with passions and incidents such as this visible diurnal sphere affords ;and thus,

"To clothe the palpable and the familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn."

In Tieck's view, the marvellous of the Nursery Tale was to be reduced as nearly as possible to the standard of common life; no longer to remain the moving principle of the story, but only occasionally to manifest itself in fitful glimpses, sufficient to remind the reader or spectator, that an invisible agency, like a thread of silver tissue, pervaded and ran through the whole web of human existence. The main interest was to rest on human passions, crimes, or follies, and the ever-springing changes which the ordinary course of real life exhibits. The difficulty, therefore, was in such a case to find a subject which should possess the airy charm of a Nursery Tale, and yet where the human interest should not be entirely merged in the allegorical or the marvellous; -some neutral ground on which in fancy and manhood might shake hands; and where the influence of the good and evil passions which sway the heart within, should blend and harmonize naturally with the agency of spells or spirits from without. Such a subject seemed to be presented by Bluebeard.

It was but transferring the scene from Asia to Europe-exhibiting the characters on a back ground of chivalry-substituting the monastery and the castle for the mosque and the seraglio; attiring Bluebeard in a helmet instead of a turban; exchanging the despotism of the East for the feudal tyranny and oppression of Germany, and the thing was done to his hand. Daughters were as commonly brought to sale under the holy Roman Empire, as in Bagdat or Cairo; necromancy was as much the order of the day in the one as the other; wives now and then disappeared in a German Burg as well as in a Turkish harem; curiosity was a failing not confined to Europe; all this, in short, required no alteration; Bluebeard seemed to conform himself to the custom of the country as naturally as if he had been native, and to the manner born.

One reason for this, though perhaps Tieck was not aware of it, might be, that the story of Bluebeard was after all founded on fact, and that Bluebeard was, in truth, a Frenchman of the fifteenth century. Tieck took the story from Perrault's Fairy Tales, most of which are borrowed from Straparolas (1550, 1554), and all of them, we believe, with the exception of Bluebeard, either from Straparola, the Pentamerone, or some other Italian source. But the subject of Bluebeard was to be found nearer home. Report ascribes the honour of being its original to the famous or rather infamous Gilles de Laval Marechal de Retz, executed and burnt in 1440 for crimes, of which the monstrous and almost incredible record slumbers in the archives of Nantes, and the royal library of Paris. The boundless wealth, the dealings in magic, the murders of immense numbers of young persons of both sexes, his demoniacal atrocities and debaucheries, and his terrible end, long rendered him a source of horror and disgust, till his name, or rather some features of his character, became interwoven even with the nursery legends of the time. From some of these, aided a little by his own imagination, Perrault appears to have composed the tale which has stimulated the curiosity, and shaken the nerves of so many of the rising generation since his time.

There was little difficulty on the whole, therefore, in transplanting the scene of Bluebeard to the banks of the Rhine, and changing the threetailed Bashaw of Colman, into the German Ritter; while all the old features of the tale, even to the magical practices and secret murders of the gloomy feudal chieftain, were accurately preserved. The great aim of Tieck throughout is evidently to keep down the marvellous as much as possible, so as even to render it doubtful whether there be any marvel in the case after all; to pitch every thing on a subdued and natural key, and to produce his catastrophes by motives and incidents arising naturally out of the contrasted characters of his piece.*

This is peculiarly the case with

the hero, the German representative of Bluebeard, Peter Berner himself. At first we see in him nothing but an ordinary feudal chief of the time, brief and calm in speech, prudent in council, valiant in war, cruel or lenient as suits his purposes; rather an admirer of the fair sex, sensitive on the subject of his bluebeard, which he feels to be his weak point; not without a perception of humour; and, on the whole, a favourite with his vassals. It is only as we draw near the close, that by hints and glimpses we begin to perceive the secret ferocity of temperament which burns under this outward crust of calmness of deportment. Peter Berner indulges in no harangues against curiosity and its consequences, he makes no boast of his past achievements, he allows the dead to rest, but he is not the less determined, if necessary, to make short work with the living. He is agitated by no passion, affected by no fears, tormented by no remorse. He has been actuated all his life only by one principle, that of trampling under foot, without hesitation, every thing which stands in the way of his will; and the crimes to which this unalterable resolve may have led, he does not regard as crimes, because any other line of conduct would have appeared to him as folly.

dreams are made of, can find matter for an hour's meditation. But why should we try to describe in our dull prose what Tieck has painted with so much more clearness and liveliness in his own?

We pass over the first act, which does little towards the advancement of the piece. It is occupied almost entirely with an expedition undertaken by the brothers of Wallenrod, with the view of surprising the terror of the surrounding country, Peter Berner, in which expedition, however, it turns out, that the conspirators are themselves surprised, defeated without difficulty, and made prisoners by the redoubtable proprietor of the blue beard. Its chief merit, which, however, is entirely episodical, is the humorous contrast of the professional fool of the family, with the professional wise man or counsellor of the neighbourhood; the wit and good sense turning out, in the end, to be entirely on the side of the fool, the folly on the side of the counsellor; a view of the case, which, though scouted at first with much contempt, begins to dawn at last, even on the obtuse intellects of Heymon and Conrade von Wallenrod.

