Now the German possesses an uncommonly poetical language, and therefore has no recourse to mechanical shifts to distinguish his poetry from prose. The Frenchman cannot understand the poetry of the language; he can only perceive that the writing is not according to his rules. The next chapter enquires into the judgement of the English respecting German literature.' As our opinions on this subject, and the reasons of them, will appear as we go on, we shall say nothing here but of the medium through which the German poets are known in England,-bad prose. The question has been asked again and again, whether poetry can be written in prose, and much has been said "about it and about it." Verse was originally invented, no doubt, as a kind of help to the memory, and before the art of writing was known, the oracles of the gods, the edicts of legislators, the saws of sages were all delivered in verse, that they might be the more easily remembered. In these early times, none of the compositions which are now written in prose would have yet been thought of-history, logic, metaphysics. The only productions that can interest a rude nation, are songs that may excite the imagination and rouse the feelings in a foray or at a drinking-bout, and, perhaps, a kind of pastoral describing the employments and amusements of an agricultural life. These then were composed in verse. But, in process of time, when writing was invented, it would be found easier to walk out of fetters, and history and philosophical discussions, which, on the progress of civilization would find their way into existence, would be written in prose. When, however, the poet should come to try his muse in prose, he would find that all the associations of his readers' minds were against him. They would have been accustomed to see poetical images and poetical expressions, (and the old poets, from their natural way of life, and their ardent feelings unrestrained by the proprieties of society, would be likely to have the most poétical) only in verse; and they would have been since accustomed to see in prose nothing but plain thoughts and unadorned language: poetical prose would, therefore, appear to them as unnatural and ridiculous as an Eastern king on his throne in the habiliments of a beggar. The distinction has been kept up, and poetical prose has never been properly naturalized in any European language. The case is worse in translation. The writer has no longer the power of cooling down his thoughts to the temperature of his mould; they must be put in hot from the fancy of another, and the consequence is that they will crack and fly. We think certainly that many strong ob jections lie against the German poets, but infinitely more against the prose translators; and frequently when we have been about to laugh at an extravagant thought in their dramatists, we have been surprized, on throwing it into a loose kind of verse, to find something not very unlike Shakespeare come out*. It requires, we are told, the eye of a * We will give our readers a specimen or two. The prose is taken from Thompson's translation of the German Theatre, and our own verse is, we are ashamed to say, a second hand translation from Thompson. We wish that some one, qualified by a knowledge of the German language, by poetical talent, and an admiration of our own old dramatists, would undertake a version of a few of the best German plays. Our present attempt is merely to shew the different effect which the same thought has in verse and prose. Yes;-she wishes to enjoy two tables-she wishes to appear at the creditable board of virtue, and likewise revel at the secret feast of vice.' Don Carlos. I know her, devil;—aye, She'd be a guest at either board, would sit He is returned. Look at him, ye walls. He is returned.(Approaches the picture of a Venus.)-Look at him, goddess. How often have I paced this apartment weeping and uttering my complaints to thee! He is returned. Scarcely can I give credit to my senses-dearest! dearest! you have been long absent, but you are returned. Nothing will I feel-nothing will I hear nothing will 1 know, but that you are returned.' Stella. He's here: take eyes, and gaze upon him, walls: See, hear, know nothing,-but that thou art here. Speak you of me? You are mistaken friend. I once dreamt of a Carlos, like the man you have described-whose boiling blood would mount into his cheeks, if liberty were mentioned ' —but he has long been dead. The Carlos whom you now behold is not the man whom you took leave of in Alkali, whose aspiring mind aimed at a knowledge of the bliss which Paradise bestows, and fondly hoped that, when upon the throne, he could ⚫ transplant such bliss to Spain. The idea was childish, but oh, how ' heavenly!