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ASTOR,  LENOX  AND  TILDEN  FOUNDATIONS 


THE  SPINGARN  COLLECTION 

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CRITICISM  AND  LITERARY  THEORY 

PRESENTED  BY 

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HISTORIC  SURVEY 


OF 

I 


German  ^oetr^* 


INTERSPERSED  WITH  VARIOUS  TRANSLATIONS. 


BY 


W.  TAYLOR,  OF  NORWICH; 


IN  THREE  VOLUMES. 


VOL.  II 


LONDON: 

TREUTTEL  AND  WURTZ,  TREUTTEL  JUN.  AND  RICHTER, 

SOHO  SQUARE. 


1830. 

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TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAG£ 

Section  1. — Introduction — Recapitulation  of  the  preceding  volume — 
Some  deficiences  lamented ;  some  omissions  supplied — Lava- 
ter — Salis — Claudius — Distinction  between  national  and  Eu- 
ropean poetry — Cosmopolite  art  the  superior  achievement  •  •     1 

Section  2. — Gottingen  groop  of  poets — Kastner — Zacharia— Burger 
— his  life — his  ballads — ^The  wild  Hunter — The  Parson^s 
Daughter — ^Elleoore — its  prototype  the  Suffolk  Miracle — Mi- 
nor poems — The  Menagerie  of  the  Gods   12 

Section  3. — Life  of  Voss — Reviewal  of  his  chief  works — ^Eclogues — 
Devil  in  Ban — ^Luise-— Odes  and  Songs — ^Translations  of  Ho- 
mer and  other  ancients — ^Who  was  Homer  ? 58 

Section  4. — Gotter — Holty — Christian  Count  Stolberg — Frederic 
Leopold  Count  Stolberg — his  life — Bath-song — Ode  to  Free- 
dom for  the  twentieth  century — Ode  to  a  Mountun-Torrent 
—The  Penitent— The  Hand ^ , 77 

Section  5. —  Kretschmann — Schubart — Jacobi — Pfeffel — Boie — 
Gockingk — Miller — Schlegel — Sonnet— Matthison— Milesian 
Tale  —  Neubeck — Poetesses '. 105 

Section  6. — ^Literary  Imposture  —  Forged  Sequel  to  Nathan  the 

Wise — ^The  Monk  of  Libanon — Pfranger  criticized 118 

Section  7- — Groop  of  Vienna  poets — Denis — his  Ossian — Alxinger 
— Haschka— Fridrich— Blumauer — his  Death  of  Dido  from  a 
travesty  of  the  iEneid 234 

Section  8.— Life  of  Wieland 243 


VHl  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Section  9. — Reviewad  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works— vol.  i  to  x — 
Agatbon — The  modern  Amadis — ^The  golden  Mirror — Reli- 
gion of  Psammis — Danishmend — Musarion — Didactic  Poems 
— Sixtus  and  Clara — ^The  Graces— Comic  Tales 286 

Section  10 — ^Reviewal  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works,  continued — 
vol.  xi  to  xvii — Don  Silvio  of  Rosalva — Diogenes  of  Sinope — 
Koxkox  and  Kikequetzel — Dissertations — Travels  of  Abul- 
fauaris — Cyrus — Idris  and  Zenide — Origin  of  the  machinery 
of  gnomes,  nymphs,  sylphs,  and  salamandrines 313 

Section  1 1.— Reviewal  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works,  continued — 
vol.  xviii— Geron  the  Courteous— The  Water  Trough— Per- 
vonte— Winter's  Tale-The  Mule's  Bridle— Hann  and  Gul- 
penneh— Lay  of  the  little  Bird— Translations  of  Geron  the 
Courteous,  and  of  the  King  of  the  Black  Isles— Wieland's 
tales  compared  with  those  of  Dryden  and  of  Lord  Byron . . .  •  322 

Section  12 Reviewal  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works,  continued — 

vol.  xix  to  xxiii— The  Abderites— Love  for  Love—Clelia  and 
Sinibald— Oberon    ,  401 

Section  13  — Reviewal  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works,  continued — 
vol.  xxiv  to  XXX— Disquisitions— Dialogues  of  the  Gods- 
Jupiter  and  Hercules— Lycinus  and  Athenagof as— Proserpi- 
na, Luna,  and  Diana— Abolition  of  Paganism— The  Stranger 
— Dialogues  in  Elysium — Operas— Remarks  on  the  French 
Revolution— Fairy  Tales   429 

Section  14.— Reviewal  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works,  continued— 
vol.  xxxi  to  xl — Dialogues — Agathoddemon — Correspond- 
ence of  Aristippus — Euthanasia — Hexameron  of  Rosenthal — 
Menander  and  Glycerion — Krates  and  Hipparchia— Transla- 
tions—Juvenile  Works— Conclusion  , 487 


HISTORIC  SURVEY 


OP 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


§1. 

IfUroduciion — Recapitulation  of  the  preceding  volume — Some 
deficiencies  lamented — Some  omissions  supplied — Lavater 
— Salis — Claudius — Distinction  between  national  and  Eu- 
ropean  poetry — Cosmopolite  art  the  superior  achievement. 

The  history  of  poetry  much  includes  that  of  public 
opinion.  Like  the  vane  glittering  on  the  pinnacle  of 
the  temple^  song,  in  all  its  movements  and  variations, 
marks  the  drift  of  popular  impression.  Whether  it 
portrays  sights  or  sentiments,  whether  it  describes 
individuals  or  events,  and  whether  it  dwells  on  minute 
or  mighty  interests,  it  must  still  aim  at  sympathy,  and 
give  expression  not  to  a  solitary  but  to  a  social  feeling. 
Some  poets  may  learn  of  their  ordinary  surrounders, 
and  only  show  the  shallow  currents  of  the  scud,  while 
others  reach  a  superior  atmosphere,  and  proclaim  the 
less  fickle  tides  of  the  rack ;  but  all  obey  some  impulse 
of  their  age,  and  all  reveal  the  spirit  of  its  continual 
course. 

