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the dark as to the subject of our dis

course.

Of the three plays, then, in which the whole story of Wallenstein's fall is unfolded, Mr Coleridge has left the first quite untouched." Wallenstein's Camp," for so it is entitled, may rather, indeed, be considered as a musical prelude to the tragedy of the two following plays, than in any other light. Its purpose is distinctly and solely to prepare us for the coming. It represents the wild life of the camp of camps-the camp of a soldiery that has been twenty years together, and of a commander who has grown grey in power and glory-of an army that thinks of nothing but the general, the enemy, and the booty-and of a general who feels himself more powerful, than it is good for any subject to be tempted by feeling. A certain rough, wild, stormy gaiety presides. The clank of wine-cups is heard between the rolling of drums, and the shrill notes of the trumpet. In the fore-ground, parties of dragoons stroll idly about-pretty market-women and young peasants exhibit their baskets, and share the jest of licence.-Comely and well-fed priests move here and there across the bustling scene:-"Captains and colonels, and knights in arms," lay their heads together in the middle-ground, sometimes in the glee of revelry, sometimes in the debate of subaltern rivalry and minor ambition ;--and behind and above all, the back-ground exhibits, or we should rather say, is filled up by the all-presiding, all-swaying, gigantic shadow of WALLENSTEIN.

Jealousies have sprung up, as why should they not, between the Imperial Court and this overgrown Lieutenant. Whether the Emperor shall strike the blow by deposing him from his command, or he by leaguing himself with the Swede, and setting the General against the Prince-this, we at once perceive, is a matter which accident, more than anything else, is to determine. Wallenstein is ambitious, but his ambition does not voluntarily point the way to treason. Great he is great he must continue to be but it is no part of his character to desire that his greatness should be sus tained by disloyalty, after having been founded and built upon the most meritorious of services. He is one of those men whose true greatness lies only in action. Out of the field, he is not the

same Wallenstein that had coped evenhanded with Gustavus. His purposes are not fixed and determinate in proportion to the sense he entertains, and that justly, of his own genius, deserts, and capacities. He is tied up, and that not unconsciously either, by the lurking superstitions of custom. He is brave enough to do anything, but he has not the audacity to plan deliberate treason. But circumstances conspire to hurry him on-the chief officers of his army see their own ruin wrapped up in his-they goad him to the pointthey tempt him, and he falls. They then waver when it is too late for him to turn; they leave him, and nothing remains for Wallenstein but to die. The shadow of his greatness, however, still hovers over him. The noblest of his captains deserts him indeed, but rushes to death that he may not survive the degradation of his accustomed leader. Pure hearts are broken-innocent spotless hearts snap beneath the same stroke that severs his; the dignity of a pre-eminent nature asserts itself in the greatest and in the least of the circumstances; and, as if on purpose to elevate, even in the moment of consummated ruin, Wallenstein is not executed like a traitor, but assassinated like a king. The hands that plunge daggers into him tremble with the consciousness of a moral rebellion, and the only man in all the camp that is a gainer by his downfall, half curses himself when he finds that WALLENSTEIN has ceased to be. The whole action carries with it the tumult of ambition, the darkness of conspiracy, the cloud of blood; and yet never shall the world witness a drama of the dark tempestuous passions of world-worn men, more beautifully, more touchingly, more pathetically interwoven with the sweet play of young affections, and the generous march of free innocence, than is here. The greatness is Wallenstein's, and the fall is his; but the true hero of our hearts is the noble Piccolomini, and the grave of our tears is that where the daughter of Wallenstein flings her virgin beauty upon the devoted dust of her betrothed.

