bly
portrays, he would disdain to deal with if even he could. Such a bit of
intricate self-characterization as the English poet puts into the
Queen's mouth in the first scene with Chastelard, in the third act, lies
utterly beyond the range of the sturdier Norseman.

_Queen_: "Nay, dear, I have
No tears in me; I never shall weep much,
I think, in all my life: I have wept for wrath
Sometimes, and for mere pain, but for love's pity
I cannot weep at all. I would to God
You loved me less: I give you all I can
For all this love of yours, and yet I am sure
I shall live out the sorrow of your death
And be glad afterwards. You know I am sorry.
I should weep now; forgive me for your part.
God made me hard, I think. Alas! you see
I had fain been other than I am."

Add to this the beautifully illuminating threat, "I shall be deadly to
you," uttered in the midst of amorous cooings and murmurings, and we
catch a glimpse of the demoniac depth of this woman's nature. Bjoernson's
"Mary Stuart" weeps more than once; nay, she says to Bothwell, when he
has forcibly abducted her to his castle:

"This is my first prayer to you,
That I may weep."

Quite in the same key is her exclamation (in the same scene) in response
to Bothwell's reference to her son:

"My son, my lovely boy! Oh, God, now he lies sleeping in his little
white bed, and does not know how his mother is battling for his sake."

Schiller, whose conception of womankind was as honestly single and
respectful as that of Bjoernson, had set a notable precedent in
representing Mary Stuart as a martyr of a lost cause. The psychological
antitheses of her character, her softness and loving surrender, and her
treachery and cruelty--he left out of account.

Without troubling himself greatly about her guilt, which, though with
many palliating circumstances, he admitted, he undertook to exemplify in
her the beauty and exaltation of noble suffering. His Mary (which has
always been a favorite with tragic actresses) is in my opinion as devoid
of that insinuating, sense-compelling charm which alone can account for
this extraordinary woman's career as is the heroine of Bjoernson's play.
In fact Bjoernson's Mary lies half-way between the amorous young tigress
of Swinburne and the statuesque martyr of Schiller. She is less
intricately feminine than the former, and more so than the latter. But
she is yet a long way removed from her h