In  the  first  three  sections  of  the  former  volume  it 
was  observed,  that  the  tribes  employing  the  German 
tongue  had  migrated  from  the  mouth  toward  the  source 

VOL.  II.  B 


2  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

of  the  Donau,  or  Danube,  and  that  the  earliest  traces 
of  German  verse  are  to  be  found  in  an  elegy  of  Ovid, 
written  at  Tomi  on  the  Euxine.     These  firstlings  of 
the  Teutonic  Muse  were  composed  by  a   native  of 
Italy,  in  a  metre  imitated  from  the  Latin ;  they  were 
probably  transmitted  by  Ovid  to  Rome,  as  his  friend 
Cotta,  to  whom  the  elegy  is  addressed,  had  resided 
among  the  Goths,  but  they  have  unluckily  not  been 
preserved  either  in  their  original  or  in  a  translated 
form. 

The  earliest  remains  of  German  poetry  (§  4,  5,  and 
6,)  are  those  sagas  composed  in  an  Anglo-saxon  dialect, 
which  constitute  the  principal  portions  of  the  Edda. 
According  to  Eginhardt,  the  pagan  poems  preserved 
among  the  Saxons  were  assembled  by  order  of  Char- 
lemagne, when  he  compelled  them  to  abjure  heathen- 
ism. This  collection  has  indeed  not  yet  been  discovered 
in  any  French  library ;  but  as  the  followers  of  Witti- 
kind,  who  refused  to  undergo  baptism,  withdrew  with 
their  leader  into  Norway,  and  thence  at  a  later  period 
colonized  Iceland,  it  is  evident  that  the  Icelandic  re- 
mains must  consist  nearly  of  the  same  documents, 
which  the  converted  Saxons  had  given  up.  A  compre- 
hensive edition  of  these  rhythmical  reliques,  learnedly 
translated  and  critically  commented,  may  still  be  a 
desideratum;  but  Schlotzers  Islandische  Litteratur 
und  Geschichte  (Gottingen,  1773)  furnishes  excellent 
preparations  for  the  undertaking. 

Concerning  the  Lombard  period  (§  7)  more  perhaps 
might  be  ascertained  than  any  documents  within  my 
reach  have  enabled  me  to  record,  or  authorized  me  to 
infer.  In  addition  to  those  enumerated  at  p.  97,  should 
have  been  cited  the  Historia  Laurinij  Nanorum  RegiSy 
et  Theodorici  Veronensis^  published  in  P.  F.  Suhm's 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  3 

SymhoUe  cul  Literaturam  Teutonicam  Antiquiorem, 
(Havniae,  1787).  It  is  a  narrative  poem  fall  of  fancy, 
which  the  learned  editor  ascribes  to  the  Swabian  min- 
strel (p.  xvii),  Henry  of  Ofterdingen,  and  which  may 
be  thought  to  have  laid  the  train  for  the  original 
personification  of  Oberon. 

Indeed  if  all  those  Swabian  metrical  romances^  in 
which  Theodoric  of  Verona  and  his  champions  are 
the  central  heroes,  were  separately  edited,  and  analyzed 
critically,  it  is  not  impossible  that  specious  evidence 
could  be  adduced  in  favor  of  the  supposition,  that 
these  epic  poems  are  mere  Swabian  refashionments 
(rifacimento  is  the  Italian  word  which  I  attempt  to 
recoin  in  the  legal  die  of  domestic  analogy)  of  pre- 
existing Lombard  story-books.  In  this  case  the  me- 
trical romance  may  have  originated  in  Lombardy ;  for 
the  reign  of  Theodoric  is  prior  to  the  earliest  rimed 
tales  of  Normandy  ;  and  the  state  of  Italian  culture 
might  well  suggest  to  the  barbarians  of  the  north  the 
first  composition  of  versified  chronicles. 

From  an  epistle  of  Cassiodorus  (lib.  i,  epist.  41),  it 
appears  that  Theodoric  patronized  minstrelsy,  and 
deputed  in  497  to  Louis,  or  Clovis,  king  of  the  Franks, 
a  harper  who  accompanied  his  instrument  with  song, 
and  who  was  empowered  to  negocisite  for  the  release 
of  some  prisoners.  This  minstrel,  having  been  sent 
to  a  Frankish  king,  must  evidently  have  employed  a 
German  dialect. 

In  Alfred's  translation  of  Boethius,  the  first  chapter^ 
which  mentions  the  royal  family  of  Lombardy,  favours 
the  suspicion  that  Alfred  had  before  him,  and  was 
assisted  by,  a  Lombard  version  of  Boethius,  which  is 
likely  to  have  contained  metrical  passages,  as  do  the 
better  copies  of  Alfred's  version.      See  Rawlinson's 

Bs 


4  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

edition  of  Boethias  in  Anglo-saxon,  (Oxoniae,  1698). 
If,  indeed,  the  translation  of  Boethias,  imported  by 
Alfred,  be  anything  more  than  a  Lombard  document; 
for  the  Lombards  were  originally  Anglo-saxons  from 
between  the  Elbe  and  the  Oder. 

Anastasius,  in  his  Life  of  Pope  Leo  III,  mentions 
that  there  was  already  in  the  year  800  a  schola  Sax- 
onum  at  Rome ;  where  missionaries  were  educated  to 
be  distributed  over  the  gothic  north.  As  the  Lomb- 
ards were  conversant  with  the  Italian  language,  and 
of  all  the  Germans  were  the  most  contiguous  to  the 
papal  see,  it  is  natural  they  should  have  furnished  the 
first  teachers;  and  through  them,  no  doubt  the  Anglo- 
saxon  became  the  missionary  language. 

