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ART. VII.-Ninfa. Eine Novelle. Brockhaus, Berlin.

SOMETHING of the same reserve which hinders our countrymen from speaking fluently and idiomatically in foreign languages, seems also to have restrained us from composing in them. There is not, it is true, the same indispensable necessity for a corresponding outward gesture and expression, when a person is writing a book, as there is when he is conversing with spirit. The hands need not leave their accustomed position close by the sides; and the shoulders are not called upon to execute any un-English shrugs, whether dubitative, suggestive, or confirmatory. But still the sober English thoughts get sadly discomposed in any foreign attire. They can no more adapt themselves to the broken jerks and startling antitheses of a modern French sentence, than the palate of a true-born Englishman can to hors d'œuvres and sour wine. And to our proper credit be it spoken, they refuse to grow into a long, straggling, illmannered German sentence. Generally speaking, one of our countrymen must wellnigh have renounced his nationality before he can hope really to shine in a foreign language and long before he has arrived at this perfection his 'morale' is apt to be too far gone for him to write anything which will repay the trouble of reading. The common every-day interests of foreign society seem in an especial manner beyond our reach. When any works written by Englishmen, in French, have been acknowledged classical by our scrupulous and critical neighbours, they have been mostly abstract in their character. An oriental tale, or a history of times in no immediate connexion with the present, is a test indeed of intimacy with a language; but how much less searching than a novel, with all its tumult of incidents, and flashes of various character; and on the other side of the Channel it does not require the anti-Anglican mania of M. Dumas and his fraternity, to make their romantic descriptions of our life and manners here utterly ridiculous in the eyes of a better instructed reader. So we can hardly calculate on versatility enough in ourselves to keep us to the exact point in our social description. The strong probability is, that our characters will appear in a kind of Sunday attire, which they never wore in all their lives. They will talk politics as if they had lived all their lives under Magna Charta' and the

Habeas Corpus Act; and religion, like the divines of the seventeenth century.

The work which we have culled out of the garden produce of recent literature, is certainly worth our readers' notice. It is written in German; and, as report says, by a young English lady. And it must be confessed, that this work could not very well have been written in English. Apart from all peculiarities of idiom, there is something about the very vehemence of passion, which it sometimes undertakes to represent, and the simplicity of its moral intention, which makes it an un-English book. Now-a-days, in fact, we hardly see a new book made up out of the good old standard materials of jealous husbands, afflicted wives, and accomplished hypocrites. The most popular works of the day are bent upon unveiling the finer shades of character. They love to trace the certain course by which some fault of subtle texture comes to overcast the character by degrees, without employing any vast machinery of seduction And, moreover, they maintain most religiously a native and domestic character; seeming to pride themselves on making months and years of their narrative pass on without once taking the reader out of the merest daily life; and yet, casting over all the hues of some tranquil and nameless interest. Our readers will presently confess how unlike is all this to the strong emotions, highly-wrought situations, touches of pathos, and strokes of satire with which Ninfa' is astir almost from end to end. All of these ingredients seem fairly and simply transplanted to a foreign soil, or rather to be its true and native growth. But it is time to let our readers judge for themselves. Accordingly we will introduce our three friends, Michael Richter, Wilhelm von Neuenburg, and Otto von Cageneck; German travellers, and, as the ennobling Von' informs us, not all of the same rank and condition in life. Wilhelm, in fact, is the only son of the prime minister to the Grand Duke of Richter is his

distant connexion; half travelling-tutor, and half friend. Otto is-our readers will soon see what. We find them at Sorrento, sojourners at the Piccola Sirena; and from this point we may launch them into the story.

A conversation between the three companions in their room is interrupted by a cry of joy from the sea-shore, which drives them all quickly to the window. The cause of it is soon made clear. A light pinnace is landing just below them, and two ladies just stepping ashore, both remarkably dressed; one as a shepherdess, white-robed and straw-hatted, and requiring only a crook in hand to be a shepherdess complete, such as one sees on Dresden china. The younger of the two seemed a Madonna della Seggiola, just alighted on earth; with dress, scarf and

head-dress in exact imitation of Raphael's masterpiece. Her 'face, too, seemed as like as possible to the Madonna, so far as 'distance allowed it to be seen.'

