ART. XII.-Das Bild. Trauerspiel in fünf Akten. The Portrait, a Tragedy, by ERNST VON HOUWALD. Leipsie, 1821.

THIS HIS tragedy, we have been informed, is at present frequently acted, much read, and admired in Germany. It is the popular piece of the day,-that which is given to travellers who inquire after the newest celebrated production, and which booksellers transmit, wrapped up in encomiums, to such of their customers as commission every new work of reputation. The celebrity it has acquired in its native land, rather than its own merits, induces us to bring it under the notice of our readers. To such of them as are acquainted only with those German dramas which were popular in our country towards the commencement of this century, and with the witty parody of them which appeared in the Antijacobin, the popularity of the present production will indicate an improvement in the taste of the Germans. Those, however, who are familiar with the writings of Müllner, Grillparzer, Oelenschläger, and the other favourite dramatists of the day, know that there is still much need of farther changes. The same kind of confused plots, in which the manners of every age are jumbled together-the same sort of false sentiment, exaggeration, and minute stage directions, which the parody alluded to so happily ridiculed, may, though not in an equal degree, be remarked in most of the German dramas.

But it cannot be denied that the German theatre is somewhat improved since the time when the "Robbers," and "Stella,” and the "Stranger," were first known, and became popular in our country. The "Robbers" was literally a school-boy's production, and Schiller atoned for his youthful delinquencies against good taste, by his later writings. His "Mary Stuart," his "William Tell," his "Bride of Messina," are at least very beautiful, if they do not exactly deserve the name of correct productions. The "Stella" of Goethe, also, is now almost forgotten in his own country; but the many pieces free from the prominent faults of the German school, with which he has enriched his native language, such as "Tasso," "Iphigenia," " Egmont," are proudly cherished. The better example set by these two celebrated men in their manhood, and the severe criticisms to which their early productions were exposed, together with the gradual return from the exaggerated fancies which were called forth by the French Revolution, to the sobriety of ordinary life, have produced that reform in the taste of the Germans which has been already noticed. Absurdity is no longer received with undivided ap

plause; and the approbation bestowed on some living dramatists by the mob is balanced by the censures of the discerning few. We have no doubt, though we have seen no proof of it, that ere this the Bild" is discovered to be a very ordinary picture. It may keep possession of the stage, but it will not be hung up in many well-selected libraries, and certainly will not be found adorning the halls of posterity.

At one

The story appeared to us so complicated, that we could not for a long time ascertain with precision what the incidents were which give a feeble interest to five long acts. It is so difficult, also, of analysis, that we despaired, at the very commencement, of being able to convey any distinct idea of it to our readers. place, the heroine is described as becoming blind from the combined effects of the small-pox and weeping.-A powerful marquis assassinates a poor painter who is completely in his power.-The murder is committed precisely as the clock strikes twelve; and we have no doubt a pendulum would be placed on the theatre, during the representation, to inform the audience when to expect the catastrophe! At least it was so when the Schuld," written by Müllner, was represented ;-the spectators being thus apprized, at the same moment, of the consummation of the day and the close of the tragedy. But it is time, as far as our analysis can perform this service, to put our readers in the way of judging for themselves as to the real merits of what is at present one of the most popular pieces in Germany.

The Marquis of Sorrento gave his only daughter in marriage to a young Swiss nobleman, whose father was his intimate friend. Camilla, however, though she had been shut up in a convent, contrived to fall in love with a young German, a painter by profession. The Marquis learnt, when it was too late, that, in the tumult of the world, the heart is more secure than in solitude." The husband of Camilla, informed of this attachment, first employed the painter to paint his own portrait, and then grossly insulted him. Afterwards, engaging in a conspiracy, and being betrayed, he, his wife, and father-in-law, were obliged to leave Naples. On his venturing back, he was discovered and put to death,—his resemblance to his portrait, which had been nailed to a gallows, so that every body might know him, being the cause of his detection. A faithful servant subsequently stole the portrait, and placed it in the hall of the paternal castle. Camilla and her father took refuge in Germany, where they lived on the ruins of their fortune, in a small house" beneath the oak's dark shade, a pretty nest, like what "the swallow builds on the proud cornice of the sunken palace.” Camilla here gave birth to a son, but became blind from the