The  Anglo-saxon  alphabet  is  plainly  derived  from 
the  Italian ;  and,  in  like  manner,  pronounces  the  let- 
ter c  as  ch  before  the  vowels  e  and  i.  Thus  the  words 
witch  and  chide  are  spelled  in  Anglo-saxon,  wice  and 
cidan.  Now,  it  is  in  this  missionary  language,  this 
Lombard  Saxon,  that  all  the  Anglo-saxon  remains  ex- 
ist ;  for  no  English  province  retains  vernacular  traces 
of  the  inflections  adopted  in  its  grammar. 

With  the  ensuing  sections  (8,  9,  10,  and  1 1,)  I  feel 
less  dissatisfied,  having  had  authorities  more  copious 
to  consult,  and  specimens  more  various  to  adduce ; 
yet  perhaps  the  sacrifices  made  to  compression  may 
have  left  in  places  a  something  to  desiderate. 

The  twelvth  section  has  incurred  much  animadver- 
sion :  both  in  correspondence  and  in  print  I  have 
been  assailed  with  conflicting  hostilities,  without  their 
impairing  however  my  private  sense  of  its  equity :  the 
English  people  have  too  long  been  accustomed  to  view 
the  history  of  the  Reformation  through  the  coloured 
spectacles  of  a  clergy  whom  it  has  enriched,  not  through 
those  of  a  citizenry  whom  it  has  oppressed. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


lu  the  thirteenth  section  might  have  been  added  to 
the  Swiss  groop  of  poets  the  names  of  Lavater  and 
Sah's :  they  floarished  later  than  Bodmer,  Haller^  and 
Gesner ;  yet  they  attained  a  degree  of  popularity  which 
entitles  them  to  distinct  notice :  and  they  both  were 
victims  to  a  patriotism  called  into  action  by  the  French 
revolution. 

Lavater  indeed  was  rather  a  prose-writer  than  a 
poet ;  but  there  are  metrical  productions  of  his  which 
justify  mentioning  him  in  this  Survey.  He  was  born 
at  Zurich  in  1741  on  the  15th  of  November,  baptized 
by  the  names  John  Caspar,  educated  in  the  schools 
of  his  native  city  for  the  office  of  protestant  minister, 
and,  after  attaining  deacon's  orders,  was  sent  in  1 763 
to  Berlin  for  the  purpose  of  residing  some  time  under 
the  roof  of  a  pastor  named  Spalding,  whose  moral 
worth,  tolerant  moderation,  and  evangelical  piety,  it 
was  wished  to  press  on  the  imitation  of  the  pupil. 
The  parents  of  Lavater  had  connections  in  the  corpo- 
ration of  Zurich;  but  it  was  not  until  1769  that  any 
adapted  vacancy  occurred  in  the  city-preferment,  when 
Lavater  first  became  permanently  attached  to  the 
church  of  Saint  Peter,  and  finally  ascended  therein  to 
the  office  of  chief  pastor. 

During  his  probationary  years  Lavater  published 
several  poetic  works;  (1)  Patriotic  Songs  of  the  Swiss ; 
(2)  Sacred  Hymns ;  (3)  The  new  M essiad,  a  gospel  in 
verse,  a  metrical  diatessaron,  which  affects  a  close  ad- 
herence to  scriptural  phraseology  and  authority ;  (4) 
Joseph  of  Arimathea,  a  spiritual  metrical  romance ; 
(5)  The  Himian  Heart,  a  didactic  poem.  All  these 
publications  acquired  circulation  in  the  religious,  not 
in  the  fashionable  world ;  they  tend  to  assuade  a 
benevolent    sensibility,    theopathetic   affections,  and 


6  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

evangelical  doctrines ;  but  they  exhibit  a  leaning  to  cre- 
dulity and  to  contemplative  piety.  The  patriotic  songs 
breathe  a  warm  love  of  liberty.  There  is  poetry  of 
imagination  also  in  his  "  Prospects  into  Eternity," 
although  this  visionary  future  state  is  painted  in  humble 
prose. 

A  more  conspicuous  portion  of  Lavater's  works  are 
his  Physiognomic  Fragments  in  four  volumes  quarto, 
which  made  the  tour  of  Europe.  He  also  wrote  many 
professional  books.  During  the  French  occupation 
of  Switzerland  in  1798,  Lavater  addressed  a  spirited 
remonstrance  to  Rewbell  in  behalf  of  the  independent 
liberty  of  his  country.  This  publication  gave  offence 
to  the  Parisian  director,  and  Lavater  was  forcibly 
removed  to  Basle.  After  the  termination  of  his  exile, 
he  drew  up  and  published  an  account  of  it ;  but  when 
the  French  in  1799  reoccupied  Zurich,  a  french  soldier 
fired  at  him  and  wounded  him  in  the  abdomen :  he 
never  recovered  from  the  effects  of  this  injury,  although 
he  lived  in  impaired  comfort  full  fifteen  months  after 
its  infliction.  The  life  of  Lavater  was  written  by 
George  Gesner  his  son-in-law,  and  appeared  at  Zurich 
in  3  vols.  8vo.  1802. 

