Stra.-Prince, what ails thee? Collect thy- | king, that thus I weep an enemy. I cannot withself (approaching him). Phil. (drawing back).-And thou too, Strato, thou! Oh, be generous! Kill me, but do not take me prisoner. But were ye all Stratos that did surround me, still would I defend myself against ye-against the world. Do your best then. How, ye will not slay me? Cruel! Ye would take me alive-make me a prisoner; but I laugh ye to scorn. Me, alive and a prisoner? Me! Sooner will I plunge this, my sword, in my heart thus (stabs himself.) Arid. Oh, ye Gods! Phil.-Yes, far sooner! (falls.) Phil.-Forgive me, King! I have played thee false. I have escaped. I die, and my country will reap the benefit of my death. Thy son, oh! King, is a prisoner-the son of my father is free! Arid.-What do I hear? Stra.-Twas then thy purpose so to act, Prince? But as our prisoner, thou hadst no right over thyself. Phil.-Say not so, Strato. Shall the blest privilege to die-which under all the circumstances of life the Gods have left us-shall that be circumscribed by man? Stra.-My King! Horror hath turned him to stone. My King! Arid.-Who speaks? Strato.-The war is over. Arid.-Over! Thou liest Strato! The war is not over. Prince, hear me, die-yes, die if thou wilt; but bear with thee this tormenting thought, the war is not over. Thou didst think, inexperienced boy as thou art, that all fathers were as tender and womanish as thine, but thou art mistaken; I am not so: What is my son to me? Thinkest thou that he, too, cannot die for his country's good? He die-oh, God!-That he cannot, by his death, save me from having to ransom him by heavy sacrifices? Strato, I am a childless man. Thou hast a son. Oh give him to ine. Who would be childless? Happy Strato! Phil.-Thy son yet lives, and I know it. will live, king. Arid.-Yet lives! then must I have him again; aye, die! still will I have him again, or I will so mutilate, so dishonour thy corse! I will Phil.-The dead body! Nay, king; before thou canst avenge thyself, thou must re-animate it. hold my tears. The brave, the noble boy! Arid.-Yes, weep for him. I must also weep. But come-my son-I must regain my son. Blame me not, if at too high a price I ransom him. In vain has been this war, this bloodshed; there lies the victor! Give me my son but once again, and no longer will I be king. Ambition is dead within me! Give me but my son! Lessing's fables, which constituted his next poetic publication, exhibit a simplicity of expression, a neatness of versification, and an exhaustless variety of invention, which we rarely see equalled. They have been very ably translated by Mr. Richardson. "Minna von Barnhelm" was published in 1765. In the opening scenes of this comedy we find the heroine and her lively attendant just arrived at an in. From their conversation we soon learn that she has been for some time engaged to a Major Tellheim, and not having heard anything of him latterly, has conceived the romantic project of setting off in search of him. Her guardian had accompanied her, but an accident having happened to his carriage, she has come the last few stages without him. They learn that the rooms which are given to them have been for some time occupied by a half-pay officer; but, as he was not quite punctual in paying, the landlord considered himself justified in turning him out to make way for these new comers. Minna sends a courteous message to the stranger, expressing her regret at having been made the means of incoveniencing him; but he takes no notice. The landlord comes to endeavour to fish out the rank, names, and business of his new guests, and shows Minna a ring, which has been pledged to him by the said officer, in payment of his debt, and asks her opinion of its value; she, to her surprize, recognises it to be one of two exactly alike, which she and the major exchanged on their betrothal, and eagerly inquires where the officer now is, and gives the landlord more for it than he had advanced. He sends the officer's servant to the ladies, but the faithful Just, who does not understand the motive of Minna's curiosity, replies roughly and guardedly to her questions. Tellheim, who is actually there, has lost his the arrears of pay due to him; his honour, too, has property through misfortunes, is unable to obtain all the evils of poverty and wounded sensibility. been wrongfully aspersed, and he is suffering from His delight at beholding Minna again is, therefore, checked by a recollection of his situation, and he states the whole truth to her, and releases her from her engagement. Minna finding him firm, and determined to act up to what he deems just, pretends to acquiesce, and to restore to him the ring he gave her, but actually gives him the one she has obtained from the landlord. When she is gone, her attendant utters some artful expressions which lead him to question her further, and she gradually suffers him to draw from her the feigned narrative of all the persecutions to which Minna has been subjected by her relatives to induce her to give Arid.-Hear me, prince. him up, and, under the strictest promise of secresy, Strato.-He is dead! Deem me not a traitor, informs him that her mistress is at the present mo Arid.