es rise
to a series of great actions, which are here vividly presented to our
view. We mingle in the clashing interests of these men of war; we see
them at their gorgeous festivals and stormy consultations, and
participate in the hopes or fears that agitate them. The subject had
many capabilities; and Schiller has turned them all to profit. Our
minds are kept alert by a constant succession of animating scenes of
spectacle, dialogue, incident: the plot thickens and darkens as we
advance; the interest deepens and deepens to the very end.

But among the tumults of this busy multitude, there are two forms of
celestial beauty that solicit our attention, and whose destiny,
involved with that of those around them, gives it an importance in our
eyes which it could not otherwise have had. Max Piccolomini, Octavio's
son, and Thekla, the daughter of Wallenstein, diffuse an ethereal
radiance over all this tragedy; they call forth the finest feelings of
the heart, where other feelings had already been aroused; they
superadd to the stirring pomp of scenes, which had already kindled
our imaginations, the enthusiasm of bright unworn humanity, 'the bloom
of young desire, the purple light of love.' The history of Max and
Thekla is not a rare one in poetry; but Schiller has treated it with a
skill which is extremely rare. Both of them are represented as
combining every excellence; their affection is instantaneous and
unbounded; yet the coolest, most sceptical reader is forced to admire
them, and believe in them.

Of Max we are taught from the first to form the highest expectations:
the common soldiers and their captains speak of him as of a perfect
hero; the Cuirassiers had, at Pappenheim's death, on the field of
Luetzen, appointed him their colonel by unanimous election. His
appearance answers these ideas: Max is the very spirit of honour, and
integrity, and young ardour, personified. Though but passing into
maturer age, he has already seen and suffered much; but the experience
of the man has not yet deadened or dulled the enthusiasm of the boy.
He has lived, since his very childhood, constantly amid the clang of
war, and with few ideas but those of camps; yet here, by a native
instinct, his heart has attracted to it all that was noble and
graceful in the trade of arms, rejecting all that was repulsive or
ferocious. He loves Wallenstein his patron, his gallant and majestic
leader: he loves his present way of life, because it is one of