Johann  Gaudenz  von  Salis  was  born  in  December 
1762,  at  Seewjs  in  the  Grisons,  and  placed  by  his  no- 
ble relations  in  military  aervice.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  French  revolution  he  was  a  captain  in  the  Swiss 
guard  at  Versailles ;  but  served  as  a  private  in  the 
lines  under  the  command  of  General  Montesquiou, 
during  the  conquest  of  Savoy.  He  afterwards,  in  1 799 
it  is  said,  became  Inspector-general  of  the  militia  in 
Svritzerland,  which  office  compelled  a  somewhat  ver- 
satile residence ;  but  he  finally  settled  at  Malans,  in 
his  native  province,  where  he  died  a  few  years  after. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  7 

Lyric  and  elegiac  poetry  was  the  walk  in  which  he 
delighted  to  stray ;  and  his  style  has  sensibly  been 
influenced  by  the  manner  of  his  friend  and  editor 
Matthison.  A  pleasing  ode  to  Spring  of  his  writing 
has  been  translated  in  the  Specimens  of  German  Lyric 
Poets,  printed  for  Boosey  in  1823.  His  Hymn  to  the 
month  of  Marchj  his  Infancy  ^  and  his  Sighs  for  Even- 
ing, are  the  most  remembered  of  his  productions. 

In  the  four  concluding  sections  (14,  15, 16,  and  17) 
I  have  not  yet  discovered  any  important  omission;  still, 
in  the  Hamburg  groop  of  poets,  it  might  have  been 
well  to  allot  a  few  words  to  Matthew  Claudius,  who 
was  born  in  1743,  at  Rienfeld,  not  far  from  Lubeck. 
He  resided  eventually  at  Wandsbeck,  near  Hamburg, 
and  was,  it  is  said,  the  proprietor  of  a  carrier  s  wag- 
gon ;  in  allusion  to  which  apparently,  on  the  title-page 
to  his  publications,  he  calls  himself  Asmtis,  omnia  se- 
cum  portans,  the  fFdndsbeck  messenger. 

This  miscellany  consists  of  several  volumes  con- 
taining prose  and  verse,  and,  in  a  peculiar  and  truly 
German  vein  of  humor,  satirizes  the  vices  and  folh'es 
of  his  countrymen,  or  inculcates  lessons  of  justice, 
charity,  patriotism,  and  religion.  Among  the  songs 
of  Claudius,  one  of  the  best  is  entitled  Phidile,  or  Fi- 
dele,  and,  as  it  has  been  happily  versified  by  an  ano- 
nymous poet,  I  take  the  liberty  of  transcribing  it. 

PHIDILE. 

PART    THE    FIRST. 

Scarse  sixteen  summers  had  I  seen 

Among  my  native  bowers. 
Nor  stray'd  my  thoughts  beyond  the  green, 

The  garden,  and  the  flowers. 


8  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Till  once  a  stranger-youth  appeared, 
I  neither  wish'd  nor  sought  him ; 

He  came,  but  whence  I  never  heard. 
And  spoke  what  love  had  taught  him. 

His  hair  in  graceful  ringlets  play'd, 
As  wanton  Zephyrs  blew  them. 

And  o'er  his  comely  shoulders  stray'd ; 
I  was  quite  charm'd  to  view  them. 

His  speaking  eyes  of  azure  hue 

Seem'd  ever  softly  suing ; 
And  such  an  eye,  so  clear  and  blue, 

Ne'er  shone  for  maid's  undoing. 

His  face  was  fair,  his  cheek  was  red 
With  blushes  ever  burning ; 

And  all  he  spoke  was  nicely  said, 
Tho'  far  beyond  my  learning. 

Where'er  I  stray'd,  the  youth  was  nigh, 

His  looks  soft  sorrows  speaking ; 
Sweet  maid !  he  'd  say,  and  gaze  and  sigh 

As  if  his  heart  were  breaking. 

» 

And  once,  as  low  his  head  he  hung, 

I  kindly  askt  his  meaning ; 
When  round  my  neck  his  arms  he  flung. 

Soft  tears  his  grief  explaining. 

Such  freedom  ne'er  was  ta'en  till  now. 
And  now  't  was  unoffending ; 

Shame  spread  my  cheek  with  ruddy  glow, 
My  eyes  kept  downward  bending. 

Nor  aught  I  spoke :  my  looks  he  read 

As  if  in  anger  burning. 
No  not  one  word :  away  he  sped — 

Ah  would  he  were  returning ! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  9 


PHIDILE. 

PART    THE    SECOND. 
fFrUten  immediately  after  the  marriage  ceremony. 

God's  blessing  light  upon  your  head, 
That  you  have  given  him  to  me  so : 

0  reverend  sir,  my  heart's  blood  sped 
Never  so  throbbingly  as  now. 

And  William's  heart  was  beating  too, 
When  you  enquir'd,  in  tone  severe. 

If  he  would  faithful  live  and  true. 
Till  death  shall  part  our  union  here. 

His  glistening  eye-balls  seem'd  to  speak 
As  would  he  clasp  me  to  his  heart. 

The  color  mantled  on  his  cheek. 
And  the  bright  tear  began  to  start. 

1  too,'my  William,  felt  yet  more. 

Nor  will  I  e'er  forsake  thy  side. 
If  well  or  sick,  if  rich  or  poor, 
Let  better  or  let  worse  betide. 

I  '11  always  be  about  thy  home. 

And  shun  not  want  or  woe  with  thee ; 

My  trusty  William,  thou  alone 
Shalt  be  my  soul's  delight  and  glee. 

Thou  only  shalt  be  all  to  me, 

God  is  the  witness'to  my  vow ; 
If  death  take  sooner  me  or  thee. 

We  '11  meet  above  as  erst  below. 

A  lingular  and  characteristic  poem  of  Claudius^  is 
the  Moming'hymn  of  a  countryman^  at  the  beginning 
of  the  second  volume ;  in  which  the  Sun  is  addressed 


10  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

in  a  most  natural  and  even  trivial  manner,  but  in  the 
notes  to  which  recondite  Greek  authorities  are  addu- 
ced for  every  epithet  and  half  line,  with  a  happy  persi- 
flage of  pedantry.  Claudius  has  been  aptly  appretiated 
by  the  translator,  from  whom  the  first  of  these  speci- 
mens is  borrowed :  "  his  thoughts  are  generally  just, 
and  his  invention  happy;  but  his  plan  has  seldom 
depth,  and  his  execution  is  frequently  defective :  he  is 
singular  rather  than  original ;  sometimes  extravagant, 
when  he  would  be  thought  humorous,  and  affected 
when  he  means  to  be  witty." 