causes, physical and poetical, above mentioned. The Marquis sent his grandson into Italy, under the care of an old servant, who died; and chance then threw Leonhard on the protection of the first lover of his mother, now the celebrated artist Spinarosa. Under the tuition of this person, to whom he was much attached, he also became an excellent painter. After a period of fifteen years, the Marquis, having a prospect of recovering his estates, summons Leonhard and his master to meet him in Switzerland at the castle of Leonhard's uncle. Here the painter is employed to execute a likeness of Camilla, his early love; and having affixed to it the mark by which he always distinguished his pictures," an eagle's wing pierced by an arrow," he is discovered by the servant, who stole the portrait of his master from the gibbet, to have been the author of that production. This individual communicates the circumstance to the Marquis, who, ignorant of the history of that portrait, and desirous of revenging his son in law's death, stabs the painter precisely at twelve o'clock at night. His daughter, hearing the clang of arms, runs from her room, when the voice of her first lover, fully recognized, operates so powerfully on her system, as to restore her to sight, and she, seeing him in a dying state, expires, brokenhearted.

Like most of the modern German dramas, the greater part of this tragedy is occupied with narration. It opens with the arrival of the painter and his pupil at the castle. Painting the portrait of Camilla, and killing the painter, are the only incidents which are represented; all the rest on which the catastrophe depends are narrated. Of such a plot, the mere description is enough to shew that it is weak and destitute of interest. No art can ever make the recital of a series of events affect us so powerfully as seeing them. Even if they were full of horror, stormy passion, or pathos, the narrator is no longer agitated by them; his danger is past, and the terror which it might have excited is lost in exultation at his safety or escape; his sufferings are over, and we feel that his representation of violent emotions is assumed and unnecessary. If this be true of events calculated to stir up the most dull of our feelings, how insipid, when minutely described, must be a long chain of trifling occurrences like those of the present production! German dramatic authors have been so long censured for the extravagance of their plots for totally forgetting time and place, that they have become sensible of some of their absurdities; but, in endeavouring to avoid one error, they have often committed another. Between their partiality for a many-headed plot, and their fear of the reviewer's scourge, they have degraded tragedy

into tame narrative. In their attempts to reconcile their own love of wild adventures with the principles of judicious criticism, in most of their recent productions, while they have not displayed the energy of passion, they have increased all the inconsistencies of their plots. The chief difference, as in the present case, and as in the case of the "Schuld," and the "Albaneserin," by Müllner, is that the wild story is told instead of being acted.

The characters of this production seem to us quite as insipid as the plot. Except those of the Marquis and the old servant, they are all blandly sentimental, and softly good-natured-suffering, not acting-willing to bear, but not to struggle against an adverse fate. They are tamely conceived, and nearly uniform in their motives and behaviour. Even the Marquis is only a severe father, with somewhat of aristocratic feelings. He kills the painter, less from malignity or violent hatred, than from what his ignorance of the circumstances may allow us to call a just resentment. Not a trace is visible, through the whole play, of any of those deep and violent passions, which, however unamiable in their dread reality, give animation to works of fiction. The author appears to be quite ignorant of what it is that causes dramatic interest and stage effect; and apparently, his work has only been momentarily rescued from oblivion, by the peculiarities and occasional beauty of its language. It is full of petty conceits, and trifling elegancies, and is pervaded by a sort of calmness and serenity, which, however misplaced in tragedy, have, when read, attractions for many persons. The fervent attachment, also, of Spinarosa and Camilla, which is proof against poverty and blindness, and is indulged when hope appears to be extinct, is poetically beautiful. So also is the character of the quiet self-denying old Teutonic knight. He is a brother of Camilla's first husband, and, though in no way instrumental in promoting the plot, serves to fill up many scenes. All the images are of a chaste and placid kind. There is no turbulence, or even energy in the play; and we should imagine there is as little in the author's mind. If we cannot bestow any approbation on his work, it teaches us, notwithstanding, to augur favourably of his temper. He seems unaquainted with those strong bursts of passion which he has made no effort to describe; and we should imagine him to be almost ignorant of wickedness, and actually a child as to knowledge of the world.