The subsidiary characters are grouped about him with much diversity of feature and situation. Even the character of the sisters;-Agnes, the giddy, childish, and thoughtless bride and intended victim of Berner, with scarcely any wish beyond that of gay clothes and gilded apartments; and Anne, more serene, reflecting, and impassioned, thinking constantly of her lover, who thinks much more of tournaments and adventures than of her, are discriminated by light, yet decided touches. The brothers, too, are ably drawn, and the peculiarities of their character are made to exercise a natural and important influence on the progress of the drama; the one prudent and farseeing; the second a light-hearted, light-headed, and thicksculled adventurer; the third, a hypochondriacal dreamer, whom even the rubs and shocks of the world about him are scarcely sufficient to awaken from his reverie, and who, out of the hanging of the hinge of a door, or the stuff that his morning

O, wherefore came the vision, Or why so brief its stay!

Once with pinks and roses
Were my temples shaded;
Now the flowers are withered,
Now the trees are faded;
Now the Spring departed,
Yields to winter's sway,
And my Love false hearted,
He is far away."

Life so dark and wilder'd,
What remains for thee?
Hope and memory bringing
Joy or grief to me ;-
Ah! for them the bosom
Open still must be!

Anne. Better than I thought.

Agnes. Canst tell me why in all these ditties there is always so much of love? Have these song-makers no other subject to harp upon?

Anne. They think it one with which every one must sympathize.

Agnes. Not I. Nothing wearies me more than these eternal complaints. But, come, explain to me what this love isI can make nothing of it.

Anne. Nay, prithee, dear sister! Agnes. How long has he been gonethree years?

Anne. Ah!

Agnes. There you sit and sigh, where you should be telling your story like a girl of sense.

Anne. I am but a poor story-teller. Agnes. Well, but-seriously—this love must be a very sttange affair.

Anne. Well for you that you comprehend it not.

Agnes. I am always gay and cheerful. You are the very picture of melancholy -you have no sympathy with the world and its events-your very existence is a mere outward shadow of life-but all has long been dead and lifeless within.

Anne. Each has his own way-leave me to follow mine.

Agnes. But how can any one be so insensible to joy? To me the world looks so kindly, so beautiful, so varied, methinks we can never see or know too much of it. I would wish to be always in motion, travelling through unknown cities, climbing hills, seeing other dresses, and other manners. Then I would shut myself up in some palace, with the key of every chamber or cabinet in my hand. I would open them one after the other, take out the beautiful and rare jewels, carry them to the window, gaze at them till I was tired; then fly to the next, and so on, and on, without end.

Agnes. I understand you not. But, in truth, I have often thought if I were to arrive at some strange castle, where every thing was new to me, how I should hurry from one chamber to another, always impatient, always curious-how I should make myself acquainted by degrees with every article of furniture it contained! Here I know every nail by heart.

Anne. Give me the lute a moment.

Anne. And so grow old? So labour through a weary unconnected life?

Leo. Not a man, I dare say, according to your notion; an old superannuated animal, who has passed over youth as over some bridge which was to fall, once for all, behind him; and who within the precincts of age, sits down delighted to put on a grave face, deal in sober counsel, listen when other men speak, and find fault with every thing about him. A man, such as you would make, would censure the cat for instance, if he did not catch his mice according to his notions, and in the most approved fashion. I always hated to hear people say-He acts like a manhe is a model of a man-for ten to one but these heroes were mere overgrown children-creatures that creep through the world on all fours, and only meet with more stumbling blocks by trying to avoid them. And yet the bystanders exclaim, Lord, what a deal of experience he has got!

Anth. That portrait, I am to understand, is intended for me?

Leo. Oh! no. You have more sense about you, though you won't admit it, even to yourself. But most men, now, think your thorough paced plodder must be a more sensible fellow than your hop, skip, and jump man, and yet the difference between them is only in their motion.

Anth. You will admit, however, that with the latter many things are constantly going wrong.

Leo. Naturally enough! because he undertakes a great many things. Your slow-going fellow cannot go wrong, because he spends all his time in calculating, and thrusting out all his feelers on all sides before he ventures a step. Ah, brother, if we could see, for instance, how all is arranged, and set to rights for us before hand, would we not be tempted to laugh, think ye, at our deep-laid plans?

Anth. A pleasant philosophy. Leo. But I must break off, and take my leave. I feel so cheerful, I am sure I shall be fortunate.

Simon. Ah! how can I explain such a thing to you!

Anth. Among these half-witted creatures one might almost turn crazed himself.

Enter SIMON.

Simon. So you are going, brother?
Leo. I am.

Simon. I don't think the circumstances are favourable.

Leo. How so?