There  is  about  the  poetry  of  Claudius,  as  about  that 
of  Gleim  and  Klopstock,  a  certain  locality  of  taste,  a 
raciness,  a  flavor  of  the  soil,  a  native  Germanity  of 
manner,  which  adapts  it  the  more  for  national,  and 
the  less  for  European,  approbation.  Ramler,  on  the 
contrary,  Lessing,  and  especially  Wieland,  have  adopt- 
ed a  more  cosmopolite  manner:  their  writings  will 
better  bear  translation,  and  win  an  easier  way  to  for- 
eign admiration.  They  attend  to  general  not  to  pecu- 
liar nature,  both  in  choice  of  topic,  and  in  method  of 
delineation. 

Among  ourselves,  Shakspeare,  among  the  Scottish, 
Burns,  have  perhaps  worshipped  too  much  the  genius 
of  the  place,  and  have  had  long  to  wait  for  continental 
applause.  Pope,  on  the  other  hand,  and  Macpherson 
(or  Ossian)  have  chosen  less  conventional  forms  of 
art,  and  became  immediately  popular  in  other  coun- 
tries, as  Lord  Byron  has  done  since.  And  surely  the 
preference  must  be  awarded  to  those  writers,  who 
shake  off  the  prejudices  of  their  birth-place,  instead 
of  clinging  to  them ;  who,  not  content  with  being  dis- 
tinguished burgesses  of  a  close  corporation,  aspire  to 
become  eminent  citizens  of  the  world.     Theirs  is  the 


OF.  GERMAN  POETRY.  1  1 

higher  stage  of  merit,  who,  far  from  flattering  the 
moral,  reh'gious,  or  patriotic,  bigotries  of  their  neigh- 
bours, appeal  to  the  instinctive  morality  of  man,  bow 
to  the  genius  of  universal  nature,  and  promulgate  the 
dictates  of  an  intelligent  and  comprehensive  philan- 
thropy. 


12  HISTORIC  SUBVEY 


§2. 

Gottingen  groop  of  poets — Kdstner — Zachand — Burger — 
his  life — his  ballads —  The  Wild  Hunter —  The  Parsoris 
Daughter — EUenore — Minor  Poems. 

From  Berlin  let  us  travel  to  Gottingen  ;  for 'such  was 
announced,  at  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  section^ 
as  the  probable  order  of  the  ensuing  sketches. 

Abraham  Gotthelf  Kastner  was  born  at  Leipzig  in 
1719.  His  father,  a  professor  of  jurisprudence,  gave 
him  a  solicitous  education,  and,  already  in  his  thir- 
teenth year,  encouraged  him  to  attend  the  university- 
lectures.  Mathematics  was  his  favourite  studv«  and 
he  was  so  early  a  respectable  proficient,  that  at  fifteen 
he  practised  as  a  notary  public.  At  nineteen  he  be- 
came master  of  arts.  Not  only  had  he  acquired  the 
classical  but  the  principal  modern  languages,  and  was 
skilled  in  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Low-dutch,  Swe- 
dish, and  English.  For  several  years  he  edited  a 
miscellany  entitled,  "  Amusements  of  Literature,"  to 
which  he  contributed  many  original  and  many  trans- 
lated articles.  But  having  been  promoted  in  1746  to 
the  mathematical  professorship  at  Leipzig,  he  deserted 
these  juvenile  pursuits  for  the  severer  science,  which 
he  had  now  to  teach,  and  in  which  he  acquired  a  high 
and  European  reputation.  In  1756  he  was  invited  to 
G5ttingen,  there  also  to  611  the  chair  of  mathematical 
professor,  which  was  more  liberally  endowed  than  that 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  ]3 

of  Leipzig ;  and  he  continued  to  lecture  in  this  de- 
partment with  increasing  celebrity  until  his  death,  in 
1800. 

Some  didactic  poems  of  Kastner  exist  in  rimed 
alexandrines,  some  lyric  effusions  in  metres  more  va- 
rious, and  some  fables  which  have  considerable  merit ; 
bat  his  epigrams  constitute  his  strongest  claim  to  poetic 
celebrity,  both  for  their  causticity  and  condensation : 
they  are  however  so  occassional  and  so  local  in  their 
application,  that  they  can  be  thoroughly  enjoyed  only 
by  the  native  German  and  the  Gottingen  resident. 

Frederic  William  Zacharia  is  said  to  have  been  of 
Jewish  descent,  and  bom  at  Fraukenhausen,  in  1726 : 
he  was  sent  however  to  study  at  Leipzig ;  and,  like 
Kastner,  acquired  his  early  bent  among  the  writers  of 
the  Saxon  school.  Eventually  he  became  a  tutor, 
and  then  a  professor  in  the  Carolinian  college  at 
Braunschweig,  where  he  died  in  1777 :  but  his  con- 
tiguity to  Gottingen  threw  him  often  into  the  literary 
society  of  that  place.  His  works  were  collected,  and 
edited  by  his  friend  Eschenburg.  They  contain  a  flat 
translation  into  German  hexameters  of  Milton's  Paron 
dise  Lost ;  (2)  The  Creation  of  Hell  in  the  manner  of 
Klopstock;  (3)  a  rimed  translation  of  Pope's  Rape  of 
the  Lock;  this  was  more  successful,  and  tempted  the 
poet  to  imitate  his  model  in  three  vapidly  galant  comic 
epopaeas  entitled.  The  Handkerchief,  The  Dandy,  and 
The  Phaeton;  (4)  an  imitation  of  Thomson's  Seasons 
in  hexameter ;  (5)  Fables,  in  the  manner  of  Burkard 
Wallis,  which  are  perhaps  the  most  easy  and  pleasing 
of  his  compositions ;  and  (6)  Cortez,  an  epic  poem, 
in  iambic  blank  verse,  on  the  conquest  of  Mexico ; 
but  this  work  the  author  did  not  live  to  complete;  nor 
do  the  portions,  which  have  appeared,  although  they 


14  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

inclad^  picturesque  descriptions,  excite  any  strong  re- 
.  gret  at  his  want  of  rapidity  or  perseverance. 
Let  us  pass  on  to  a  real  genius. 