"Where can

Look! look!
Is she not an

""A most remarkable appearance," said Richter at last. they be going, and what can the strange dress mean? Wilhelm; see how like she is to the Florentine Madonna. ideal, an ethereal creature, a living picture of æsthetic beauty? What a divine spirit must dwell in such a tabernacle!"

""So ho!" cried Otto! "Fire and flames again? Well, in heaven's name go on? Amusing, 'pon honour! Sweet, lovely, wonderful, indescribable, divine! Now we shall have his reverence in the clouds again. Another word, and I shall solemnly proclaim her—a fright!

"A fright!" shrieked Wilhelm and Otto, at once.

"Well, if it must be so, I won't say a fright, precisely; tidy looking, perhaps. So pale, though-don't you think the poor thing looks ill? But what in the name of all nonsense does this ridiculous masquerade mean? Saw ever mortal the like? What's that affair that she's got her head into? Ah! now you can laugh at last. I've made a joke at last, it seems, and you're envious, both of you. You stare, as if you saw a ghost; and, in the mean time, I can't see whether the child's straight or crooked. However, there's some fun brewing; and, your humble servant must needs have a finger in the pie.

The host, when consulted, announces that there is to be a mass at church for the soul of the Principessima Corsini, with a

tableau vivant thereafter.

As

'The church of St. Antonia stood open. Its high arches were tapestried with all the colours of the rainbow, multiplying and softening the rich evening light, until it hardly seemed to belong to earth. All the places were occupied-mostly by ladies full dressed in white, and wearing long white veils. In place of the altar-piece there hung a deep red curtain. no seat could be found, our three friends placed themselves behind a pillar close to the high altar. Suddenly the organ stopped. The church darkened, and a hundred men's voices, at least, uplifted a Miserere, without instrumental accompaniment. The strange absorbing enchantment of such a choir must be heard to be understood. The moment it closed, a single female voice began a Stabat Mater. A voice--but what shall we call it? Too deep and moving for a soprano, too pure and flexible for a contralto. Both voices seemed to unite their excellences. It was like a necklace with every two pearls seemingly alike, while nearly every one is richer and larger than that which comes before it.

'Wilhelm and Michael had both of them a true and deep feeling for music; and even our friend Otto was pleased, and did not stir hand or foot. Presently a choir of female voices united with the one which had moved them so strangely. But the wondrous angel voice rang on above them all. At last the ministering harmony fell gradually away. Gently, and more gently, the one rang on; and melted in a long dying fall. All was hushed to the most utter silence. The priest took the Host in hand. All bowed, and crossed themselves as the little bell sounded; and, as if this had been a signal, the whole church was at once illuminated. As if kindled by one enchantment, a thousand tapers blazed out in a moment. The sudden change from darkness to light enhanced the wonder, and the church seemed on fire from end to end. Men's voices rang out in a heavenly symphony, mounting by degrees from piano to fortissimo. Slowly the crimson curtain arose. Our friends could hardly believe themselves awake. There before

them sat the Madonna della Seggiola; only larger and more beautiful than the original, as they could not help confessing. Cherubs with golden wings formed the background, and enclosed the picture in a living frame. The lady of the morning it was of course. She represented the Madonna, and began forthwith an Ave Maria.'

Wilhelm's solitary meditations are interrupted by Otto, who tells him that Richter's happy boldness has already made the acquaintance of the ladies unknown. In fact, the time of year has so completely stripped Sorrento of all visitants except invalids, that the Countess Falkenstein accounts any stray traveller of due rank and fortune to be a godsend to her evening parties. Their early call is therefore welcomed most heartily by the courtly lady-mother and her fair daughter Ninfa.

"I

"I hope the festival of yesterday pleased you," said the Countess. myself arranged the whole; and cannot say that it disappointed me. To confess the truth, they wanted me to undertake the Madonna's part. I could not make up my mind to it, however. As long as ever the Count is absent, I have made a vow to wear nothing but white. The dress of the Madonna has several colours in it; and therefore my daughter supplied my place." So saying, she cast her eyes down to the ground like a bashful maiden of fifteen.

