and interruption of going out of doors; he also wished to be relieved from the cares of housekeeping, to which he confessed that he was quite unequal. It cost him less trouble, he said, 'to execute a whole conspiracy, than to arrange his domestic matters for a week,' and 'he fell headlong out of his ideal world, if holes in his stocking reminded him of the world of reality.' To Maria's womanly nature there would be great pleasure in the thought that she could spare the poet these troubles in the future.

Körner had received an appointment under Government, which would call him to Dresden, and it was decided that as soon as they were married and settled there, Schiller should join them.

All this time Körner had never been able to ask his friend to enter his father's house. The old clergyman was immovable, though Huber's father, the Professor, received him gladly; and it was a great disappointment that they could not even ask him to the wedding, which took place about five months after Schiller's arrival.

On the morning of her wedding-day, Maria received a present which pleased her greatly; it was the Song to Joy, one of Schiller's most beautiful short poems, which he had written for the occasion.

The Körners were married in the beginning of August, and they immediately set out for their home in Dresden, taking Doris with them. Although the distance was only about sixty miles, the journey occupied two or three days, for the Saxon roads were so bad, that in some seasons they were impassable. Their friends took leave of them, as though they should never see them again; however, they reached Dresden safely, and there Maria found a nice house prepared for her reception in the Neustadt, not far from the Japanese Palace. They did not stay there, however, but went on to the village of Loschewitz, where Körner had purchased a vineyard with a small cottage, which was to be their summer residence.

Maria at once set to work to fit up a room for their expected guest. The accommodation in the vigneron was very limited, barely sufficient for the Körners and their sister. The winepress occupied the first floor, and two small parlours, with two bedrooms, equally small, completed the establishment. There was, however, a little chamber on the first floor adjoining the winepress which, with a little contrivance, they converted into a bedroom for their friend. Maria made it as inviting as she could with green silk curtains, an easy chair, and a writing table, and when Schiller came at the end of August, he was perfectly contented with the accommodation they had to offer him; and here, for the first time since as a boy he had left his father's house for the rigid routine of the Duke's school, he began to enjoy a peaceful and harmonious life in a congenial family.

There was an old ash tree in the garden, with a stone seat beneath it, and here the four friends sat at breakfast the morning after Schiller's arrival, enjoying the rich beauty of the scenery on the banks of the Elbe. As they were clinking their glasses in the German fashion, Maria

broke hers; she was not free from superstition, and looked upon the accident as an evil omen. Schiller, guessing her feeling, immediately threw his glass over the garden wall into the Elbe which flowed beyond, and persuaded Körner and Doris to do the same, saying, 'Our union is too beautiful for us to part singly.' The next day, when Maria was in the town, she purchased four small silver cups which would not break, and had their initials engraved upon them; and these they always used afterwards. When Schiller left their home for Weimar, he asked Maria to exchange cups with him; and she kept his with the S upon it till she was a very old woman, and then she gave it to Dr. Friedrich Förster, who, she knew, would value it for Schiller's sake and for her own. must have been a great pleasure to the Körners in after years, when the name of Schiller was honoured above every other German name, to feel that they had helped, by thus providing him with a peaceful home, towards the development of his genius, while the pleasure which they derived from intercourse with one who was endowed, not only with brilliant gifts, but with a wise and genial spirit, and a warm, loving heart, was in itself an ample reward for the hospitality so freely offered.