LIFE  OF  GODFRED-AUGUSTUS  BURGER. 

The  poet,  says  Burger,  in  one  of  his  prefaces,  lays 
no  claim,  in  the  scale  of  being,  to  the  rank  of  a  sun  ; 
he  is  content  with  the  humbler,  harmless,  welcome 
offices  of  Zephyr.  Though  he  neither  move  the  mills 
of  manufacture,  nor  the  ships  of  commerce,  he  may 
unfold  the  petals  of  the  sweetest  flowers,  and  incar- 
nadine the  flush  of  ripeness  on  the  most  delicious 
fruits ;  he  may  fan  the  brow  of  weary  toil,  or  lap  in 
elysian  airs  the  strolling  enthusiast  of  nature.  Well 
may  he  expect  then  at  his  tomb  the  sigh  of  regret,  the 
cypress- wreath  of  elegy,  and  the  biographic  memorial 
of  posthumous  admiration. 

Godfred-Augustus  was  the  second  child  and  only 
son  of  the.  Lutheran  minister  John-Godfred  Burger, 
by  his  wife  Gertrude-Elizabeth,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Bauer.  He  was  born  in  1748,  on  new  year's  day, 
at  Wolmerswende,  in  the  German  principality  of  Hal- 
berstadt,  and  inherited  with  the  indolence  of  his  father 
the  talents  of  his  mother.  His  early  progress  was 
inconsiderable.  At  ten  years  of  age  he  could  barely 
read  and  write.  But  he  had  a  good  memory:  he 
learned  by  heart,  and  repeated  with  ease,  many  of 
Luther's  hymns,  and  other  pious  fragments.  He  i*ead 
the  bible  with  delight :  the  historical  books,  the  pro- 
phets, the  psalms,  and  especially  the  apocalypse,  were 
turned  over  by  him  daily  with  renewed  pleasure. 

To  these  hymns  of  Luther  he  ascribed,  in  after-life, 
the  hint  of  that  impressive  popularity  which  charac- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  16 

terized  his  ballads.  He  had  always  an  ear  for  rhythm, 
and,  while  a  boy,  woald  indicate  and  blame  the  lines 
which  had  a  half-foot  too  much,  or  which  were  so 
coDstnicted  as  to  throw  oio^istinct  syllables  the  ictas 
of  the  scanner  and  the  en^nasis  of  the  reader.  By  a 
kind  of  instinct  he  knew  already  what  interfered  with 
effect. 

He  loved  to  stray  alone  about  a  wild  uninclosed 
heath  near  his  father's  home.  He  was  ordered  to 
carry  a  Latin  grammar  in  his  pocket,  and  to  learn  his 
declensions.  The  first  rudiments  his  mother  attempt- 
ed to  teach  him.  He  was  next  intrusted  to  the  care 
of  a  neighbouring  preacher ;  but  so  averse  was  he  to 
this  kind  of  application,  that  after  two  years  he  did 
not  know  his  grammar,  and  was  forced  to  withdraw 
as  a  dqnce  incapable  of  literary  culture. 

In  1760  his  grandfather  put  him  to  a  boarding* 
school  at  Aschersleben,  under  the  rector  Auerbach. 
Here  young  Burger  learned  something,  and  exerted 
his  talent  for  versification  in  a  poem  on  the  fire  that 
happened  in  the  spring  of  1764  at  Aschersleben,  which 
advantageously  displays  both  his  metrical  and  pious 
torn  of  mind.  An  epigmm  on  the  usher's  bag- wig, 
which  the  poet's  school-fellows  repeated  with  trouble- 
some and  seditious  complacency,  soon  after  occasion- 
ed his  expulsion,  a.s  a  ringleader  in  this  petty  insur- 
rection against  authority. 

He  was  now  sent  to  the  university  of  Halle,  to 
stady  theology.  This  was  not  the  profession  of  his 
choice,  but  his  choice  of  this  profession  was  the  con- 
dition of  his  grandfather's  bounty.  He  accordingly 
went  through  the  routine  of  instruction,  and  once 
preached  in  a  village  near  Halle.  But  his  acquaint- 
ance while  at  this  college  with  a  counsellor  Klotze,  a 