The greatest art of the poet is throughout apparent in everything that relates to this favourite character-that of Max Piccolomini. The sudden and deep love conceived by him for the Princess Thekla, and by her for him, and the openness of devotion with

which they conduct themselves towards each other, form a picture than which nothing can be conceived more admirable. The strong affection which Wallenstein himself feels for one that has always been to him (to use a fine expression of Schiller's, which, had Coleridge been a Scotchman, he would not have shrunk from translating) "the child of the house," tends perhaps more than any other trait in the great General's character to make us feel for him and his misfortunes. The deep paternal affection of old Octavio Piccolomini softens, in like manner, our aversion for his craftiness of character, and the unworthy manner of his defalcation from Wallenstein; and, above all, Max is exalted by the homage which is paid to him by the whole knot of conspiring captains, when they devise their double bond, only because they know that nothing will persuade him even to the semblance of dishonour. His rushing to death on the right side the moment he knows that Wallenstein has irredeemably bound himself to the wrong -his rushing thus, too, in obedience to the hard-wrung prayer of her who feels that her own death depends upon, and is inseparable from his,-all this is in the very highest rank of tragic excellence; and the whole of this beautiful story, which is meant to be, but which will not let itself be, an episode, is told with such simplicity, developed with such native grace of grandeur, and adorned with such a luxury of poetry, that it is indeed necessary to think of SHAKESPEARE When we would seek for anything superior either to the conception or the execution of it. But we must leave very much to the imagination of the reader, and proceed

to our extracts.

Max Piccolomini has been absent from the camp, escorting thither, from a distant nunnery, the daughter of Wallenstein. He arrives at the moment when his father Octavio, and Questenberg, the envoy of the Emperor, are conversing concerning the means of displacing (for as yet there is no intention of killing) the too powerful General. Max hates Questenberg, as a soldier hates a courtier, and listens with coldness to the hints which the two seniors throw out-for hints are all they venture on to him. Hear how nobly he defends his old Captain. "Max. Heaven never meant him for that passive thing,

That can be struck and hammer'd out to suit

Another's taste and fancy. He'll not dance
To every tune of every minister.
It goes against his nature he can't do it.
He is possess'd by a commanding spirit,
And his too is the station of command.
And well for us it is so! There exist
Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use
Their intellects intelligently.-Then
Well for the whole, if there be found a man,
Who makes himself what nature destin'd
him,

The pause, the central point of thousand

thousands

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My son! the road, the human being travels, That, on which BLESSING comes and goes, doth follow

The river's course, the valley's playful windings,

Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines,

Honouring the holy bounds of property! And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.

Quest. O hear your father, noble youth! hear him,

Who is at once the hero and the man.

Octa. My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee!

A war of fifteen years

Hath been thy education and thy school. Peace hast thou never witness'd! There exists

An higher than the warrior's excellence. In war itself war is no ultimate purpose. The vast and sudden deeds of violence, Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,

These are not they, my son, that generate The Calm, the Blissful, and th' enduring Mighty!

Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect! Builds his light town of canvass, and at

once

The whole scene moves and bustles momently,

With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel!

The motley market fills; the roads, the streams,

Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries!

But on some morrow morn, all suddenly, The tents drop down, the horde renews its

march.

Dreary, and solitary as a church-yard, The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,

And the year's harvest is gone utterly.

Max. O let the Emperor make peace, my father!

Most gladly would I give the blood-stain'd laurel

For the first violet of the leafless spring, Pluck'd in those quiet fields where I have journey'd.

Octa. What ails thee? What so moves
thee all at once?
Max. Peace have I ne'er beheld? I
have beheld it.

From thence am I come hither: O! that sight,

It glimmers still before me, like some land

scape

Left in the distance,-some delicious land. scape!

My road conducted me through countries where

The war has not yet reach'd. Life, life, my father

My venerable father, life has charms

Which we have ne'er experienc'd. We have been

But voyaging along its barren coasts,
Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pi-

rates,

That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship, House on the wild sea with wild usages, Nor know aught of the main land, but the bays

Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing.

Whate'er in th' inland dales the land conceals

Of fair and exquisite, O! nothing, nothing, Do we behold of that in our rude voyage. Octa. (Attentive, with an appearance of uneasiness.)

-And so your journey has reveal'd this
to you?

Max. 'Twas the first leisure of my life.
O tell me,

What is the meed and purpose of the toil, The painful toil, which robb'd me of my youth,

Left me an heart unsoul'd and solitary,
A spirit uninform'd, unornamented,
For the camp's stir and crowd and cease.
less larum,

The neighing war-horse, the air-shatt'ring trumpet,

The unvaried, still-returning hour of duty, Word of command, and exercise of arms There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this

To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart! Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not

This cannot be the sole felicity,

These cannot be man's best and only pleasures!

Octa. Much hast thou learnt, my son, in

this short journey.

