tis persona; and, above all, the beautiful stream of genuine poetry, which runs through almost every scene, will, we trust, reconcile the reader to linger awhile longer with us on its flowery, yet solemn margin, than the brief rules of dramatic analysis usually require. The events which form the basis of this five-act tragedy (whose length, extending to more than 300 close pages, might rather entitle it to the name of a dramatic romance) having chiefly occurred at a period of sixteen years before its commencement, and only transpiring as they affect the various conduct and feelings of its actors -a preliminary sketch, such as is usu ally presented to the reader, becomes not only difficult but inexpedient, as the whole interest of the play arises from the gradual developement and bearing of these half-forgotten events on the passions, recollections, and decisions of to-day. The reader must therefore be content to accompany us through the successive scenes in which they are unfolded, and owe his information to the same, perhaps, tedious process. If he is one who loves to jump at a conclusion, and who reads the last page of his novel before the first-he will do well to leave "Das Bild" to those who have both leisure and inclination to follow the author in his sad, yet soothing pilgrimage, through those "dark chambers of imagery," the recesses of the human heart, with all their shadowy, yet familiar forms of love, and ambition, and sorrow. The solemn impression left on the mind by the denouement of this tale of domestic distress, is equally remote from that gloomy and depress ing fatalism, which so painfully pervaded the drama of antiquity, and that cold and withering scepticism which casts a blight over many of the noblest efforts of modern genius-it is a subdued and salutary acquiescence in the decree, which has made Peace, not Triumph, the handmaid of virtue➡ and Heaven, not Earth, the home of happiness. The scene is laid (so late as the beginning of the last century) in a splendid baronial castle of German Switzerland, the hereditary domain of the Counts Von Norden, and for many years the solitary residence of their supposed last scion, a knight of the Teutonic order, and, as such, devoted to celibacy. The play opens with the characteristic grumblings of a saturnine old seneschal at the increase of trouble and sacrifice of comfort, occasioned by the late unwonted influx of guests, whose apparently humble condition he can by no means reconcile with his master's lavish hospitality, and respectful demeanour towards them. An Italian, named De Burg, and his blind, but still lovely daughter, have been for some time inmates of the castle; and the previous evening had witnessed the arrival of two more individuals of the same country-an artist of renown named Spinarosa, and his youthful pupil Leonhard-from whose reception the attendants have gathered that the younger is son to the blind lady. In the midst of the chatelain's indignant mutterings, the latter pair return from that morning homage of genius at the shrine of nature, to which the vicinity of the glorious Alps had summoned them. Leonhard, a youth of fifteen, thus exclaims ;— Leon. See here what spacious halls! how all around Spin. A princely pile! But ah! how nobler far its daring site! It rears its tow'rs amid these rocks and glaciers, Leon. All here is beautiful! but 'tis not home! Yet are my home's green lineaments as fresh With lowly thatch and humble wicket graced, 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 To be her heralds at your native cot; She meets us, standing on this princely threshold, Leon. What call ye cares? think ye I was so apt I might, like thee, shed sunshine on the earth, Leon. Where Misery dwelt!-here, I feel poor indeed. Spin. My Leonhard! thou but echoest my thoughts! 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. Leonhard sadly answers: Leon. I have no heart to guess! I cannot learn Could I but trace one well-known outline here Burg. Before thee stands the Marquis of Sorrento, Marq. I do not jest!—the time at length is come Aye! Oft he spake of him, as a valiant man, Leon. Gracious 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 alliance 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 Where, as by moonlight oft, with secret shudder, I glided past, perchance his sorrowing glance Rested upon me? Aye, I do remember There swung dim relics of a broken frame From the fell tree! Marq. In that dark gallery, No master's hand gives immortality. By ravenous preying on the counterfeit ! A little deeply-hidden hermitage: There wert thou born-But, in that narrow cell, Was his betrayer! Leon. Thus desecrate? Marq. Heav'ns! who could our art We'll speak of that anon. Thy father soon was recognised, and thrown Again into his dungeon-Greedy Death Mock'd the slow process that his destined prey He died by poison! Leon. O my wretched father! Thy son thine ashes trode, and knew it not! Marq. Soon through our friends we learn'd the dismal news: Fain had I hid them from thy hapless mother, Her eyes' mild light was quench'd! Thy sire's alliance Of some proud palace? Marq. There in poverty Thou wert brought up. Had not thy father's brother And we been prey to both. After long years, And bore thee with him to our native land. When Spanish tyranny should be o'erthrown) It was my wish to rear thee, where bright Heavens I've rear'd thee for myself-a worthy heir! Leon. And yet I bear a lofty German name- He obey'd Leon. Marq. Leon. On distant shores-I could not claim your aid, My tearful northern speech was pour'd in vain : Fold to his bosom the forsaken child! Marq. And deeply are we all beholden to him! Leon. More than he claims?-Alas! he makes no claim. What! shall the man who Virtue's precious seeds His pencil deep in Nature's rainbow hues, Of sweet communion-the bright mirror held Till the eternal stars, and brighter spheres, 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 I claim the stranger's aid-Since Austria's banner Once more in Naples waved, we banish'd men And hourly look for tidings that my lands Are mine once more. For this I summon'd thee, Thou mightst claim kindred with thy noble uncle, 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 joytul surprise, asks how he has deserved such kindness. Count. Oh! do nct ask! receive it as a treasure. Long buried for thee in my faithful heart, Rejoice with me, and be indeed my son! Leon. How rich I am! Did ever orphan find So many fathers striving thus in love! Count. My son! what think'st thou of thy father's castle? Leon. 'Tis grand and beautiful-yet is it sad, To roam through empty chambers, where are none To give us friendly greetings-as 'mid tombs We flit in quest of life-Oh! that 'twere ours To dwell together in some tiny cot, Where, without seeking, we were sure to meet! Count. Thou'lt learn to love these ancient halls, that ope Amid them long, yet felt no solitude! They are our sires' grey comrades-who beheld Their course from youth to age-who silent mark'd Leon. Already I revere-and soon shall feel it. Count. Thou know'st these tow'rs are destined to be thine, |