16  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

man  of  literary  attainments  and  free  manners^  bronght 
on  Burger  a  reputation  for  libertinism,  which,  in  the 
then  state  of  Protestant  Germany,  was  supposed  in- 
compatible with  the  pastoral  office.  Even  his  grand* 
father  thought  it  necessary  he  should  relinquish  the 
holy  profession  for  the  study  of  the  law,  and  accord- 
ingly consented  to  his  removal,  for  that  purpose^  to 
Gottingen  in  the  Easter  term  of  1768.  To  jurispru- 
dence he  applied  with  assiduity,  and  became  well  vers- 
ed in  the  Pandects;  but  experience  had  taught  him  no 
discretion  with  respect  to  personal  conduct.  The 
lodgings  which  Klotze  recommended  he  took  at  Got- 
tingen, and  again  made  a  noise  by  his  dissoluteness, 
which  provoked  his  grandfather  to  withdraw  all  fur- 
ther patronage.  Poor,  and  a  rake,  it  was  difficult  not 
to  incur  a  style  of  living  repulsive  to  mere  acquaint- 
ance, and  disgusting  even  to  the  tolerance  of  friend- 
ship. Biester,  Sprengel,  and  Boie,  were  among  those 
friends  who  valued  in  Burger  the  good  qualities  which 
still  remained  to  him,  and  who  conferred  on  his  adver- 
sity what  it  admitted  of  consolation.  For  Biester  he 
was  conceived  to  feel ;  to  Boie  he  was  thought  to  owe 
predilection.  A  humorous  poetical  epistje  to  Spren- 
gel,  requiring  back  a  great-coat  left  at  his  rooms,  and 
the  drinking  song  Herr  Bacchus  ist  ein  braver  Marni^ 
were  then  considered  as  indicating  the  natural  line  of 
pursuit  for  his  literary  talents.  Pecuniary  distress  had 
made  him  sensible  of  the  necessity  of  exertion ;  for 
the  fear  of  want  is  a  stronger  stimulus  than  the  hope 
of  remote  advancement. 

It  was  now  that  he  first  read  with  ardor  the  ancient 
classics,  and  that  he  applied  to  the  modern  languages 
with  assiduity.  English,  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  all 
yielded  to  his  effoi*ts.  With  Burger  and  his  companions 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  17 

Sbakspeare  became  so  favourite  an  author,  that  they 
agreed,  one  April  night,  to  have  a  frolic  in  honor  of 
his  birth-day,  at  which  all  the  conversation  should  be 
conducted  in  quotations  from  the  English  dramatist. 
Baron  Kielmansegge  was  their  host,  and  so  glibly 
would  his  guests  repeat  with  Sir  Toby, "  Art  any  thing 
but  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think  there  shall  be  no  more 
cakes  and  ale  ?''  that  by  the  hour  of  separation  their 
turbulence  drew  the  attention  of  the  police,  and  they 
had  to  ^^  rub  their  chain  with  crumbs/'  [Dass  sie  ihren 
Rausch  auf  dem  Career  ausschlafen  miissten  J  Biirgqr 
delighted  also  in  Spanish  literature,  and  composed  in 
that  language  an  original  story,  which  Boie  still  pos* 
sesses. 

Gotter,  a  young  man,  formed  by  the  study  of  French 
models  to  a  love  of  correct  and  polished  versification, 
came  to  Gottingen  in  1769,  and  associated  with  Biir* 
ger  and  his  friends.  He  had  brought  a  Parisian  Al- 
manac of.  the  Muses,  and  took  pleasure  in  exhibiting 
those  pencilled  gemniums,  with  which  the  Gressets^ 
the  Dorats,  and  the  Pezais,  had  stocked  this  annual  an- 
thology. To  Gotter,  Btirger  attached  himself  greatly, 
and  in  bis  society  certainly  acquired  considerable  taste: 
in  short,  his  natural  tendency  to  the  exorbitant,  the 
extravagant,  the  eccentric,  was  somewhat  pruned  away. 
They  planned  in  concert  a  German  Almanac  of  the 
Muses.  Kastner,  the  epigrammatist,  promised  them 
his  assistance.  Boie  was  alert  in  soliciting  contribu- 
tions, and  obtained,  in  a  trip  to  Berlin,  the  avowed 
patronage  of  the  German  Horace,  Ramler,  a  friend  the 
more  important,  as  he  had  influence  with  the  director- 
ies of  periodical  criticism.  Under  such  auspices  the 
Almanac  of  the  Muses  was  not  only  likely  to  merit, 
but  to  obtain,  speedy  popularity.     It  accordingly  suc- 

VOL.  II.  C 


«<  - 


18  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

ceeded  to  admiration,  and  continued  from  1770  to 
1775,  under  the  same  management,  with  yearly  in-* 
creasing  repute.  A  translation  of  the  Hameau  of  Ber- 
nard, and  another  more  masterly  of  the  Pervigilium 
Veneris^  were  among  the  exercitations  which  Burger 
chronicled  in  the  Muses'  Almanac.  The  comic  ballad 
Europa  is  also  his,  although  the  loose  turn  of  the  story 
occasioned  him  to  suppress  his  usual  signature. 

Burger  envied,  as  he  says  in  some  of  his  letters, 
the  correctness  and  ease  of  his  friend  Gotter's  versi- 
fication. To  him  all  he  produced  was  carried  for 
criticism.  It  was  at  first  sturdily  defended  against 
objections ;  but  much  was  always  altered  eventually  in 
deference  to  the  judgment  of  the  censor.  Flushed 
with  the  glow  of  composition.  Burger  would  often 
present  his  verses  with  the  comic  entreaty,  for  this 
once  not  to  find  any  fault ;  yet  he  was  best  pleased 
with  a  captious  commentary,  which  put  every  epithet 
to  the  torture.  Thus  he  gradually  accompUshed  him- 
self in  the  fine  art  defaire  difficilement  des  vers. 

Throughout  life  he  maintained  that  his  reputation 
as  a  poet  was  far  less  a  result  of  any  unusual  talent  in 
him,  than  of  the  perpetual  use  of  the  file ;  meaning  by 
that,  the  extraordinary  pains  he  bestowed  on  all  his 
compositions :  his  best  poems,  he  said,  were  precisely 
those  which  had  cost  him  most  labor.  He  would  alter 
not  merely  words  and  lines,  but  left  scarsely  one  vestige 
of  his  first  composition. 

