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tis persone ; and, above all, the beau- ing fatalism, which so painfully pere tiful stream of genuine poetry, which vaded the drama of antiquity, and runs through almost every scene, will, that cold and withering scepticism we trust, reconcile the reader to linger which casts a blight over
many of the awhile longer with us on its flowery, noblest efforts of modern genius--it is yet solemn margin, than the brief a subdued and salutary acquiescence rules of dramatic analysis usually re- in the decree, which has made Peace, quire.
not Triumph, the handmaid of virtue The events which form the basis of and Heaven, not Earth, the home of this five-act tragedy (whose length, happiness. extending to more than 300 close The scene is laid (so late as the bea pages, might rather entitle it to the ginning of the last century) in a splenname of a dramatic romance) having did baronial castle of German Switzchiefly occurred at a period of sixteen erland, the hereditary domain of the years before its commencement, and Counts Von Norden, and for many only transpiring as they affect the va- years the solitary residence of their rious conduct and feelings of its actors supposed last scion, a knight of the -a preliminary sketch, such as is usu. Teutonic order, and, as such, devoted ally presented to the reader, becomes to celibacy. The play opens with the not only difficult but inexpedient, as characteristic grumblings of a saturthe whole interest of the play arises nine old seneschal at the increase of from the gradual developement and trouble and sacrifice of comfort, occabearing of these half-forgotten events sioned by the late unwonted influx of on the passions, recollections, and de- guests, whose apparently humble concisions of to-day. The reader must dition he can by no means reconcile therefore be content to accompany us with his master's lavish hospitality, through the successive scenes in which and respectful demeanour towards they are unfolded, and owe his in- them. An Italian, named De Burg, formation to the same, perhaps, tedi. and his blind, but still lovely daughter, ous process. If he is one who loves have been for some time inmates of the to jump at a conclusion, and who castle; and the previous evening had reads the last page of his novel before witnessed the arrival of two more inthe first-he will do well to leave dividuals of the same country-an art“ Das Bild” to those who have both ist of renown named Spinarosa, and leisure and inclination to follow the his youthful pupil Leonhard-from author in his sad, yet soothing pilgrim- whose reception the attendants have age, through those “dark chambers gathered that the younger is son to of imagery," the recesses of the human the blind lady. heart, with all their shadowy, yet fa- In the midst of the châtelain's inmiliar forms of love, and ambition, dignant mutterings, the latter pair reand sorrow.
turn from that morning homage of The solemn impression left on the genius at the shrine of nature, to mind by the denouement of this tale which the vicinity of the glorious of domestic distress, is equally re- Alps had summoned them. Leonhard, mote from that gloomy and depressa youth of fifteen, thus exclaims;
Leon. See here what spacious halls! how all around
A princely pile !
Leon. All here is beautiful ! but 'tis not home!
With lowly thatch and humble wicket graced,
Smiling, yet solitary, did it stand. The youth goes on to express his regrets at the corresponding change in its inmates; the formerly poor and plebeian father of his blind mother, seems transformed into a splendid noble, to whom even the high-born Knight of the Sable Cross pays deference. The painter thus kindly encourages his darling pupil :
Spin. Fortune anticipates us, we had thought
Leon. What call ye cares? think ye I was so apt
Spin. Well do I know thy filial spirit-oft
I felt none-all was light!
Spin. My Leonhard ! thou but echoest my thoughts!
Will seek a haven in its mother Earth! The attached pair unite in deploring the altered circumstances which already threaten to affect their relative situation, and deprive the artist of a parent's right in the child he has reared so fondly. His projects of ending a life of wandering and misfortune in the bosom of a humble but grateful family, seem blighted by the ostentatious reception given him by the grandfather of his disciple, whose mother he has not yet been permitted to see. These prognostics seem confirmed by a private interview which the former now comes to demand with his grandson. He enters splendidly attired, and endeavours in vain to convert the youth's undisguised surprise and regret into more natural curiosity. Leon. hard sadly answers :
Leon. I have no heart to guess! I cannot learn
Leave, leave the past,
Before thee stands the Marquis of Sorrento,
Leon. Grandfather! do not sport with ine, I feel
Marg. I do not jest !-the time at length is come
Marq. He was thy father!
Ġracious Heaven! -my father? The old noble goes on to relate, that he had from infancy betrothed his only daughter to a son of his early friend, Count Von Norden, preferring this alli. ance to the still more brilliant, nay, princely ones, which her surpassing beauty and virtue opened to her. The young Count had arrived, and the marriage was celebrated; but the restless spirit of freedom and enterprise, brought by the bridegroom from his native mountains, could not brook the subjugation of his beautiful new country by the usurping Spaniards, and urged on by the fame of Masaniello and other previous champions of liberty, he became the soul of a conspiracy, whose explosion was anticipated by the usual perfidy of accomplices. The Viceroy's efforts to seize its leaders were frustrated as if by miracle; the Marquis and his daughter escaped, though with confiscation of all their property--while the Count himself, a still more obnoxious victim, though saved by flight from an ignominious death, has his picture suspended on a gallows in the place of execution at Naples. The youth bursts out,
Leon. In Naples, say’st thou? was my father's image
In that dark gallery,
Heav'ns! who could our art
Marq. We'll speak of that anon.
O my wretched father!
Marq. Soon through our friends we learn'd the dismal news:
Fain had I hid them from thy bapless mother,
Leon. Was not that hut the nest the pious swallow
There in poverty Thou wert brought up. Had not thy father's brother (In error deem'd his foe) supported us, Necessity had doubled sorrow's weight, And we been prey to both. After long years, To our surprise, from Naples came old Pietro, Of yore my faithful servant ; who, when all My summer friends forsook, remain'd alone Unshaken in adversity-he came, And bore thee with him to our native land. For (as I never could forego the hope Again my rich possessions to enjoy, When Spanish tyranny should be o'erthrown) It was my wish to rear thee, where bright Heavens Smile on Earth's paradise ! where sweeter dreams Than Germany's deep foresis ever nur sed, Quicken the heart's warm pulses. In the love Of Italy, and spirit of her sons, I've rear'd thee for myself a worthy heir !
Leon. And yet I bear a lofty German name
Marg. Alas! it froze us with its icy breath!
Thy grateful heart
Nay, but he adopted
Marq. And deeply are we all beholden to him !
Leon. More than he claims?-Alas! he makes no claim.
Were brought within my ken,-shall he be paid? The indignant youth goes on to enumerate the Painter's claims on his gratitude. The rich presents of Popes and Monarchs to their favourite artist had all, he says, been treasured to gladden the supposed poverty and solitude of his parental roof. Still the narrow worldling can coldly answer
Marq. Be calm, my child; no longer as poor Burg
And know this castle thy proud heritage ! The puzzled youth enquires how his heritage can lie in Switzerland ; and is told that the hospitable Knight under whose roof they are, is the only, and childless, brother of his father, Count Gotthard Von Norden.
The Count enters opportunely, and opens his arms with more than paternal love to his nephew. The latter, in joyiul surprise, asks how he has deserved such kindness.
Count. Oh! do nct ask! receive it as a treasure.
Leon. How rich I am! Did ever orphan find
Count. My son! what think'st thou of thy father's castle?
Leon. 'Tis grand and beautiful-yet is it sad
Count. Thou'lt learn to love ihese ancient halls, that ope
Leon. Already I revere-and soon shall feel it.
Count. Thou know'st these tow'rs are destined to be thine,