Max. O! day thrice lovely! when at
length the soldier

Returns home into life; when he becomes
A fellow-man among his fellow-men.
The colours are unfurl'd, the cavalcade
Marshals, and now the buz is hush'd, and

hark!

Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home!

The caps and helmets are all garlanded With green boughs, the last plund'ring of the fields.

The city gates fly open of themselves, They need no longer the petard to tear them. The ramparts are all fill'd with men and

women,

With peaceful men and women, that send onwards

Kisses and welcomings upon the air, Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.

From all the towers rings out the merry peal,

The joyous vespers of a bloody day.
O happy man, O fortunate! for whom

The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,

The faithful tender arms with mute embracing.

Quest. (Apparently much affected.) O! that you should speak

Of such a distant, distant time, and not
Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day.

Max. (Turning round to him quick and
vehement.)

Where lies the fault but on you in Vienna ? I will deal openly with you, Questenberg. Just now, as first I saw you standing here, (I'll own it to you freely,) indignation Crowded and prest my inmost soul together. "Tis ye that hinder peace, ye!-and the warrior,

It is the warrior that must force it from you. Ye fret the General's life out, blacken him, Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons,

And tries to awaken confidence in th' ene

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And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin."

We have said that Max had escorted Thekla, and that their love began upon that journey. The aunt of Thekla, and Wallenstein's sister, the Countess of Tertsky, is already in so far acquainted with the affair, and indeed knows more than she pretends; but Max is asked by her in her chamber if he has revealed his passion to her niece and how beautifully the youth answers!

"Max. This morning did I hazard the first word.

Count. This morning the first time in twenty days?

Max. 'Twas at that hunting-castle, be

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To-day I must take leave of my good for

tune.

A few hours more, and you will find a father,

Will see yourself surrounded by new friends,

And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger, Lost in the many- Speak with my aunt Tertsky!"

With hurrying voice she interrupted me. She falter'd. I beheld a glowing red Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground

Rais'd slowly up her eye met mine-no longer

Did I control myself.

(The Princess Thekla appears at the door, and remains standing, observed by the Countess, but not by Piccolomini.)

With instant boldness I caught her in my arms, my mouth touch'd hers;

There was a rustling in the room close by; It parted us-'Twas you. What since has happened,

You know.

Count. (After a pause, with a stolen glance at Thekla.)

And is it your excess of modesty ; Or are you so incurious, that you do not Ask me too of my secret?

Max. Of your secret?

Count. Why, yes! When in the instant after you

I stepp'd into the room, and found my niece there,

What she in this first moment of the heart
Ta'en with surprise-

Max. (With eagerness.) Well?
Thek. (To the Countess.) Spare yourself
the trouble.

That hears he better from myself.

Max. (Stepping backward.) My Princess!

What have you let her hear me say, aunt Tertsky!

Thek. (To the Countess.) Has he been
here long?

Count. Yes; and soon must go.
Where have you stay'd so long?
Alas! my mother

Thek.

Wept so again! and I-I see her suffer, Yet cannot keep myself from being happy. Max. Now once again I have courage

to look on you. To-day at noon I could not.

The dazzle of the jewels that play'd round

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O! what an impulse felt I in that moment To fall upon his neck, to call him father! But his stern eye o'erpower'd the swelling passion

It dar'd not but be silent. And those brilliants,

And yet they all must give place to the wonder

Which this mysterious castle guards.
Count. (Recollecting.)

And what Can this be then? Methought I was ac quainted

That like a crown of stars enwreath'd your With all the dusky corners of this house.

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Thek. (Smiling.) Ay, but the road thereto is watch'd by spirits;

Two griffins still stand sentry at the door.
Count. (Laughs.) The astrological tower!
-How happens it

That this same sanctuary, whose access
Is to all others so impracticable,
Opens before you e'en at your approach?
Thek. A dwarfish old man, with a friend-
ly face

And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services

Were mine at first sight, open'd me the doors.

Max. That is the Duke's astrologer, old
Seni.

Thek. He question'd me on many points for instance, When I was born, what month, and on what day,

Whether by day or in the night.
Count.

He wish'd
To erect a figure for your horoscope.
Thek. My hand too he examined, shook

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