In the summer of 1802 he decided definitely to carry out his plan of vying with the Greeks. The Bride of Messina was finished in February, 1803.  While he was working at it there arrived one day—­it was in November, 1802—­a patent of nobility from the chancelry of the Holy Roman Empire.  It may be noted in passing that several years before he had been made an honorary citizen of the French Republic, his name having been presented at the same time with those of Washington, Wilberforce, and Kosciusko.

Among the later plays of Schiller The Bride of Messina is the one which shows his stately poetic diction at its best, but has proved least acceptable on the stage.  As we have seen, it was an artistic experiment.  A medieval prince of Messina has an ominous dream which is interpreted by an Arab astrologer to mean that a daughter to be born will cause the death of his two sons, thus making an end of his dynasty.  When the child is born he orders it put to death.  But meanwhile his queen has had a dream of contrary import, and thereby saves the life of her new-born daughter, but has her brought up remote from the court.  In time the two quarrelsome brothers, ignorant that they have a sister, fall in love with the girl.  One slays the other in a frenzy of jealous rage, the other commits suicide in remorse.  This invention can hardly be called plausible.  Indeed, so far as the mere fable is concerned, it is a house of cards which would collapse any moment at the breath of common sense.  One must remember in reading the play that common sense was not one of the nine muses.  The dreams take the place of the Delphic oracle, and the Greek chorus is represented by two semi-choruses, the retainers of the quarreling brothers, who speak their parts by the mouth of a leader, at one moment taking part in the action, at another delivering the detached comment of the ideal spectator.  There is much splendid poetry in these pseudo-choruses, but it was impossible that such a scheme should produce the effect of the Greek choral dance.

Did Schiller feel that in The Bride of Messina he had wandered a little too far away from the vital concerns of modern life?  Probably, for he next set to work on a play which should be popular in the best sense of the word—­William Tell.  It is his one play with a happy ending and has always been a prime favorite on the stage.  The hero is the Swiss people, and the action idealizes the legendary uprising of the Forest Cantons against their Austrian governors.  There are really three separate actions:  the conspiracy, the love-affair of Bertha and Rudenz, the exploits of William Tell.  All, however, contribute to the common end, which is the triumph of the Swiss people over their oppressors.  The exposition is superb, there is rapidity of movement, variety, picturesqueness, the glamor of romance; and the feelings evoked are such as warm and keep warm the cockles of the heart.  When the famous actor Iffland received the manuscript of the first act, in February, 1804, he wrote: