'Arc! Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou advanced, Led on by victory. Let the renown Already gain'd suffice thee! As a slave Has Fortune serv'd thee: emancipate her, Ere in wrath she free herself; fidelity She hates; no one obeys she to the end.

JOANNA. How say'st thou, in the middle of my course, That I should pause and leave my work unfinish'd? I will conclude it, and fulfil my vow.

KNIGHT. Nothing can withstand thee; thou art most strong; In ev'ry battle thou prevailest. But go Into no other battle. Hear my warning!

JOANNA. This sword I quit not, till the English yield.

KNIGHT. Look! Yonder rise the towers of Rheims, the goal And purpose of thy march; thou seest the dome Of the cathedral glittering in the sun: There wouldst thou enter in triumphal pomp, To crown thy sov'reign and fulfil thy vow. Enter not there. Turn homewards. Hear my warning!

JOANNA. Who art thou, false, double-tongued betrayer, That wouldst frighten and perplex me? Dar'st thou Utter lying oracles to me?

No! Thou shalt answer me, or perish by me!

KNIGHT [touches her with his hand: she stands immovable]. Kill what is mortal!

JOANNA [stands at first amazed: but soon recovers herself]. It was nothing earthly. Some delusive form of Hell, some spirit Of Falsehood, sent from th' everlasting Pool To tempt and terrify my fervent soul! Bearing the sword of God, what do I fear? Victorious will I end my fated course; Though Hell itself with all its fiends assail me, My heart and faith shall never faint or fail me. [She is going.

SCENE X.

LIONEL, JOANNA.

LIONEL. Accursed Sorceress, prepare for battle: Not both of us shall leave the place alive. Thou hast destroyed the chosen of my host; Brave Talbot has breath'd out his mighty spirit In my bosom. I will avenge the Dead, Or share his fate. And wouldst thou know the man Who brings thee glory, let him die or conquer, I am Lionel, the last survivor Of our chiefs; and still unvanquish'd is this arm.

Faithless fortune! [He struggles with her.

JOANNA [seizes him by the plume from behind, and tears his helmet violently down, so that his face is exposed: at the same time she lifts her sword with the right hand]. Suffer what thou soughtest! The Virgin sacrifices thee through me!

LIONEL. Why lingerest thou, and stayest the stroke of death? My honour thou hast taken, take my life: 'Tis in thy hands to take it; I want not mercy. [She gives him a sign with her hand to depart. Fly from thee? Owe thee my life? Die rather!

JOANNA [her face turned away]. I will not remember that thou owedst Thy life to me.

LIONEL. I hate thee and thy gift. I want not mercy. Kill thy enemy, Who meant to kill thee, who abhors thee!

JOANNA. Kill me, and fly!

LIONEL. Ha! How is this?

JOANNA [hides her face]. Woe's me!

LIONEL [approaches her]. Thou killest every Briton, I have heard, Whom thou subdu'st in battle: why spare me?

JOANNA [lifts her sword with a rapid movement against him, but quickly lets it sink again, when she observes his face]. O Holy Virgin!

LIONEL. Wherefore namest thou The Virgin? She knows nothing of thee; Heaven Has nought to say to thee.

JOANNA [in violent anguish]. What have I done! My vow, my vow is broke! [Wrings her hands in despair.

LIONEL [looks at her with sympathy, and comes nearer]. Unhappy girl! I pity thee; thou touchest me; thou showedst Mercy to me alone. My hate is going: I am constrain'd to feel for thee. Who art thou? Whence comest thou?

JOANNA. Away! Begone!

LIONEL. Thy youth, Thy beauty melt and sadden me; thy look Goes to my heart: I could wish much to save thee; Tell me how I may! Come, come with me! Forsake This horrid business; cast away those arms!

JOANNA. I no more deserve to bear them!

LIONEL. Cast them Away, then, and come with me!

JOANNA [with horror]. Come with thee!

LIONEL. Thou mayst be sav'd: come with me! I will save thee. But delay not. A strange sorrow for thee Seizes me, and an unspeakable desire To save thee. [Seizes her arm.

JOANNA. Ha! Dunois! 'Tis they! If they should find thee!--

LIONEL. Fear not; I will guard thee.

JOANNA. I should die, were they to kill thee.

LIONEL. Am I Dear to thee?

JOANNA. Saints of Heaven!

LIONEL. Shall I ever See thee, hear of thee, again?

JOANNA. Never! Never!

LIONEL. This sword for pledge that I will see thee!

JOANNA. Madman! Thou dar'st?

LIONEL. I yield to force; again I'll see thee. [Exit.