-Alas! what will become of me? Arid. And be reconciled, prince. lation! ment poor, and an outcast from her family for his sake. Tellheim instantly flies to Minna's feet, and intreats her to forgive him, and share his fortune, hard as it is. But it is now her turn to refuse, to play the magnanimous, and she does so; urging all the arguments which he had previously made use of, and turning his own words against himself. He receives a dispatch from court, fully exonerating him from all suspicion and blame, and restoring him to rank and honour, and the enjoyment of affluence, and now he pleads yet more vehemently his suit. At length, feigning to be shaken in her resolution by his entreaties, Minna says that had she not returned the ring, she would still have been his. At this moment Just enters and informs his master that the landlord has parted with the ring they pledged to him, and that that lady was the purchaser of it. Tellheim, grieved and wounded as he is by Minna's pretended indifference, sees in this incident only a fresh proof of her determination to free herself from all engagement to him, and is about to leave her for ever, when the arrival of her uncle is announced. He returns to protect her from the persecutions of this, as he supposes, tyrannical relative; an explanation ensues, and all ends happily. There is a lively under-current of jokes and lovemaking between Minna's attendant Fransiska, and Werner, a brave soldier, who formerly served under the major, and had followed him in his misfortunes to offer him his small but honest savings, while he again seeks active service. This is a very lively and graceful comedy; the characters are all those of every-day life, yet clearly and vividly individualized, and the events and situations are well managed. We follow the generous, affectionate, true-hearted Minna through all her schemes and plots with no little interest, and are amused by the playful liveliness and coquetry of her merry-hearted, and attached maiden. The poor, but proud, brave, and noble major, and his simple, faithful servant Just, also delight us; nor is Werner without his share of interest, and the artful, cringing, rapacious, inquisitive landlord is a perfect picture. "Emilia Galotti."-The prince of Guastalla has seen and admired Emilia, and, in the opening scenes we find him narrating his passion for this young maiden to Marinelli, his gentleman in waiting, and confident; from whom he learns that she is the daughter of a staunch old patriot, and on the eve of being married to the Count Appiani, a brave and influential nobleman. This has, however, no influence whatever on the prince, and he implores Marinelli to assist him in obtaining this object of his passionate desires. The marquis, who owes his great influence to his being an unscrupulous pander to all his master's evil propensities, promises to use his best endeavours, and commences by getting the count appointed to an honourable embassy, which, however, requires him to set off to his post without a moment's delay. Appiani declines the honour, stating it to be his intention to retire from public life to the enjoyment of domestic felicity, and the marquis retires to concert new schemes of villany. The heroine is first introduced to us as returning terrified and breath less from mass; she informs her mother how the prince followed her thither, knelt by her side, and breathed impassioned vows in her ear during the whole service; her mother soothes and calms her, exulting while she does so, in maternal pride, at the influence of her daughter's charms, persuades Emilia to forget it, and above all not to mention the affair to her father or the count; and the young girl, whose wish it was to have had no secrets from her husband, reluctlantly acquiesces. The marriage takes place, and the bride and bridegroom, accompanied by the mother, set out for the count's castle. They are attacked by the emissaries of Marinelli disguised as bandits; the Count is slain in the conflict, and Emelia and her mother apparently rescued by the marquis, and conducted to a hunting castle in the immediate neighbourhood belonging to the prince; who, in compliance with a hint from his wily counsellor, is there to receive and bid them welcome, with every demonstration of astonishment and sympathy. They, deceived by his specious professions, and grateful for his courtesy and kindness, still look anxiously for the arrival of the count, whose death is as yet unknown to all save Marinelli. At this juncture, the countess Orsini, one of the prince's mistresses, but who has been neglected by him since he formed this new attachment, arrives; Marinelli receives her, and tries all his arts to get rid of her again; but her suspicions have been aroused by what she has heard respecting the encounter of the Count Apiani's people with banditti, her jealousy is excited, and she refuses to leave without seeing the prince. Odoardo, Emilia's father, also arrives full of anxiety, but still mistrusting nothing; Marinelli is forced to leave him and the countess together, and she communicates her suspicions to him with all the exaggerated colouring of jealousy. Odoardo conceals his horror, requests to see his family, and on his wife coming to him, intreats the countess to take her back to town in her own carriage. They depart, and he has an interview with his daughter; reveals to her the murder of her husband, the snare into which she has fallen, the stain already cast on her fair fame, and the shame and dishonour which await her. Emilia shrinks terrified from the frightful picture, and reminds her parent of the Roman father who slew his child to save her from dishonour. Odoardo