ield solace even in case of incapacity to perform.

We may look at games of cards as a sort of poetic creation; they, too,
consist of these two elements. The form of the game, combined with
chance, takes the place of the "should" as the ancients recognized it
under the name of fate; the "would," combined with the ability of the
player, opposes it. Looked at in this way, I should call the game of
whist ancient. The form of this game restricts chance, nay, the will
itself; provided with partners and opponents, I must, with the cards
dealt out to me, guide a long series of chances which there is no way of
controlling. In the case of ombre and other like games, the contrary
takes place. Here a great many doors are left open to will and daring; I
can revoke the cards that fall to my share, can make them count in
various ways, can discard half or all of them, can appeal from the
decree of chance, nay, by an inverted course can reap the greatest
advantage from the worst hand; and thus this class of games exactly
resembles the modern method in thought and in poetic art.

Ancient tragedy is based upon an unavoidable "should," which is
intensified and accelerated only by a counteracting "would." This is the
point of all that is terrible in the oracles, the region where _Oedipus_
reigns supreme. _Sollen_ appears in a milder light as duty in
_Antigone_. But all _Sollen_ is despotic, whether it belongs to the
domain of reason, as ethical and municipal laws, or to that of Nature,
as the laws of creation, growth, dissolution, of life and death. We
shudder at all this, without reflecting that it is intended for the
general good. _Wollen,_ on the contrary, is free, appears free, and
favors the individual. _Wollen,_ therefore, is flattering, and perforce
took possession of men as soon as they learned to know it. It is the god
of the new time; devoted to it, we have a dread of its opposite, and
that is why there is an impassable gulf between our art, as well as our
mode of thought, and that of the ancients. Through _Sollen,_ tragedy
becomes great and forceful; through _Wollen,_ weak and petty. Thus has
arisen the so-called drama, in which the awful power of Fate was
dissolved by the will; but precisely because this comes to the aid of
our weakness do we find ourselves moved if, after painful expectation,
we finally receive but scant comfort.

If now, after these preliminary reflections, I turn to Shakespeare, I
can not forbear wishing t