It

Schiller's melancholy no longer troubled him while under their roof, and he contributed much to the enjoyment of their family circle. Sometimes he wrote short plays, which they used to perform in the evenings at home. In one of these the Consistorial Counsellor (to which dignity Körner had been advanced) figured as the hero, and created much amusement when it was acted upon Körner's birthday. For another festive occasion he tried his hand as a painter, and produced a series of puppetshow pictures, with explanations in poetry. One of these represented Körner as a school-boy in his father's chamber, and the reverend gentleman chastising him with a rod, because instead of reading pious works. he had been caught devouring The Robbers. Another showed Körner sternly refusing to the tragic Muse the loan of a wig and gown, which she on her knees is imploring. This referred to Körner's decided refusal to lend these relics of his good old father to embellish the performance of Cabale und Liebe, at the Dresden Theatre. The old clergyman died soon after his son's marriage, and Schiller, finding these articles in a wardrobe, had begged the loan of them, which his friend very rightly refused. Madame Körner says he drew very badly, but that probably enhanced the amusement which was caused by these sketches.

There is a very amusing poem, describing his difficulties in writing upon a washing day; how he is carried away in fancy to the court of King Philip of Spain (he was writing Don Carlos then), and sees the young Princess Eboli, and is just imagining what she says, when the sound of a wet stocking thrown plump into the tub dispels all his poetic fancies, and he can write no more. This poem,

which Mr. Carlyle says is the only comic poem of Schiller's which has appeared in print, was written as a letter to Madame Körner when

Schiller had been left in the house one washing day, while the others were out on some excursion.

Schiller lived with the Körners for two years, writing and studying with great diligence; he commenced the History of the Netherlands during this time, a subject which attracted his interest while he was seeking information for his Don Carlos. At the end of two years he accepted a pressing invitation from the Duke of Weimar to visit his court, where Goethe and other men of mark had been settled for some time, and Schiller, after much consideration, decided to take up his abode among them.

The Duke gave him an appointment with a salary which more than covered his modest wants, and in course of time he married, and had a happy home of his own. He never forgot the Körners, but kept up a regular correspondence with them, and they interchanged visits. The Körners hoped much for their children from intercourse with a mind like that of Schiller; but this was not to be, for the children were still quite young when, to the inexpressible grief of all his friends, his life on earth was terminated by a short illness. Schiller died in 1805, at the comparatively early age of forty-six.

(To be continued.)

SHAKSPERE TALKS WITH UNCRITICAL PEOPLE.

IX.-RICHARD THE THIRD.

WITHOUT intending any disparagement to the various matters of interest connected with the Henry VI. series of plays, it must be confessed that there is a certain relief in turning from them to undoubted Shaksperian ground. Especially to us uncritical people,' who cannot be expected to feel much interest in disputed points of authorship and questions of style, it is pleasant to pass from the confusions of our last three plays to the clear definiteness of Richard III. Here we find, for the first time, one great character dominating all the others, giving the tone to the whole, one man who really is the play, everybody else being merely there to set him off. Not that these secondary people are made too faint to show their individualities—far from it; but they are artistically kept in the background, while the full light is thrown on the central figure of Richard himself. I need hardly remind any one how many of Shakspere's greatest works are arranged on this plan; not all, of course, but perhaps those which have taken deepest hold on the minds of men. This is the first we have had of this sort, and certainly we appreciate the concentrated interest after the disjointed style of Henry VI. Perhaps it is hardly fair to contrast this series

of patched up and altered plays with Richard III., where Shakspere had free play, and could bring forward the living creations of his own brains, instead of galvanising the puppets of other folks. Rather, it may be, we should go back to the other Richard for a comparison, and if we do so, I think we shall find that everything here is more intense, more real, and much more dramatic than in Richard II. It may be that this subject lends itself better, that there is more action and interest in the history, but certainly this play is far more exciting even to read to oneself. The characters really act instead of talking all the time, so that they work up our interest and carry us along with them.

As before, Shakspere got his foundation for his historical play from Holinshed's Chronicle, in which Richard's history is taken from that written by Sir Thomas More. With one or two bold deviations, he has kept pretty close to his authority, and the conception of Richard's character exactly corresponds to the view of him presented in the Chronicle. Shakspere was not the first to put Richard's story on to the stage. In 1594 some one of name unknown published The true Tragedie of Richard III., a curious production, in which Clarence's ghost comes crying out for blood! One or two passages may have helped Shakspere to an idea, as, for instance, one where King Richard raves in mad despair, and suddenly comes back to reason-something like his soliloquy in the famous tent scene. Also the line, A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!' comes from this play; yet in most points the two dramas are as different as possible.