-Past is the vision, never to return.' Don Carlos. painter, to discover, in some old pictures, under the rust of time, the warmth and brilliancy of colouring which once distinguished them and the eye of a poet will frequently find out a grand thought entirely hid from common readers under inflated and ridiculous prose. Speak'st thou of me? But thou 'rt mistaken, friend. We venture on one whole scene from the Robbers; but we have no longer room for the prose. Scene, a hill. Charles, and the Robbers, lying here and there Grimm. In what rich pageantries The sun is sinking home! So bright, so gaz'd at. Grimm. You seem mov'd, and deeply. Charles. Ah! when a boy, I cherish'd the sweet thought, A childish fancy 'twas. Grimm. 'Twas, Captain, 'twas. Charles. There was a time-Go, leave me, comrades, leave me. Grimm. Why, captain how is this?-He 'as lost his colour. Charles. There was a time Oh, that there was-I could not sleep in quiet,' Grimm. Are you mad? These puling fancies! put them from thee, man! Charles. Brother! oh, brother! Grimm. Do not play the child. Charles. Would that I were a child! oh, would I were! Grimm: Pshaw! comfort! comfort! look around you, captain: 'Tis a fair evening, and a lovely country. Charles. Yes, yes, the world is full of beauty. The German poets are confessed favourites with Mad. de Staël; and like an honest and willing, admirer, she dwells more upon their excellencies than their defects or faults. She considers modern poetry in general as of two schools, the classical and the romantic; the classical, an imitation from the ancients, and partaking of their simplicity, their severity, and poetical materialism;-the romantic, the growth of the chivalrous ages, wilder, fuller of imagination, and more conversant with abstract ideas. The question,' she Charles. This earth was made for man to wonder at. Lost, lost for ever.' Grim. Do not talk thus, captain. Charles. My innocence ! my boyish innocence! the ground But hath crawl'd forth to day, and felt, and blest, Is he above But he is not my father; I am banish'd; I have no portion in this fair inheritance ; Rayman. This is strange. I never Have seen him thus. Charles. Oh, that I could re-enter Into my mother's womb, and come out thence Of undisturbed slumber. Grimm. Let him be: The fiend will pass away, and he'll be quiet. very justly observes, is not between the poetry of the ancients' and the poetry of the moderns, but between the imitation of the one, and the natural inspiration of the other. The literature of the ancients is with us a transplanted literature; the romantic or chivalrous is indigenous, and it is our religion and our institutions which have nurtured it into blossom. The question, we think, is decided by the respective popularity of the two schools. 'These poems d'après l'antique,' says the author, however per fect they may be, are seldom popular, because, among us, they do not address themselves to national feelings. French poetry, which is the most classical of any modern poetry, is likewise that which alone is not diffused among the people. The stanzas of Tasso are sung by the gondoliers of Venice; the Spaniard and Portuguese of every class know the verses of Calderon and Camoens by heart; Shakespeare is as much admired by the people in England as by the higher orders; the poems of Goethe and Bürger are set to music, and you hear them repeated from the banks of the Rhine to the Baltic Sea. Our French poets are admired by all cultivated minds, both in our own country and the rest of Europe; but they are altogether unknown to the people, and even to the citizens of our towns, because the arts in France are not, as elsewhere, natives of the country where they are to display their beauties. Vol. I p. 289. For the German poets Mad. de S. claims almost universally the praise of imagination: we think, justly. There are undoubtedly to be found in them a multitude of well-conceived situations, and striking characters, and a lavish profusion of poetical images. Neither is this imagination employed at random. They are theoretically masters of their art, and never add a touch but to produce its share in the general effect of the piece. Schroeder, a German poet and actor, could not bear,' she tells us, (Vol. II. p. 293.) "to be told, that he had played such or such a scene well, that he had recited such or such a speech ably have I played the part well?' he would ask; have I been the person represented?" This faculty of translating themselves into the beings of their imagination, the German poets eminently possess. The misfortune is, as it appears to us, that these beings are too often merely of the imagination. The poet has little intercourse with the world in Germany, little opportunity of studying living subjects; and the consequence is, that he imagines something grand, and of considerable stage-effect, but bearing very little resemblance to mortal flesh and blood. The figure is gigantic, and the attitude fine, but it is like the bride in one of Bürger's tales of terror; there is no heart beating within its breast, no congenial warmth about it. Here is the great difference beVOL. XI. D |