nd despairing
mind in which tenderness becomes cruelty, and remorse for error tortures
itself into scarce conscious crime.

But the art employed, though admirable of its kind, still falls short of
the perfection which, in his later works, Schiller aspired to achieve,
viz. the point at which _Pain_ ceases. The tears which Tragic Pathos,
when purest and most elevated, calls forth, ought not to be tears of
pain. In the ideal world, as Schiller has inculcated, even sorrow should
have its charm--all that harrows, all that revolts, belongs but to that
inferior school in which Schiller's fiery youth formed itself for nobler
grades--the school "of Storm and Pressure"--(Stuerm und Draeng--as the
Germans have expressively described it.) If the reader will compare
Schiller's poem of the 'Infanticide,' with the passages which represent
a similar crime in the Medea, (and the author of 'Wallenstein' deserves
comparison even with Euripides,) he will see the distinction between the
art that seeks an _elevated_ emotion, and the art which is satisfied
with creating an _intense_ one. In Euripides, the detail--the
reality--all that can degrade terror into pain--are loftily dismissed.
The Titan grandeur of the Sorceress removes us from too close an
approach to the crime of the unnatural Mother--the emotion of pity
changes into awe--just at the pitch before the coarse sympathy of actual
pain can be effected. And it is the avoidance of reality--it is the
all-purifying Presence of the Ideal, which make the vast distinction in
our emotions between following, with shocked and displeasing pity, the
crushed, broken-hearted, mortal criminal to the scaffold, and
gazing--with an awe which has pleasure of its own--upon the Mighty
Murderess--soaring out of the reach of Humanity, upon her Dragon Car!]

* * * * *

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

A HYMN.

Blessed through love are the Gods above--
Through love like the Gods may man be;
Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,
Through love like a heaven earth can be!
Once, as the poet sung,
In Pyrrha's time, 'tis known,
From rocks Creation sprung,
And Men leapt up from stone;
Rock and stone, in night
The souls of men were seal'd,
Heaven's diviner light
Not as yet reveal'd;
As yet the Loves around them
Had never shone--nor bound them
With their rosy rings;
As yet their bosoms knew not
So