hesitates, affection unnerves his hand, but he finally stabs her, and she dies blessing him. The prince enters, and Odoardo proclaims his deed, and delivers himself up to justice, while the royal libertine stands petrified with horror and remorse. The first four acts of this play are very good, and contain many natural and effective situations and interesting incidents; but the fifth we cannot but regard as exaggerated, and the catastrophe far too tragic. Emelia is by no means a striking character, and perhaps for that reason the more natural; her simplicity and credulity are, however, occasionally carried too far. Her mother offers a true picture of maternal vanity and affection, and the Countess Orsini a painfully faithful representation of a depraved, jealous, and revengeful woman. The prince is not without his good points, and as a private individual would doubtless have battle, to convey his child to Nathan; the orders of the superior recall this circumstance to his mind, and accordingly he goes straight to the Jew, inquires if that child yet lives, and gives into his hands a book containing the register of her birth, and that of all her family, which he found in his master's bosom after he was slain. While all this has been developed, other scenes have introduced us to Saladin, who is in great distress for want of money to enable him to carry on operations, and what lies still closer to his heart, relieve his father. In vain he has tried to raise a loan, and at last, necessity overcomes his scruples, and he sends for Nathan, of whose riches he has heard, and resolves on forcing him to advance the required sum. But even when the man appears before him he cannot so far overcome his naturally generous character as thus to act the ty rant, and speaks first on indifferent topics, and then inquires what are Nathan's opinions respecting the relative value of the three religions, the Christian, Jewish, and Musselman. The wisdom, toleration, and piety of the old merchant's replies so win his esteem that he is now less than ever inclined to mention the motive for which he summoned him, nor has he any need to do so, for Nathan has guessed it, and offers the loan, which the prince gladly and gratefully accepts. Nathan then speaks of the young knight, and Saladin, thus reminded, sends for him, and is still more struck than before at the striking resemblance he bears to his brother Assad, as is Sittah the sultan's sister, who possesses a miniature of that brother. Saladin gives the young man his freedom, and offers him his friendship and protection; the knight gratefully accepts it, and won by the prince's kindness and affability relates the tale of his love. Sittah, with a view to set all right, sends for Recha, who comes overwhelmed with grief, for Daja has just communicated to her that she has not a child's claims on Nathan-that kind parent whom she so loved and respected. Sittah easily discovers that the artless girl loves her brave preserver, and Saladin is about to join their hands, when Nathan, entering, pronounces them to be brother and sister, children of the lost Assad, who quitted his country and kindred for love of a noble German lady. Saladin recognizes the proofs he brings forward in sup port of this assertion to be genuine, embraces his newly found relatives, and the piece ends. "Nathan der Weise."-In the opening scene we find Nathan, a rich jewish merchant, just returned from a long journey. Daja, his housekeeper, a Christian woman, meets him, and relates how his house has been burned to the ground; and his child Recha only saved from perishing by the bravery of a young knight-templar, who rushed through the flames at the hazard of his life and bore her out in safety how Recha is still almost delirious from the effects of the fright, and persists in believing her preserver to have been her guardian angel in human shape, and prays to him and worships him; and how she, in order to efface this mania, has been again and again to the young knight, imploring him to come and receive the thanks and blessings of the grateful girl, but has been repulsed with scorn and insult. Nathan determines himself to seek out this proud hero, and compel him to accept a father's thanks. He finds him, wins on the young man's regard, lulls all his prejudices to sleep, and causes him so completely to forget all distinctions of race or sect, as eagerly to accept his offered invitation. He comes, and the artless gratitude and ingenuous frankness of the lovely jewess complete the work which the mildness, benevolence, and wisdom of the old man had commenced. The young knight falls passionately in love with Recha, in whose heart he already reigns; and eagerly seeks Nathan to plead his suit. The prudent merchant hesitates, and inquires the name, lineage, and history of his suitor, and is informed that he is by birth a German, of noble blood, was taken prisoner with several of his brother knights, and that his life was spared because Saladin fancied be traced some resemblance between him and a loved but lost brother. Nathan appears still to hesitate, and the impetuous youth at last ceases to urge his eager prayer, and quits him. Daja, who has furtively but anxiously watched the conference, follows the angry lover, learns from him the reception which his suit has met with, and then reveals to him that Recha is not Nathan's child, but This is the most original of all Lessing's drathe