The following is a dramatic account of a warning dream that saved the life of Wallenstein, the celebrated generalissimo of the Catholic forces in the great religious war of the seventeenth century: -

'Wallenstein. I fell into a slumber;

Then midmost in the battle was I led In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult! Then was my horse killed under me: I sank; And over me away, all unconcernedly,

Drove horse and rider - and thus, trod to pieces

I lay, and panted like a dying man.

Then seized me suddenly a saviour arm; -

It was Octavio's. I awoke at once;

'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me.

"My brother," said he, "do not ride to-day

The dapple, as you're wont; but mount the horse

Which I have chosen for thee. Do it, brother,

In love to me! a strong dream warned me so."

It was the swiftness of that horse that snatched me

From the hot pursuit of Baumer's dragoons.

My cousin rode the dapple on that day,

And never more saw I or horse or rider.

Illo. That was a chance.

Wallenstein (significantly). There's no such thing as chance. In brief, 'tis signed and sealed that this Octavio

Is my good angel - and now no word more.'

The Piccdomini.

The next, also from Schiller, exhibits the dream-warnings that immediately preceded the great Duke of Friedland's assassination: -

'WaUenstein. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister! ' Countess. 0 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee. A boding fear possesses me!

Wallenstein. Fear! Wherefore?.

Countess. Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at waking Never more find thee!

Wallenstein. Fancies!

Countess. O, my soul

Has long been weighed down by these dark forebodings, And if I combat and repel them waking,

They will crush down upon my heart in dreams. I saw thee yesternight, with thy first wife, Sit at a banquet gorgeously attired.

Wallenstein. This was a dream of favourable omen, That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.

Countess. To-day I dreamt that I was seeking thee In thine own chamber. As I entered, lo! It was no more a chamber: the Chartreuse At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded, And where it is thy will that thou shouldst be Interred.

Wallenstein. Thy soul is busy with these thoughts.

Countess. What! dost thou not believe that oft in dreams A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us?

Wallenstein. There is no doubt that there exist such voices Yet I would not call them Voices of warning that announce to us Only the inevitable. As the sun, Ere it has risen, sometimes paints its image In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow.

That which we read of the fourth Henry's death Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale Of my own future destiny. The king Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife, Long ere Ravaillac armed himself therewith; His quiet mind forsook him: the phantasma Started him in the Louvre, chased him forth Into the open air: like funeral knells Sounded that coronation festival; And still with boding sense he heard the tread Of those feet that even then were seeking him Throughout the streets of Paris.