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. 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 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. In the second act, however, we find ourselves at the Castle of Friedheim, where Sisters Anne, and Agnes, are endeavouring to while away a tedious hour by music and conversation, now and then enlivened by a little gentle malice towards each other. "Agnes (with a lute.) Now, listen, dear sister, see if I can play this air now. Anne. You have no turn for music. You will never play in life. Agnes. And why not I as well as others? Come now, listen. In the blasts of winter Ah! the winds have wafted JO, wlierefore came the vision,' Once with pinks and roses Life so dark and wilder'd, 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. this Anne, I am but a poor story-teller. Agnes. Well, but seriously 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. Anne. And so grow old? So labour through a weary unconnected life? Anth. A strange household to be sure ! Singing in every room; Simon walking about, and gazing at the walls; Leopold preparing to ride on some mad adventure. Faith, if I were not here to keep the whole together, our establishment would be scattered like chaff before the wind. eldest of the family, you are bound to have Agnes. To be sure. As you are the understanding enough for us all. Anth. Do you know what is in Leopold's head ? Agnes. What can it be? Anne. Something absurd, I am certain. Agnes. You call many things absurd which are not so. 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. 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 "The Garden. 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 I 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 gentlemen who are about to rush upon their fate by "popping the question." Probatum est. PETER BERNER, AGNES. Agnes. Knight, you are pressing. Peter. How otherwise shall I try to gain your love? Agnes. You love me, then as you tell me? Peter. From my heart, lady. Agnes. But what do you call love? Peter. If you feel it not, I cannot describe it to you. Agnes. So I hear from all who call themselves in love. Peter. Because it is the truth;-do you doubt my sincerity? Agnes. Oh no! not so; but 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. believe me, then, when I say I love you from my heart. So 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 have a bluish, aye, or a blue beard, as people say still that is better than no beard at all. Anth. Well, sister though Peter. Perhaps you think 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? Agnes. You misconstrue my hesitation. Peter. You need only say, Yes or No. All the rest is but the preface to these. Now, lady. Agnes. I must have time. The loneliness of your castle, too, terrifies me. Peter. That can be easily remedied. If my society be not enough, we can invite company,-people of all kindsthough you will soon tire of them. But time will not hang heavy on your hands. If you love novelties or strange curiosities, you will find plenty at my castle, which will employ you long enough. In my travels and in my campaigns, I have picked up many things which amuse even me in an idle hour. Agnes. May I take my sister Anne with me? Peter. With much pleasure, if she will accompany you." The consent is at last given the marriage is over-with many evil forebodings on the part of Simon. The brothers accompany the newmarried pair part of the way towards Berner's Castle, and leave them at an inn at no great distance from their journey's end. Peter addresses his wife "You have not spoken a word, Agnes? Agnes. I must confess, the tears came rushing into my eyes, so that I could not utter a word. Peter. Wherefore do you weep? Agnes. My brothers, they are gone; who knows if I shall ever see them again? Peter. She who loves her husband truly, must forget both brothers and sisters. We are now left to ourselves. Agnes. Kiss me, Agnes. If we are to travel farther, do not, I pray you, urge on your horse so fearfully; the poor creature is almost sinking beneath you. Peter. He will enjoy his stall the more. It is only after severe toil that rest appears to us as rest. Mind him no farther, child, Agnes. But you may fall. Peter. I have often fallen; it matters not. Agnes. You terrify me. Peter. 'Tis well; that is a proof of your love. Agnes. In truth, now that I am alone with you, I could find it in my heart to be afraid. Peter. Indeed! I am not sorry for it. But you will become accustomed to me by degrees, child. Agnes. The country hereabout is very wild. That mill, yonder in the valley, sounds fearfully in this solitude. Ah! see, yonder are my brothers riding up the mountain side. Peter. My eyes do not reach so far. Agnes. As I rode down I did not think the spot was so near where we were to part. Peter. Drive these things out of your thoughts. Agnes. Before I had ever travelled, there was nothing I longed for so anxiously as a long journey; I thought of nothing but beautiful, incredibly beautiful, countries, castles and towers with wondrous battlements, their gilded roofs sparkling in the morning sun; steep rocks, and wide prospects from their tops; always new faces; leafy forests, and lonely winding footpaths, through green labyrinths echoing to the nightingale's song: and now, every thing is so different, I grow more and more fearful the farther I wander from my home. Peter. We shall meet with some remarkable scenes still. Agnes. Look at those waste dreary fields yonder, those bleak sandy hills, over which the dark rain-clouds are gathering. Peter. My castle has a more pleasant site. Agnes. Ah! it begins to rain; the sky grows darker and darker. Peter. We must to horse; we shall be too late. Where is your sister? Call her, and cease whining. Come, our horses are already fed. [Exeunt." The fourth act passes at the castle of Berner. Agnes has begun to get accustomed to his revolting aspect and gloomy temper; nay, to feel for him something akin to love. She has heard a thousand stories from the old housekeeper, Mechthilde, of the treasures and curiosities which the castle contains; her curiosity is roused to the highest pitch, but, controlled by the awe in which she holds her husband, she has not ventured to ask the fulfilment of his promise. The opportunity, however, of gratifying her curiosity unexpectedly occurs. Peter announces his intention of leaving the castle for a few days, to meet another of those feudal inroads, to which his riches and his posed him. remorseless temper continually ex "Peter, During my absence, Agnes, I |