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It does not do to read Richard III. as we read a novel. We lose half the effect if we do not at least try to fancy it on the stage, it is so essentially dramatic throughout. And yet, not being tied down by the actual limits of stage representation, we can indulge our fancy so far as to supply such background as the real historical scenes may be supposed to require. Take the opening scene, for example, and fill up the curt stage direction, London a street,' with pointed roofs and tiny paned windows, deep shadowed eaves and overhanging stories ; let an angle of tower show in the distance, with Edward IV.'s three-sunned banner waving from the summit, and then let Richard come down between the houses in the sunshine, and begin to tell us about 'the winter of our discontent.' At once we recognise the man who stabbed King Henry, as the same train of ideas which he expressed over the body is resumed now, his own bitterness against the fate which has made him deformed and unlovely, and his fierce determination to gain something in compensation. Shakspere has not quite left off yet that convenient but provoking plan of making his villains tell us how villainous they are going to be for the future, which is tiresome, because unnatural, and superfluous here, as we certainly do not credit Richard with being anything else, so he need not talk about it. So many scenes and passages in this play must needs be noticed, that to bring our talk on it within reasonable

limits, we must pause as little as possible on merely the story, which is, or ought to be, familiar to us all.

It brings before us Richard in three phases of fortune, ambitiously struggling, succeeding triumphantly, and falling in despair. He himself indicates the first object of his efforts, the removal of Clarence from his path, and now we see how this is being effected. As Clarence passes by to the Tower, we notice the perfect ease with which Richard assumes the part he chooses to play for the time, for the versatility of his powers is one of the most remarkable points about him. Here he plays the affectionate brother so naturally, so easily, that we might be as much deceived as 'simple plain Clarence,' if we did not know better, and if Richard did not drop the mask when left alone with a grim chuckle at his own hypocrisy. We must not overlook the hard, grim sort of humour which shows in his iron nature from time to time, elicited mostly by his supreme contempt for the people around him. He despises his enemies rather than hates them, and just sweeps them out of his way with a fiendish laugh at their weakness. Certainly, till Richmond appears, Richard has no opponent fit to cope with him, for Clarence, Hastings, &c., are easily befooled.

But now (Act i. sc. 2) comes Lady Anne to give us one of the most striking scenes of the whole play. Of course, to bring in Henry VI.'s corpse still bleeding, just before Edward IV.'s death, is to make very free with history; but this is a trifle to Shakspere, as we know. Lady Anne is at such a white heat of wrath and grief as she pours her lamentation over Henry's corpse, that we do not get much idea of her natural character, we only see an excitable and impulsive creature carried by her feelings beyond all bounds of moderation, curiously weak and strong by turns. How she faces Richard like a true Nevil, while her escort tremble and shrink! The whole dialogue demands to be read aloud to bring home the wonderful effect of Richard's soft, slippery persuasion coiling round Anne's fierce passion, till it makes one feel choked. It is like seeing some fair struggling creature in the folds of a snake; do what she will she cannot escape, for now we begin to see Richard's extraordinary powers. How many influences he brings to bear on her! His assumption of intense devotion to her, of repentance, and of pride which only she can bend, his subtle flattery, now of her beauty, now of her influence over him, all combine with his mingled audacity and deference to bewitch Anne. As if a spell were working on her, her passionate resistance melts away, while he redoubles his fawning and wiles.

'Look how this ring encompasseth thy finger,
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart:
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.'

Then, as she leaves him, we are electrified by the sudden change, expressed first in the curt orders to the bearers of the corpse, and then the outburst of savage triumph when he is alone over his success.

For