The Rosenthal had become an enthusiastic admirer of Goethe, since the days of our student life at Jena, and declared his belief that Goethe had written, if not the greater, at least the best part of "Wallenstein." intimacy between the poets made this possible, though not probable. Schlosser and I took up the cudgels in favour of Schiller, and a warm dispute followed, which did neither party any good, for we each left off with firmer confidence in our own opinions than before. I urged that the style of the book was unlike Goethe's and identical with that of his brother-poet; besides, it was not likely a man of such standing as Schiller would stoop to accept impressions and guidance from his friend without public acknowledgment of the debt. Schlosser had had an interview with Goethe on one occasion, in which he had found his manner cold and repellent. We are always apt to be guided by our personal impressions of persons and things, and I doubt not he was unjust to the great poet, for he generally spoke of him as being proud and distant, but we have many instances to prove he was the contrary by nature. Like most great men who are much sought after, he must have been frequently irritated by perpetual applications for interviews, and it is therefore not surprising that some of his visitors found him reserved and disinclined to open out the treasures of his comprehensive mind before every one who wished to be gratified by his doing so. Ida expressed her extreme admiration for Thekla, the heroine of & Wallenstein's Tod." She is, perhaps, the most lovely female character Schiller ever conceived, and her lover, Max Piccolomini, is a fine mixture of manliness and tender affection. Poets and novelists are apt in their efforts to express all the tenderness of love to make their heroes effeminate. Schiller is never guilty of this fault, and thereby raises the soft passion which he is so successful in portraying. "Wallenstein" was but the beginning of a series of splendid tragedies, which followed each other very rapidly; but I must not speak of them, or I should anticipate events. It was this year that Schiller became a resident in Weimar. His doctors advised a removal from the mountain air of Jena, and perhaps, too, he was induced to make the change that he might be nearer the theatre, productions for which seemed henceforth chiefly to engross his thoughts. I often met him in the retired parts of the park, especially in the secluded path leading to the Römische Haus. He generally held a note-book in his hand, and his eyes were frequently riveted on the ground, so that he often passed his friends without noticing them. I chanced once to be invited to a supper given by him at the Stadthaus to the principal actors. It was after the first representation of one of his plays. Genast recited the Capuchin's sermon in Wallenstein's Lager with an immense amount of humour. But I must return to the little circle of the doctor's house; melancholy events are to be enacted there, and I am one of the performers in the sad tragedy, though much against my will. In May, Heinrich and Veronica proposed going home, and begged me so hard to accompany them, that I at length agreed to ask permission to do so. It was some time before I could make the old doctor understand what I wished to do; a holiday was not a word in his vocabulary, and he March-VOL. CXV. NO. CCCCLIX. 2 B fancied, by going to Halle, I must be on the look-out for a change of business, whereupon, without waiting for an explanation on my part, he began expostulating in the warmest terms, and even went so far as to tell me what I never knew before, that he intended to retire from business in a few years, as his health was breaking up, and that everything would then be in my hands. "But, my dear sir," I said, as soon as I could get a word in, "I have no intention of leaving you; I am perfectly content, and am quite aware of the large debt of gratitude I owe you." "Then what do you want?-hum, hum, hum!" "Merely to accompany my sister to Halle for a few weeks, say three; and, if it be quite convenient, I should like to start in ten days' time.” To ask for a holiday was almost a worse crime than leaving him altogether, and I had great difficulty in gaining my point; but I did so in the end, and arrangements for my journey were made. The evening before my intended departure came, I was reading the few last scenes of "Wallenstein" aloud to Margaret in the little parlour: we were quite alone. Chancing to look up from my book, I saw some tears trickling down her cheeks, and imagining them to have been called forth by the description of Thekla's sorrow, I paused, and asked her if she admired Wallenstein's daughter. "Yes, very much; I can understand what she means," she said, softly; then, raising her eyes, she added, "it must be very beautiful to die for love." "Beautiful in poetry," I rejoined, half inclined to smile, "but we are fortunately made of tougher material. We may suffer deeply for a while, but time deadens the most poignant sorrow, and it is more beautiful to outlive one's misfortunes." "You have never known what sorrow is if you speak thus coldly," said Margaret. "Never known it?" I repeated, dreamily, and with a kind of despondency in my tone. "No, you cannot know what it is to feel your fondest hopes blighted, destroyed; to feel how much your heart can love and yet be treated with coldness and disdain." She stood up, her eye flashed, her bosom heaved, and her usually placid countenance was distorted