The introduction of supernatural agency in this play, and the final aberration from the truth of history, have been considerably censured by the German critics: Schlegel, we recollect, calls Joanna's end a 'rosy death.' In this dramaturgic discussion, the mere reader need take no great interest. To require our belief in apparitions and miracles, things which we cannot now believe, no doubt for a moment disturbs our submission to the poet's illusions: but the miracles in this story are rare and transient, and of small account in the general result: they give our reason little trouble, and perhaps contribute to exalt the heroine in our imaginations. It is still the mere human grandeur of Joanna's spirit that we love and reverence; the lofty devotedness with which she is transported, the generous benevolence, the irresistible determination. The heavenly mandate is but the means of unfolding these qualities, and furnishing them with a proper passport to the minds of her age. To have produced, without the aid of fictions like these, a Joanna so beautified and exalted, would undoubtedly have yielded greater satisfaction: but it may be questioned whether the difficulty would not have increased in a still higher ratio. The sentiments, the characters, are not only accurate, but exquisitely beautiful; the incidents, excepting the very last, are possible, or even probable: what remains is but a very slender evil.

After all objections have been urged, and this among others has certainly a little weight, the Maid of Orleans will remain one of the very finest of modern dramas. Perhaps, among all Schiller's plays, it is the one which evinces most of that quality denominated genius in the strictest meaning of the word. Wallenstein embodies more thought, more knowledge, more conception; but it is only in parts illuminated by that ethereal brightness, which shines over every part of this. The spirit of the romantic ages is here imaged forth; but the whole is exalted, embellished, ennobled. It is what the critics call idealised. The heart must be cold, the imagination dull, which the Jungfrau von Orleans will not move.

In Germany this case did not occur: the reception of the work was beyond example flattering. The leading idea suited the German mind; the execution of it inflamed the hearts and imaginations of the people; they felt proud of their great poet, and delighted to enthusiasm with his poetry. At the first exhibition of the play in Leipzig, Schiller being in the theatre, though not among the audience, this feeling was displayed in a rather singular manner. When the curtain dropped at the end of the first act, there arose on all sides a shout of "Es lebe Friedrich Schiller!" accompanied by the sound of trumpets and other military music: at the conclusion of the piece, the whole assembly left their places, went out, and crowded round the door through which the poet was expected to come; and no sooner did he show himself, than his admiring spectators, uncovering their heads, made an avenue for him to pass; and as he waited along, many, we are told, held up their children, and exclaimed, "That is he!"

This must have been a proud moment for Schiller; but also an agitating, painful one; and perhaps on the whole, the latter feeling, for the time, prevailed. Such noisy, formal, and tumultuous plaudits were little to his taste: the triumph they confer, though plentiful, is coarse; and Schiller's modest nature made him shun the public gaze, not seek it. He loved men, and did not affect to despise their approbation; but neither did this form his leading motive. To him art, like virtue, was its own reward; he delighted in his tasks for the sake of the fascinating feelings which they yielded him in their performance. Poetry was the chosen gift of his mind, which his pleasure lay in cultivating: in other things he wished not that his habits or enjoyments should be different from those of other men.

At Weimar his present way of life was like his former one at Jena: his business was to study and compose; his recreations were in the circle of his family, where he could abandon himself to affections, grave or trifling, and in frank and cheerful intercourse with a few friends. Of the latter he had lately formed a social club, the meetings of which afforded him a regular and innocent amusement. He still loved solitary walks: in the Park at Weimar he might frequently be seen wandering among the groves and remote avenues, with a note-book in his hand; now loitering slowly along, now standing still, now moving rapidly on; if any one appeared in sight, he would dart into another alley, that his dream might not be broken. 'One of his favourite resorts,' we are told, 'was the thickly-overshadowed rocky path which leads to the Roemische Haus, a pleasure-house of the Duke's, built under the direction of Goethe. There he would often sit in the gloom of the crags, overgrown with cypresses and boxwood; shady hedges before him; not far from the murmur of a little brook, which there gushes in a smooth slaty channel, and where some verses of Goethe are cut upon a brown plate of stone, and fixed in the rock.' He still continued to study in the night: the morning was spent with his children and his wife, or in pastimes such as we have noticed; in the afternoon he revised what had been last composed, wrote letters, or visited his friends. His evenings were often passed in the theatre; it was the only public place of amusement which he ever visited; nor was it for the purpose of amusement that he visited this: it was his observatory, where he watched the effect of scenes and situations; devised new schemes of art, or corrected old ones. To the players he was kind, friendly: on nights when any of his pieces had been acted successfully or for the first time, he used to invite the leaders of the company to a supper in the Stadthaus, where the time was spent in mirthful diversions, one of which was frequently a recitation, by Genast, of the Capuchin's sermon in Wallenstein's Camp. Except on such rare occasions, he returned home directly from the theatre, to light his midnight lamp, and commence the most earnest of his labours.