daughter of Christian parents, thrown in in-matic works, and is regarded in Germany as a fancy on his bounty, and by him adopted and reared as his own. This information adds fresh fuel to the fire of his wrath, and in the violence of bis feelings he almost denounces Nathan to the superior of a Christian monastery, as a Jew who has stolen a Christian child, and educated it in his own faith; but the fierce bigotry of the priest recalls him to himself in time, and he pretends that he did but invent such a case to learn what would be its punishment. The priest is not, however, so easily deceived, and commissions one of the laybrothers to endeavour to discover who this Jew is. The monk he selects happens to be the very man who, years before, when he was squire to a warrior, was commissioned by his lord, on the eve of a national classic. It is less of a play than a dramatic poem, and more calculated for the closet than the stage; an abridgment of it, however, by Schiller has been performed with great success. The dialogue, which is well adapted to the sentiments of the piece, is simple, expressive, and graceful; and the metaphors made use of are at once forcible and homely. There is also much of learning and research displayed throughout the whole composition, and the allusions, situations, and actions of the characters, are most carefully adapted to the period and locality in which the incidents are supposed to occur. It were well if the moral inculcated throughout this work were more generally disseminated. The characters are hear us. Saladin.-Is Nathan then so confident? Yet, so should wisdom ever be-willing, nay, eager to promulgate truth; and for that good purpose to risk all-life, wealth, and blood. Nathar.-Yes, yes; where such sacrifices are necessary and can do good. But, Sultan, before I do wholly confide in thee, wilt thou permit me to relate a tale? Saludin.-Wherefore not? I have ever loved to listen to a good tale, especially when 'tis well narrated. Nathan.-Well narrated-truly that I cannot answer for. Saladin.-Again so proudly modest! Come, make haste, and let us hear this tale. Nathan. In ancient days there dwelt in the East a man, who from a dearly loved friend had received a ring of inestimable value. The stone was an opal, wherein a hundred colours played, and this gem was gifted with the magic power to make its owner beloved of God and men, so he did but wear it in perfect confidence. It was not therefore to be wondered at that this man did never suffer it to quit his finger, and so arranged that in his family it should ever remain. Thus ran his will:-To the best beloved of his sons he did bequeath the jewel, with strict injunctions that he again should leave it to the son he loved best, and so on throughout generations; and that not seniority of birth, but the possession of this ring should make that one the head of all the house. So passed it on from father unto son, until it came into the hands of one who had three sons, all of whom were equally good, equally obedient, and whom he consequently loved with equal love. Yet it would sometimes happen that when with one he found himself alone, his overflowing heart poured itself out on that child with undivided affection, and for the moment he did deem him worthier than the other two to possess the ring. Thus had it come to pass that at different times he to each son had promised the jewel. All went on well so long as it lasted; but when death came the good old father fell into perplexity. It grieved him that he must disappoint two of his beloved children. What was to be done? He sent in secret for a skilful artist, and bade him make two more rings after the pattern of the one he showed him, and spare nor trouble nor expense to render them exactly similar. The artist did so well succeed that when he brought the work to the father, the man could not detect which was the original. Joyfully now did he summon each son separately, gave to each one his fervent blessing and a ring, and so he died. Dost hear me, Sultan? Saladin. I hear, I hear! only go on with your tale. Nathan.-I am already at the end, for what follows might naturally have been expected. his ring, claiming to be made the head of the Scarcely was the father dead than each produced family. They examined, compared, quarrelled, and argued, but all in vain; the right ring could awaits the Sultan's remarks, but finding him silent not by any means be distinguished (pauses and the true faith. continues).—It was as indistinguishable as is now Saladin.-How! And is this your reply to my question? Nathan.-Forgive me if I do not venture to decide between those rings which the father purposely had made so much alike as not to be distinguished one from the other. Saladin. The rings-you trifle with me! Surely the religions I did name to thee are distinguishable apart, were it only from the dress, manners, and characteristics of their professors? Nathan-But not from their principles; since all profess to be founded on the histories which have been written or verbally handed down to us. And such histories can, I should conceive, be only accepted by faith. We receive them from our forefathers, from our parents-those who from our earliest childhood have given us incessant proofs of love, who seek but our benefit, who have ne'er deceived us, unless 'twas for our good. should I believe my father less than thou dost thine? or, on the other hand, how can I expect