by many a conflicting passion. I was amazed, and could not speak for some seconds; then rising likewise, I said, "Perhaps I have not felt all you say, but there are many different kinds of sorrow, and one as bitter and hard to bear as another." "I know of one— -I know of one !" she exclaimed, with a cry of such utter wretchedness that it touched me to the heart. "You distress me; I fancied you were happy, and it is very painful to me to learn the contrary. Are you ill? We are old friends, and you might confide in me; I might be able to relieve you. Has anything happened?" "You mock at me," she cried, wringing her hands; "I never deserved this of you." Then suddenly checking herself, as if alarmed at what she had said, she stood for a moment, one hand raised to her temples, and her eyes dilating with an expression that approached madness; then dart ing forward, she exclaimed, "What have I done?-oh, what have I done ?" 66 Nothing-nothing you need be ashamed of," I said, soothingly, for I feared she was ill; but she turned sharply round and confronted me. "If you have any pity in you, promise on your word of honour never to disclose what has passed between us to-night." "You have said nothing confided nothing to me. What can I disclose?" I asked, returning her riveted gaze. "It is well think so,' you ," she said, laying her hand upon the lock of the door. "I shall not see you before you start to-morrow. I wish you a good journey, pleasanter companions than I have been, and every happiness in life. I cannot wish you more." "Will you not give me your hand before you go?" I asked; but she hesitated to comply. "I care not to take your hand," she said, turning the lock of the door; then checking herself, she walked up to me, and her manner was now quite composed. She expressed her deep sorrow that this last evening had ended so disagreeably, and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she thanked me for having taught her English; then I heard a kind of hysterical sob, and before I had time to speak she was gone. I stood bewildered on the spot where she had left me. What could this outburst mean? It was so unlike her usual languid demeanour that for a moment I feared something had disturbed her brain. I tried to recal everything that had happened, her behaviour for the last week, and all the various little occurrences that had taken place during that time, but there was nothing to account in any way for this sudden change. Unwilling to let the matter rest where it was, I straightway informed her aunt that Margaret had gone to her room unwell. The good old lady was much concerned at so unusual an announcement, and went immediately to see her, but found the door fastened, and was refused admittance. I heard Margaret say she had a slight headache, but that was all, and she should soon be quite well, for she only required rest, and intended to go to bed directly. This explanation satisfied her aunt, but I still felt very uneasy, and entreated her to go again to her niece later in the evening. I could do no more. I was bound not to disclose the scene that had passed; and perhaps it was nothing after all, and I might only alarm the old lady needlessly. What I had been reading might have touched some old sore in Margaret's heart that was not yet healed, and would therefore very naturally cause her some few moments of grief, which would quickly pass away. This last supposition comforted me; it was a very plausible reason for what had occurred, but in spite of it, Margaret's strange look and manner haunted me, it was so unlike the quiet, retiring person I had known so long. As I had many things to put in order for my journey, it was late before I retired to rest; and when at length I tried to sleep, I could not, so lighted a candle and read till my eyelids grew heavy and closed of themselves, as if they would put the brain to the blush, and teach it what it ought to do. My slumber was troubled, and it did not refresh me as it should; so when morning came, I rose with a heavy, oppressed feeling in my head, which fresh air and exercise alone could remove. How I took this prescription the next chapter will show. 2 B 2 FRANCE AND AUSTRIA. ANOTHER month has passed away since we expressed our earnest hopes that the Emperor of France would remove the apprehensions which his public policy had produced in diplomatic and mercantile circles; but we regret to find that the question of peace or war is still as far from solution as ever. The political barometer has certainly announced several remarkable changes, but it has not yet veered round to the point of "set fair," where we should all be so glad to see it. With the opening of the British parliament, the part England was determined to play in any continental complication appeared accurately defined; and the words used by her Majesty were most satisfactory: "I receive from all foreign powers assurances of their friendly feelings. To cultivate and confirm those feelings, to maintain inviolate the faith of public treaties, and to contribute, as far as my influence may extend, to the preservation of the general peace, are the objects of my unceasing solicitude." The favourable effect of this speech was, however, in some measure, weakened by the language the Earl of Derby found himself forced to employ in the Upper House, when the expected debate took place as to the probabilities of war. After the long and intimate relations that had subsisted between the governments of England and France, we did not