The assiduity, with which he struggled for improvement in dramatic composition, had now produced its natural result: the requisitions of his taste no longer hindered the operation of his genius; art had at length become a second nature. A new proof at once of his fertility, and of his solicitude for farther improvement, appeared in 1803. The Braut von Messina was an experiment; an attempt to exhibit a modern subject and modern sentiments in an antique garb. The principle on which the interest of this play rests is the Fatalism of the ancients: the plot is of extreme simplicity; a Chorus also is introduced, an elaborate discussion of the nature and uses of that accompaniment being prefixed by way of preface. The experiment was not successful: with a multitude of individual beauties this Bride of Messina is found to be ineffectual as a whole: it does not move us; the great object of every tragedy is not attained. The Chorus, which Schiller, swerving from the Greek models, has divided into two contending parts, and made to enter and depart with the principals to whom they are attached, has in his hands become the medium of conveying many beautiful effusions of poetry; but it retards the progress of the plot; it dissipates and diffuses our sympathies; the interest we should take in the fate and prospects of Manuel and Caesar, is expended on the fate and prospects of man. For beautiful and touching delineations of life; for pensive and pathetic reflections, sentiments, and images, conveyed in language simple but nervous and emphatic, this tragedy stands high in the rank of modern compositions. There is in it a breath of young tenderness and ardour, mingled impressively with the feelings of gray-haired experience, whose recollections are darkened with melancholy, whose very hopes are chequered and solemn. The implacable Destiny which consigns the brothers to mutual enmity and mutual destruction, for the guilt of a past generation, involving a Mother and a Sister in their ruin, spreads a sombre hue over all the poem; we are not unmoved by the characters of the hostile Brothers, and we pity the hapless and amiable Beatrice, the victim of their feud. Still there is too little action in the play; the incidents are too abundantly diluted with reflection; the interest pauses, flags, and fails to produce its full effect. For its specimens of lyrical poetry, tender, affecting, sometimes exquisitely beautiful, the Bride of Messina will long deserve a careful perusal; but as exemplifying a new form of the drama, it has found no imitators, and is likely to find none.

The slight degree of failure or miscalculation which occurred in the present instance, was next year abundantly redeemed. Wilhelm Tell, sent out in 1804, is one of Schiller's very finest dramas; it exhibits some of the highest triumphs which his genius, combined with his art, ever realised. The first descent of Freedom to our modern world, the first unfurling of her standard on the rocky pinnacle of Europe, is here celebrated in the style which it deserved. There is no false timsel-decoration about Tell, no sickly refinement, no declamatory sentimentality. All is downright, simple, and agreeable to Nature; yet all is adorned and purified and rendered beautiful, without losing its resemblance. An air of freshness and wholesomeness breathes over it; we are among honest, inoffensive, yet fearless peasants, untainted by the vices, undazzled by the theories, of more complex and perverted conditions of society. The opening of the first scene sets us down among the Alps. It is 'a high rocky shore of the Luzern Lake, opposite to Schwytz. The lake makes a little bight in the land, a hut stands at a short distance from the bank, the fisher-boy is rowing himself about in his boat. Beyond the lake, on the other side, we see the green meadows, the hamlets and farms of Schwytz, lying in the clear sunshine. On our left are observed the peaks of the Hacken surrounded with clouds: to the right, and far in the distance, appear the glaciers. We hear the rance des vaches and the tinkling of cattle-bells.' This first impression never leaves us; we are in a scene where all is grand and lovely; but it is the loveliness and grandeur of unpretending, unadulterated Nature. These Switzers are not Arcadian shepherds or speculative patriots; there is not one crook or beechen bowl among them, and they never mention the Social Contract, or the Rights of Man. They are honest people, driven by oppression to assert their privileges; and they go to work like men in earnest, bent on the despatch of business, not on the display of sentiment. They are not philosophers or tribunes; but frank, stalwart landmen: even in the field of Ruetli, they do not forget their common feelings; the party that arrive first indulge in a harmless little ebullition of parish vanity: "We are first here!" they say, "we Unterwaldeners!" They have not charters or written laws to which they can appeal; but they have the traditionary rights of their fathers, and bold hearts and strong arms to make them good. The rules by which they steer are not deduced from remote premises, by a fine process of thought; they are the accumulated result of experience, transmitted from peasant sire to peasant son. There is something singularly pleasing in this exhibition of genuine humanity; of wisdom, embodied in old adages and practical maxims of prudence; of magnanimity, displayed in the quiet unpretending discharge of the humblest every-day duties. Truth is superior to Fiction: we feel at home among these brave good people; their fortune interests us more than that of all the brawling, vapid, sentimental heroes in creation. Yet to make them interest us was the very highest problem of art; it was to copy lowly Nature, to give us a copy of it embellished and refined by the agency of genius, yet preserving the likeness in every lineament. The highest quality of art is to conceal itself: these peasants of Schiller's are what every one imagines he could imitate successfully; yet in the hands of any but a true and strong-minded poet they dwindle into repulsive coarseness or mawkish insipidity. Among our own writers, who have tried such subjects, we remember none that has succeeded equally with Schiller. One potent but ill-fated genius has, in far different circumstances and with far other means, shown that he could have equalled him: the Cotter's Saturday Night of Burns is, in its own humble way, as quietly beautiful, as simplex munditiis, as the scenes of Tell. No other has even approached them; though some gifted persons have attempted it. Mr. Wordsworth is no ordinary man; nor are his pedlars, and leech-gatherers, and dalesmen, without their attractions and their moral; but they sink into whining drivellers beside Roesselmann the Priest, Ulric the Smith, Hans of the Wall, and the other sturdy confederates of Ruetli.