Simon. There is such a moving, and howling, and scudding among the clouds. Agnes. How do you mean, brother? Anth. As he usually does-he does not know why, but he thinks so.

Simon. One frequently cant tell why he anticipates misfortune; yet there is something within which—

Leo. Well?

Leo. Well, since you can't explain it, I may go. When I come back, I'll take your advice. [Exit.

Anth. His wildness is sure to lead him into some other scrape. Simon. No doubt.

Anne. How do you feel, brother? Simon. Well-I have been thinking of many things this morning. There may be many changes soon.

Anne. How so?

Anth. Do not ask him. It would be labour lost. He knows just as little as you; and observation only keeps his folly alive, which otherwise would have died long ago for want of nourishment.

Agnes. But let him speak, brother!Anth. As you will,—so you don't condemn me to listen to his talk. [Exit.

Simon. I can speak with more comfort now that Anthony is gone. He is always shrugging his shoulders when things are not according to his own notions; and yet he has a most limited understanding. He is like the mass of men, who blame without knowing why, and often merely because the subject is above their comprehension.

Anne. True.

Simon. And yet one would think that the very reason for bestowing a little more attention upon it; when we are learning nothing new, what we learned before begins to fade in us.

Agnes. Brother Simon speaks exceeding wisely to-day.

Simon. It is only that you seldom understand me. This appears to you wise, because you may have thought something of the same kind yourself.

Agnes. What is understanding, then? Simon. Why, that our understandings can't very easily comprehend; but it is certain that, like an onion, it has a number of skins; each of these is called an understanding, and the last, the kernel of the whole, is the true understanding itself. They are the truly intelligent who in their thoughts employ not the mere outer rind, but the kernel itself; but with most men, prudent as they think themselves, nothing but the very outermost skin is ever set in motionand such is brother Anthony.

Agnes. Ha, ha! odd enough. An onion and the understanding, what a comparison ! And how then does brother Leopold think?

Simon. Not at all-he thinks only with the tongue; and as other men eat

to support existence, so he talks incessantly to supply him with thought. What he has said the one moment he has forgotten the next; his thoughts are like vegetables, they are cropped the instant they show a green leaf above the ground, and so shoot on till summer, when they are left to run to seed; and so with Leopold, when his summer is over, and he gossips no more, the people will say of him, There! what an excellent father of a family!

Agnes. And how do you think, brother?

Simon. I-that is the difficulty-that is what vexes me; to conceive how it is we think! Observe, that which was thought must itself think; a puzzle enough to drive a sensible man mad.

Agnes. How so?

Simon. You do not understand me at present, because such ideas never occurred to yourself. Endeavour to comprehend: I think, and with the instrument by which I think, I am to think how this thinking machine itself is framed. The thing is impossible; for that which thinks can never be comprehended by itself.

Agnes. It is very true-such notions are enough to drive a man mad.

Simon. Well then-and do you ask why it is that I am melancholy?"

The conversation is shortly after interrupted by the announcement of the intended visit of Peter Berner, who, having long heard of the fame of the beauties of Friedheim, has come in person to judge for himself. Some vague reports, as the sudden deaths of his wives, and his own gloomy temper, had reached Friedheim; but, in the mind of the giddy Agnes, these weigh little against the prospect of a rich establishment, and that of rummaging among the secrets and treasures of Berner's castle. When the new suitor urges his proposals, she hesitates for a little, pleads his beard, the loneliness of his castle, the shortness of the time allowed her for decision; but long before the interview in the garden is over, it is evident her mind is made up. "We see how it is,-she will be the sixteenth Mrs Shuffleton." The truth is, Peter pleads his case remarkably well; and we recommend the general outline of his statement as a model to young gen tlemen who are about to rush upon their fate by "popping the question." Probatum est.

ANTHONY enters.

Peter. I speed but indifferently with my wooing, knight.

Anth. How?

Peter. Your fair sister believes not my words.

Agnes. You are pleased to say so. Peter. I am no orator; I am a rough man, born and brought up amidst arms and tumult; fair speeches are not at my command; I can only say I love, and with that my whole stock of oratory is at an end. Yet those who say little are more to be trusted than many who deal at once in fine-spun phrases and false hearts. If I cannot express myself gracefully, I have but to learn the art of lying, and that may count for something. So believe me, then, when I say I love you from my heart.

Agnes. And what if I do believe you? Peter. A strange question! Then you must love me in return. Or perhaps it is how shall I express myself-my figure, my appearance is not inviting enough or rather is disagreeable? It is true, there is something about me which strikes one as singular till they know me; but that surely could be no reason for Honesty rejecting an honourable man. is better than a fair outside. What if I people say--still that is better than no have a bluish, aye, or a blue beard, as beard at all.

Anth. Well, sister

Peter. Perhaps you think though that would be an inhuman superstition— that I must be something different, something meaner than other men, because my beard is not of the most approved colour. Ladies know how to change the colour of theirs; and for your love I will do as much for mine. Can man do more?