expect to find our prime minister compelled to have recourse to such expressions as "trusting and hoping" that a pacific settlement of the Italian question would be arrived at, for such words evidence a doubt as to the intentions of the emperor, which ought not to exist between the two countries. Still, it was gratifying to learn from Lord Derby's own lips that, if there should be war, the government of England was not bound by any engagements to any party. Altogether, however, the tenor of the debate, endorsed as it was by the emperor's speech overflowing with humane philanthropy, had produced a good effect, and, in all probability, public confidence would have been restored, had it not been for the almost simultaneous publication in Paris of a very remarkable pamphlet, under the title of "Napoléon III. et l'Italie," every page of which positively bristles with menaces. So universal, too, is the impression that this momentous document emanates from the literary officina of the Tuileries (many of the passages bearing a remarkable affinity to the newly published Correspondence of Napoleon I.), that we are justified in regarding it as the imperial manifesto. Under these circumstances we feel ourselves bound to analyse this pamphlet passage after passage, and, to the best of our ability, refute the arguments on which it is based. After discussing the sentimental aspect of the Italian question, and calling attention to the reverence we should all feel for Rome as representing the nursing-mother of modern civilisation, the writer proceeds to assume two postulates, on which the whole superstructure of his argument is raised: There are two entirely distinct elements in the Italian question: First, the revolutionary element, corresponding with those subversive theories and violent passions, which are equally incompatible with European order, the laws of civilisation, religious interest, and the political independence of the papacy; and, secondly, the national element, which has its origin in the history and traditions of Italy, and responds to that which is most imperious and legitimate in the aspirations of the people of the peninsula, and the very conditions of the duration and consolidation of the governments. Unfortunately for the writer, this is no grand new political theory which might claim weight by its novelty it has continually been urged by the amiable theorists, such as the D'Azeglios and Balbos, who seek some via media by which to escape any closer connexion with the republican party. Prince Metternich appears to have decided this question very plainly in 1847, when he wrote to the Austrian ambassador in England: "The political sects that for some years have menaced the peninsular states desire one political chief, or, at least, a federation of states placed under the control of a central supreme power. An Italian monarchy does not enter into these plans. There is on neither side of the Alps any king possible for such a monarchy. Their desires turn toward the erection of a federal republic, on the model of North America and Switzerland." The whole campaign of 1848 proved the utter fallacy of attempting such a division of interests in Italy. Charles Albert, the avowed champion of constitutional Italy, was deserted by his Neapolitan allies, who marched for a while under the same banner, while the republican party, foiled in their expectation of founding a democratic federation after their own heart, became the bitterest foes the unfortunate Don Quixote of constitutionalism possessed. We firmly believe that, at the present moment, no truly liberal party exists out of Sardinia, and that the Emperor of France, in marching to the defence of Italian constitutionalism, would find the greater part of the population averse from his interference, which they could only regard as a change of despotism. But we shall revert to this subject presently. The writer next passes in review the motives which would influence England in the Italian question, and, with some cleverness, tries to implicate us by appealing to the language held by Lord Palmerston in 1848. Leaving out of the question the fact that we are not disposed to accept his lordship's dictum as the expressed wish of the nation (for he was ever too prone to put forward his individual will as endorsed by national opinion), it must not be forgotten that English views as to Italian liberation have undergone an extreme modification since 1848. Historians, poets, and other romancers had so long impressed upon us the idea that l'Italia farà di se, and only required non-intervention as the condition of success, that we had ended by believing the myth. The consequence was, we accepted Lord Minto's ill-judged mission, and Lord Palmerston's remarks precipitated events. Italy was allowed to act for herself, and we soon learned the lamentable consequences in a system of terrorism and assassination which revolted her sincerest friends. Since the period when Austrian supremacy was restored, the peace of Lombardy has only been disturbed by the intrigues of Mazzini and his colleagues, and we are all well disposed to endorse the opinion expressed by Lord Derby in his late speech, that, "as to the people of Lombardy, they had little to complain of in the administration of Austria, but, whatever the government of Austria might be, we had nothing to do with it." This sentence must go far to prove to M. de la Guéronnière that he is wrong in his statement that "although the direction of the English policy has |