the 'sailors of the air, who 'are
not subjects of Elizabeth,' and bids them carry tidings of her to the
hearts that love her in other lands. Without doubt, in all that he
intended, Schiller has succeeded; _Maria Stuart_ is a beautiful
tragedy; it would have formed the glory of a meaner man, but it cannot
materially alter his. Compared with _Wallenstein_, its purpose is
narrow, and its result is common. We have no manners or true
historical delineation. The figure of the English court is not given;
and Elizabeth is depicted more like one of the French Medici, than
like our own politic, capricious, coquettish, imperious, yet on the
whole true-hearted, 'good Queen Bess.' With abundant proofs of genius,
this tragedy produces a comparatively small effect, especially on
English readers. We have already wept enough for Mary Stuart, both
over prose and verse; and the persons likely to be deeply touched with
the moral or the interest of her story, as it is recorded here, are
rather a separate class than men in general. Madame de Stael, we
observe, is her principal admirer.

Next year, Schiller took possession of a province more peculiarly his
own: in 1801, appeared his _Maid of Orleans_ (_Jungfrau von Orleans_);
the first hint of which was suggested to him by a series of documents,
relating to the sentence of Jeanne d'Arc, and its reversal, first
published about this time by De l'Averdy of the _Academie des
Inscriptions_. Schiller had been moved in perusing them: this tragedy
gave voice to his feelings.

Considered as an object of poetry or history, Jeanne d'Arc, the most
singular personage of modern times, presents a character capable of
being viewed under a great variety of aspects, and with a
corresponding variety of emotions. To the English of her own age,
bigoted in their creed, and baffled by her prowess, she appeared
inspired by the Devil, and was naturally burnt as a sorceress. In this
light, too, she is painted in the poems of Shakspeare. To Voltaire,
again, whose trade it was to war with every kind of superstition, this
child of fanatic ardour seemed no better than a moonstruck zealot; and
the people who followed her, and believed in her, something worse than
lunatics. The glory of what she had achieved was forgotten, when the
means of achieving it were recollected; and the Maid of Orleans was
deemed the fit subject of a poem, the wittiest and most profligate for
which literature has to blush. Our illustrious _Don