hes--_Pictures of the
German Past_ he calls them--which hold a unique place in German
literature, being as charming in style as they are sound in
scholarship. Add to these a work on the principles of dramatic
criticism that is referred to with respect by the very latest writers
on the subject, an important biography, a second very successful
novel, and a series of six historical romances that vary in interest,
indeed, but that are a noble monument to his own nation and that,
alone, would have made him famous.

As a novelist Freytag is often compared with Charles Dickens, largely
on account of the humor that so frequently breaks forth from his
pages. It is a different kind of humor, not so obstreperous, not so
exaggerated, but it helps to lighten the whole in much the same way.
One moment it is an incongruous simile, at another a bit of sly
satire; now infinitely small things are spoken of as though they were
great, and again we have the reverse.

It is in his famous comedy, _The Journalists_, which appeared in 1853,
that Freytag displays his humor to its best advantage. Some of the
situations themselves, without being farcical, are exceedingly
amusing, as when the Colonel, five minutes after declaiming against
the ambition of journalists and politicians, and enumerating the
different forms under which it is concealed, lets his own ambition run
away with him and is won by the very same arts he has just been
denouncing. Again, Bolz's capture of the wine-merchant Piepenbrink at
the ball given under the auspices of the rival party is very cleverly
described indeed. There is a difference of opinion as to whether or
not Bolz was inventing the whole dramatic story of his rescue by
Oldendorf, but there can be no difference of opinion as to the
comicality of the scene that follows, where, under the very eyes of
his rivals and with the consent of the husband, Bolz prepares to kiss
Mrs. Piepenbrink. The play abounds with curious little bits of satire,
quaint similes and unexpected exaggerations. "There is so much that
happens," says Bolz in his editorial capacity, "and so tremendously
much that does not happen, that an honest reporter should never be at
a loss for novelties." Playing dominoes with polar bears, teaching
seals the rudiments of journalism, waking up as an owl with tufts of
feathers for ears and a mouse in one's beak, are essentially
Freytagian conceptions; and no one else could so well have expressed
Bolz's indiff