The gentlemen could hardly keep from laughing. Otto, however, replied with comic gravity, "Your ladyship has been cruel to us, if not to yourself, in disappointing us of the high enjoyment of seeing you as the Madonna-all for the sake, too, of a vow so burdensome. Could you not, however, have represented an angel all in white."

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""Flatterer!" cried the Countess, relaxing into a smile. The next moment, however, she was grave again; and continued with many deep sighs, My vow has not been too hard to bear, perhaps. But yet my life has passed so mournfully since I made it. Married in my earliest youth—then living in perpetual care and anxiety for my beloved husband-a protectress to my darling child, yet unprotected myself. Only think that I have had to deny myself every pleasure of my age, all the change and melting colours of the toilet. Ah! my trials have been hard, after all."

'All this delighted our friend Otto marvellously. His expressions of interest and condolence poured forth like a flood, while Wilhelm could scarcely contribute a solitary Alas! As for Richter, he had been repelled all along by the kindly yet evidently condescending reception which the elder Countess had given to his choicest flowers of rhetoric. It could not be doubted that to him she was less free and fluent than to his two friends. He had been so little used to society, that things appeared strange to him, which to Otto and Wilhelm seemed quite natural. He felt himself cast into the background, and was chilled and annoyed. However, the change in his demeanour did not escape the notice of Ninfa; and although she could not guess what had occasioned it, what she saw was quite enough to move her to sympathy. She accused herself of having neglected him for his extraordinary ugliness, and endeavoured to draw him into conversation.

"I have remarked," she began, "that like myself you have a taste for antiques. Look at this ring. It is Etruscan, and therefore older than the Roman relics, whose name is Legion amongst us. The child which you see there is called Day: he has an old man's head, and is, therefore, considered to represent Wisdom. He it was who introduced religion and its sacred mysteries among the Etruscans. The tall man underneath there is Tarchon.

He denotes the aboriginal inhabitants of the country; and, as you see, he is busy with husbandry, and has just dug out the little god from the soil. Am I not happy to have such an antique as this for my own? It came to my father quite by accident, and he made me a present of it.'

"It is indeed a most beautiful and precious ring," replied Richter. How strange, too, that after its burial of a thousand years it should be as perfect as if it had just been wrought by the best lapidary of our time. But it surprises me more by far, that, young as you are, you have possessed yourself of such various information. Your judgment in works of art astonishes me. Things seem born with you, which others have to achieve with years of trouble and industry.'

"Oh,

'The Countess received his praise with the most entire simplicity. I am only too fond of such treasures: my collection in Florence is considerable, I assure you. It does me so much good to see many beautiful things about me. With anything beautiful before me I feel completely happy and contented.' Ninfa had hardly said these words when she was sorry for them. What a contradiction to all ideas of beauty was the person who sat before her. She was on the point of giving another turn to the conversation, when Richter interrupted her quickly and gravely:

"You are right," he said, "most right, your words are right, and yet I am sorry to have heard them from your lips. You have aroused a desire within me for a blessing which I never missed till now. I feel deeply and sorrowfully that I shall never be one of those things which you wish to have about you."

"Oh," she cried, blushing with innocent confusion, "I spoke only of these lifeless prettinesses! What an interpretation you have put upon my words! Besides this, too, the man who possesses a fair and noble soul can never, never be called ugly!”'

The abandon with which the authoress casts herself into foreign manners throughout the book is certainly remarkable. There are two volumes, and with small exceptions the whole action of the first passes at Sorrento, without the introduction of any other characters than those who have now been made known to the reader. It is true that the Count Falkenstein comes in to precipitate the middle catastrophe, (so to speak,) but his character does not blend much with the general details. The reader will be interested by Ninfa's abode in a convent at twelve years old, preparatory to her first communion. This episode, too, helps to remove the apparent improbability that such a daughter should have been brought up by such a mother. We forbear to extract this; and pass by in like manner another episodical convent scene, which is a comic version of the history of Gertrude in the Promessi Sposi. The despair of the old grandee, Ninfa's grandfather, when his daughter is beginning to be passée without a suitor, the romantic young German Count, who is taken by the lady's resemblance to the Venus de Medici, and saves her at the last moment from taking the veil, the innocent convent gossip and grief at the loss of an expected sister, we may leave to the zealous reader, and hasten onward towards the German scenes of the second volume.