that thou shouldst brand thy parents liars, in order to justify the words of mine? The same, too, may be observed respecting Christians. Is it not so? Why Saladin. By the living God the man is right! Nathan. But let us return to our rings. The sons laid each complaint against the other; each swore to the judge that he received his ring from his father's own hand, who had long before promised it to him, and with it all the rights that ring entailed; and each spoke truly. Each declared his confidence in his father's words, and vowed that e'er he could believe so good a parent capable of deceit, he must, however much it grieved him so to do, accuse his brothers of foul play, and only hoped he might discover the traitor, and he would soon revenge the fraud. Saladin. And now the judge! I long to hear what thou wilt make the judge to say. Quick! continue. Nathan. Thus spoke the judge: cannot summon your father here before plain the mystery, I dismiss the case. 'Since you me to exThink you, I sit here to solve riddles? Or do you expect that the right ring will be endowed with voice to speak and claim its superiority? Yet stay! Did I not hear you say that the right ring is gifted with the magic power to make its possessor beloved by God and man? That must decide the point, for most assuredly the two false rings cannot possess this wondrous charm. Now, whom love two of you the most? Quick, speak! What, all silent? Then are you all three deceived or deceivers, your rings all false! The right ring most probably has been lost, and to repair the evil, did your father have one made for each of you.' Saladin.-Excellent! excellent! Nathan. And so,' continued the judge, if you will not receive my advice, instead of my judgment, go at once. My advice, however, runs thus: you have each received a ring from your father, and each of you believes his to be the true one. 'Tis possible that your father was unwilling to suffer one ring longer to tyrannize over all his family; and, having loved you all alike, was not inclined to make two subservient to the other one. Well then, let each one strive to subdue all prejudices, to give each virtue full play, and by his own merits to establish the validity of his ring. Bring only to the struggle meekness, charity, brotherly-love, constancy in well-doing, and fervent piety, and the virtues of the stone shall be manifest even in your children's children. I invite them before this judgment-seat after the lapse of a thousand years again to appear. Then, perhaps, will a wiser man sit here to decide. Go!' So spoke the modest judge. Saladin.-God! God! Nathan.-If thou, Saladin, feelest thyself to be this promised wiser man Saladin.-(Starting up and clasping his hands.) I-a mere worm! Dust-an atom! Oh, heaven! Nathan.-What ails thee, Sultan ? Saladin.-Nathan, dear Nathan! The thousand years spoken of by thy judge are not yet passed. His judgment-seat is not mine! Go!-go! But be my friend!" Lessing left several unfinished dramatic works, some of which display no inconsiderable portion of humour and talent, and lead us to regret that they were never completed. Among these is a sketch of the principal scenes and events for a drama to be called Faust, and one or two whole dialogues. This, doubtless, formed the ground-work and furnished Goethe with the first idea of his beautiful dramatic poem, which appeared under that name. Although Lessing cannot be considered as a thoroughly cultivated writer, or one entitled to rank among the most distinguished authors of any nation; yet few have written so carefully as he did, and the style he adopted had a most beneficial effect on German literature. It is brief, nervous, and vivid; quiet, yet defined; and eloquent without verbosity. As a critic, a philosopher, and a talented reasoner, he was distinguished; but as a poet he both was, and considered himself, deficient. He possessed, however, a rare felicity of expression, and his plays are mostly free from exaggeration, and possess a graceful, easy, poetic life. They are not gorgeous paintings, but may rather be compared to drawings in crayon, gentle and subdued in hue, yet clearly defined. His prose works may be regarded as classic models, and his countrymen owe him a deep debt of gratitude on this score; for, under his auspices a new epoch dawned to theology, philosophy, and the drama; a wide field of literature was thrown open, adorned with all that fertility of graceful diction, and those flowers of æsthetic eloquence, which Germany had before so much needed. His "Dramaturgie" was the first work which made Shakspeare known to his countrymen. "Laokoon" threw deep glances into the philosophy of arts, and his dialogues of the "Freemasons" and "Antiquarian Letters" are replete with valuable information. His Nor was his private character inferior to his genius; as a friend, brother, and husband, he was ever kind, manly, and consciencious. To dry the tears of the sorrowing, and soothe the trials of the afflicted was to him ever a consolation and delight; and even those who condemned that freedom and boldness of thought which he brought to bear on religious subjects, could not deny that in all the most essential points he was a sincere christian. In society, his wit, varied information, and eloquence rendered him a brilliant ornament; and on the whole, it is seldom that we find so much talent united with all those gentler qualities which entitle a man to love and respect. |