The skill with which the events are concatenated in this play corresponds to the truth of its delineation of character. The incidents of the Swiss Revolution, as detailed in Tschudi or Mueller, are here faithfully preserved, even to their minutest branches. The beauty of Schiller's descriptions all can relish; their fidelity is what surprises every reader who has been in Switzerland. Schiller never saw the scene of his play; but his diligence, his quickness and intensity of conception, supplied this defect. Mountain and mountaineer, conspiracy and action, are all brought before us in their true forms, all glowing in the mild sunshine of the poet's fancy. The tyranny of Gessler, and the misery to which it has reduced the land; the exasperation, yet patient courage of the people; their characters, and those of their leaders, Fuerst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal; their exertions and ultimate success, described as they are here, keep up a constant interest in the piece. It abounds in action, as much as the Bride of Messina is defective in that point.

But the finest delineation is undoubtedly the character of Wilhelm Tell, the hero of the Swiss Revolt, and of the present drama. In Tell are combined all the attributes of a great man, without the help of education or of great occasions to develop them. His knowledge has been gathered chiefly from his own experience, and this is bounded by his native mountains: he has had no lessons or examples of splendid virtue, no wish or opportunity to earn renown: he has grown up to manhood, a simple yeoman of the Alps, among simple yeomen; and has never aimed at being more. Yet we trace in him a deep, reflective, earnest spirit, thirsting for activity, yet bound in by the wholesome dictates of prudence; a heart benevolent, generous, unconscious alike of boasting or of fear. It is this salubrious air of rustic, unpretending honesty that forms the great beauty in Tell's character: all is native, all is genuine; he does not declaim: he dislikes to talk of noble conduct, he exhibits it. He speaks little of his freedom, because he has always enjoyed it, and feels that he can always defend it. His reasons for destroying Gessler are not drawn from jurisconsults and writers on morality, but from the everlasting instincts of Nature: the Austrian Vogt must die; because if not, the wife and children of Tell will be destroyed by him. The scene, where the peaceful but indomitable archer sits waiting for Gessler in the hollow way among the rocks of Kuessnacht, presents him in a striking light. Former scenes had shown us Tell under many amiable and attractive aspects; we knew that he was tender as well as brave, that he loved to haunt the mountain tops, and inhale in silent dreams the influence of their wild and magnificent beauty: we had seen him the most manly and warm-hearted of fathers and husbands; intrepid, modest, and decisive in the midst of peril, and venturing his life to bring help to the oppressed. But here his mind is exalted into stern solemnity; its principles of action come before us with greater clearness, in this its fiery contest. The name of murder strikes a damp across his frank and fearless spirit; while the recollection of his children and their mother proclaims emphatically that there is no remedy. Gessler must perish: Tell swore it darkly in his secret soul, when the monster forced him to aim at the head of his boy; and he will keep his oath. His thoughts wander to and fro, but his volition is unalterable; the free and peaceful mountaineer is to become a shedder of blood: woe to them that have made him so!

Travellers come along the pass; the unconcern of their every-day existence is strikingly contrasted with the dark and fateful purposes of Tell. The shallow innocent garrulity of Stuessi the Forester, the maternal vehemence of Armgart's Wife, the hard-hearted haughtiness of Gessler, successively presented to us, give an air of truth to the delineation, and deepen the impressiveness of the result.