We shall now make our readers acquainted with some of the very best passages in the play; and we are conscious, that even of them they cannot form a high opinion. It must, however, be remembered, that they lose considerably by translation. Our first extract is from the second scene, shortly after the arrival of Spi

narosa and his pupil at the castle, where the grandfather and mother of Leonhard are living with his uncle.

Leonhard. "How beautiful are the rooms, how magnificent the furni

ture!

Spinarosa. 'Tis a noble castle, but nobler still its site.-Towers and battlements rise boldly up, as if the builder, proud of his power, had meant to form a structure stately as the glaciers, and everlasting as the rocks.

Leon. It is most beautiful, but not my home, the image of which is at this moment bright before me, though I numbered eight years only when I left it. The house lay hid in the dark shade of giant oaks, its sturdy, faithful, ancient guardians. Its low roof, and little door scarce latched, were friendly and inviting. No gates nor towers, frowning with armed men, terrified the stranger.- -My mother and her father, clad like humble peasants, seemed very poor: yet here, dressed in full state, he's like a nobleman, his most trifling gesture's a command; and even the Count, the kind old man, obeys him as the castle's lord.

Spinar. We thought to lead back fortune to your home, but find her here to welcome us, and spare you future toil.

Leon. Toil is not pain to me, when love to my poor blind mother and her unhappy father, is the motive for my labour. 'Twas this, and no desire to shine like you, bright in the noonday glory of your art,—to paint ideal beauty, and lead mankind to worship it, which made me industrious. With what I learned, I hastened home to put my treasure out to usury.

Spinar. Often I rejoiced to see your talents and your love striving, which, most rapidly, should lead you on to excellence. Bravely have you laboured to acquire your art, now fortune lends you wings to aid your future flight. Leon. Poverty was no impediment, for my soul was ever free. How gladly had I returned to that low house,-there I should be rich; here I am poor, and fearful that the artist may not suit his wealthy friends.

Spinar. I too inherit nothing but my art, and on its wings, like mariners at sea, who look to heaven to shape their course for some desired haven, my spirit soars aloft, while my affections long to anchor on their mother earth.

This short description of Switzerland is good.

"To day I climbed the neighbouring hill in company with my master,darkness still concealed mountains and valleys from our view. But soon the proud head of a huge glacier, like the dome of some great light-house in the sea of night, began to glow. What, I hastily inquired, is that? Does the earth open even here, fire-spouting throats? Has Vesuvius its mate? That, said the master, is the Jungfrau (Virgin) who, with fresh fire-lilies, crowns her head each coming day. And, as we spoke, lo! other glaciers began to gleam with all the glories of the rising sun, and standing brightly illumined on the dark face of heaven. I felt as if the morning mass were held in the great temple of the Lord, and these were lights blazing before his splendid altar. Then I sank down and lost myself in prayer, and the love of Switzerland, like the sweet longing after home, stole in my heart.".

In one place, the mother displays her tenderness for Leonhard in some pretty lines, which are not, however, entirely free from vicious minutiæ.

Camilla." Art thou my son? Stay at my side, and quit thy painting. My eye is in my hand, it bears thy image to my heart. (she embraces him.) My horizon is small, and I can reach its boundaries. A single step, and thou art to me invisible.