acter of mere invention, that of the Marquis de Posa, occupies a too prominent part; the tragedy itself may be classed as something between history and poetry, without entirely satis fying the rules of either: it is certainly otherwise with those of which I am now about to attempt giving an idea. CHAPTER XVIII. WALLENSTEIN AND MARY STUART, WALLENSTEIN is the most national tragedy that has ever been represented on the German stage; the beauty of the verses, and the grandeur of the subject, transported with enthusiasm all the spectators at Weimar, where it was first performed, and Germany flattered herself with possessing a new Shakspeare. Lessing, in censuring the French taste, and joining with Diderot in the manner of conceiving dramatic art, had banished poetry from the theatre, and left nothing there but romances in dialogue, which were but a continuation of ordinary life, only crowding together in representation events which are of less frequent occurrence in reality. Schiller thought of bringing on the stage a remarkable circunstance of the Thirty Years' War, that civil and religious struggle, which, for more than a century, fixed in Germany the equilibrium of the two parties, Protestant and Catholic. The German nation is so divided, that it is never known whether the exploits of the one half are a misfortune or a glory for the other; nevertheless, the Wallenstein of Schiller has excited an equal enthusiasm in all. The same subject is divided into three distinct plays; the Camp of Wallenstein, which is the first of the three, represents the effects of war on the mass of the people, and of the army; the second, the Pic colomini, displays the political causes which led to the dissen sions between the chiefs; and the third, the Death of Waller stein, is the result of the enthusiasm and envy which the repu tation of Wallenstein had excited. I have seen them perform the prologue, entitled the Camp of Wallenstein. It seemed as if we were in the midst of an army, and of an army of partisans much more ardent and much worse disciplined than regular troops. The peasants, the recruits, the victualling women, the soldiers, all contributed to the effect of this spectacle; the impression it produces is so warlike, that when it was performed on the stage at Berlin, before the officers who were about to depart for the army, shouts of enthusiasm were heard on every side. A man of letters must be possessed of a very powerful imagination to figure to himself so completely the life of a camp, the spirit of independence, the turbulent joy excited by danger itself. Man, disengaged from all his ties, without regret and without foresight, makes of years a single day, and of days a single instant, he plays for all he possesses, obeys chance under the form of his general death, ever present, delivers him with gayety from the cares of life. Nothing, in the Camp of Wallenstein, is more original than the arrival of a Capuchin in the midst of the tumultuous band of soldiers who think they are defending the Catholic cause. The Capuchin preaches to them moderation and justice in a language full of quibbles and puns, which differs from that of camps no otherwise than by its affectation and the use of a few Latin phrases: the grotesque and soldier-like eloquence of the priest, the rude and gross language of those who listen to him—all this presents a most remarkable picture of confusion. The social state in fermentation exhibits man under a singular aspect: all his savage nature reappears, and the remnants of civilization float like a wreck upon the troubled waves. The Camp of Wallenstein forms an ingenious introduction to the two other pieces; it penetrates us with admiration for the general, of whom the soldiers are continually talking, in their games as well as in their dangers; and when the tragedy begins, we feel, from the impressions left by the prologue which has preceded it, as if we had witnessed the history which poetry is about to embellish. The second of the pieces, called the Piccolomini, contains the discords which arise between the emperor and his general, the general and his companion in arms, when the chief of the army wishes to substitute his personal ambition in the place of the authority he represents, as well as of the cause he supports. Wallenstein was fighting, in the name of Austria, against the nations who were attempting to introduce the Reformation into Germany; but, seduced by the hope of forming to himself an independent power, he seeks to appropriate all the means which he ought to have employed in the public service. The generals who oppose his views, thwart them not out of virtue, but out of jealousy; and in these cruel struggles everybody is concerned except those who are devoted to their opinions, and fighting for their conscience' sake. People will say, what is there in all this to excite interest! The picture of truth. Perhaps art demands the modification of this picture by the rules of theatrical effect; yet the representation of history on the stage is always delightful. Nevertheless, Schiller has known how to create personages formed to excite a romantic interest. He has painted Maximilian, Piccolomini, and Thecla, as heavenly beings, who pass through all the storms of political passion, preserving love and truth in their souls. Thecla is the daughter of Wallenstein; Maximilian, the son of the perfidious friend who betrays him. The two lovers, in spite of their parents, in spite of fate, and of every thing except their own hearts, love, seek each other, and are united in life and death. These two beings appear, in the midst of the tumults of ambition, as if predestined; they are the interesting victims which heaven has elected to itself, and nothing is so beautiful as the contrast between the purest self-devotion and the passions of men, as furiously eager for this earth as if it were their only inheritance. There is no winding up of the tragedy of the Piccolomini; it ends like a conversation broken off. The French would find it difficult to support these two prologues, the one burlesque and the other serious, which lead to the real tragedy, which is the Death of Wallenstein. A writer of great genius has reduced the Trilogy of Schiller into a single tragedy, according to French form and method. The eulogies and criticisms of which this work has been the object, will give us a natural opportunity of concluding our estimate of the differences which characterize the dramatic system of the French and Germans. The French writer has been censured for not having been sufficiently poetical in his verses. Mythological subjects allow all the brilliancy of images and of lyrical inspiration; but how is it possible to admit, in a subject drawn from modern history, the poetry of the recital of Theramenes? All this ancient pomp is suitable to the family of Minos or Agamemnon, but would be only ridiculous affectation in pieces of another sort. There are moments in historical tragedies, at which the elevation of the soul naturally inspires a more elevated tone of poetry: such is, for example, the vision of Wallenstein,' his harangue after the 1 "Il est, pour les mortels, de jours mystérieux, Je parcourus le camp. On voyoit dans la plaine Versoient sur nos drapeaux une pâle clarté. Que de mortels, me dis-je, à ma voix obéissent! Qu'avec empressement sous mon ordre ils fléchissent! Que bientôt je verrois s'évanouir leur zèle ! En est-il un du moins qui me restât fidèle ! Ah! s'il en est un seul, je t'invoque. O destin! Daigne me l'indiquer par un signe certain.” Walstein, par M. Benjamin-Constant de Rebecque, Acte II. sc. 1, p. 48 mutiny, his monologue before his death, etc. Still, the contexture and development of the piece, in German as well as in French, requires a simplicity of style, in which one perceives. only the purity of language, and seldom its magnificence. In France we require an effect to be given, not only to every scene, but to every verse, and this is what cannot be made to agree with reality. Nothing is so easy as to compose what are called brilliant verses; there are moulds ready made for the purpose; but what is very difficult, is to render every detail subordinate to the whole, and to find every part united in the whole, as well as the reflection of the whole in every part. French vivacity has given to the conduct of their theatrical pieces a very agreeable rapidity of motion; but it is injurious to the beauty of the art to demand the succession of effect every instant, at the expense of the general impression. This impatience, which brooks no delay, is attended by a singular patience in enduring all that the established laws of propriety enjoin; and when any sort of ennui is required by the etiquette of art, these same Frenchmen, who are irritated by the least prolixity, tolerate every thing out of respect to custom. For example, explanations by way of recital are indispensable in French tragedy, and yet certainly they are much less interesting than when conducted by means of action. It is said that some Italian spectators once called out, during the recital of a battle, "Let them raise the curtain, that we may see the battle itself." One often experiences this desire at the representation of our tragedies, the wish of being present at the scene which is related. The author of the French Wallenstein was obliged to throw into the substance of his play the exposition which is produced in so original a manner by the prologue of the Camp. The dignity of the first scenes. perfectly agrees with the imposing tone of French tragedy; but there is a sort of motion in the irregularity of the German, the want of which can never be supplied. The French author has also been censured for the double interest inspired by the love of Alfred (Piccolomini) for Thecla, and the conspiracy of Wallenstein. In France, they require |