In  Germany  it  is  not  uncommon  for  polished  fami- 
lies to  bespeak  a  birth-day  ode^  an  epithalamium,  or 
an  elegy,  on  those  occasions  which  form  a  sort  of 
epocha  in  the  history  of  their  existence.  To  the  poet 
a  pecuniary  recompence  is  sent,  and  a  splendid  edition 
of  his  work  is  distributed  ampng  the  friends  of  the 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  19 

house.  The  notice  which  Biirger  began  to  obtain 
occasioned  many  applications  of  this  kind:  and  to  him 
it  was  convenient,  by  means  like  these,  to  repair  his 
shattered  finances.  Several  heirs  of  fortune,  several 
happy  mothers,  have  now  the  pleasure  of  boasting, 
my  birth-day  was  sung,  or,  my  wedding  was  celebrated^ 
by  Biirger. 

In  1771  Hiilty,  the  elegiac,  and  Voss,  the  bucolic 
poet.  Miller,  author  of  Siegwart  and  Mariamne,  a 
writer  of  great  sensibility,  and  the  two  counts  Stol- 
berg,  of  whom  Frederic  Leopold  is  most  known  by 
poems,  travels,  and  a  republican  romance  called  The 
Iland,  came  to  Gottingen,  as  yet  "  youths  unknown 
to  fame."  They  were  soon  attracted,  by  the  natural 
magnetism  of  genius,  within  the  circle  which  had  as- 
sembled round  Biirger ;  and  after  his  removal  from 
Gottingen^  in  the  following  year,  they  continued  to 
visit  his  rustic  retreat. 

The  influence  of  Boie  obtained  for  Biirger,  in  1772, 
a  stewardship  of  the  manor  of  Alten-Gleichen,  under 
the  noble  family  of  Uslar.  The  acceptance  of  the 
place  occasioned  a  reconciliation  between  the  poet  and 
his  grandfather,  who  was  willing  to  encourage  this 
symptom  of  economic  care  and  returning  prudence, 
by  paying  off.  the  debts  incurred  at  Gottingen  by  his 
grandson.  Boie  was  absent.  A  less  faithful  friend 
undertook  the  liquidation;  nearly  seven  hundred  dol- 
lars of  this  advance  passed  into  the  hands,  not  of 
Burgers  creditors,  but  of  a  spendthrift  associate.  The 
student  could  not  refund ;  the  grandfather  was  inexo- 
rable; and  Burger  migrated  to  his  new  residence,  still 
encumbered  with  college-debts,  which  for  years  dis- 
turbed his  repose,  but  which  his  sloth  could  never 
summons  the  means  of  discharging. 

C2 


20  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Here  it  was  that  Biirger  first  met  with  Herder's 
dissertation  on  the  songs  of  rude  nations,  which  drew 
his  attention  to  the  ballads  of  England,  and  with  Per- 
cy's Reliques,  which  immediately  became  his  manual. 
These  books  decided  for  ever  the  character  of  his  ex- 
cellence. From  a  free  translation  of  "  The  Friar  of 
Orders  Gray"  (Bruder  GraurockJ,  and  "  The  Child 
of  EUe**  (Die  Entfuhrung)^  and  from  an  imitation  of 
Dryden's  Guiscardo  and  Sigismunda  (Lenardo  und 
Blandinejy  be  rapidly  passed  on  to  the  production  of 
«  The  Wild  Hunter,"  "  The  Parson's  Daughter," 
and  "  Lenore."  The  two  latter  are  probably  the  finest 
ballads  extant.  No  other  minstrel  communicates  to 
the  reader  an  equal  degree  of  interest  and  agitation ; 
it  is  difficult  to  peruse  them  in  the  closet  without 
breaking  loose  into  pantomime.  Nor  is  he  less  mas- 
ter of  the  more  difficultly  arousable,  rapid,  and  impet- 
uous movements  of  the  soul,  than  of  the  tenderer 
feelings  of  the  heart.  His  extraordinary  powers  of 
language  ar«  founded  on  a  rejection  of  the  conventi- 
onal phraseology  of  regular  poetry,  in  favor  of  popular 
forms  of  expression,  caught  by  the  listening  artist 
from  the  voice  of  agitated  nature.  Imitative  harmony 
he  pursues  almost  to  excess :  the  onomatopoeia  is  his 
prevailing  figure ;  the  inteijection  his  favourite  part 
of  speech :  arrangement,  rhythm,  sound,  rime,  are  al- 
ways with  him  an  echo  to  the  sense.  The  hurrying 
vigor  of  his  diction  is  unrivalled ;  yet  is  so  natural, 
even  in  its  sublimity,  that  his  poetry  is  singularly  fitted 
to  become  national  popular  song.  The  Lenore  was 
first  <x)mmunicated  to  Boie,  who  eagerly  induced  se- 
veral of  the  Gottingen  party  to  ride  with  him  to  Alten 
Gleichen,  and  hear  it.  The  eflFect  was  peculiarly  great 
on  the  younger  count  Stolberg.     During  the  stanza. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  21 

'*  Anon  an  iron-grated  door 

"  Fast  biggens  on  their  view : 
"  He  crack'd  his  whip — the  locks^  the  bolts^ 

"  Cling  clang !  asunder  flew" — 


Frederic  Leopold  started  from  his  seat  in  an  agony  of 
rapturous  terror. 

Near  two  years  were  passed  lonesomely  by  Biirger 
in  his  rural  station,  but  they  were  the  two  years  of  his 
life  the  most  valuable  to  the  public.  He  married,  in 
September  1774,  a  farmers  daughter  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, by  name  Niedeck,  whose  devoted,  whose 
heroic  attachment  to  him  was  never  more  conspicuous 
than  in  moments  of  the  most  untoward  adversity.  In 
the  village  WoUmershausen  he  hired  the  snug  cottage 
to  which  he  conducted  his  bride.  An  old  schoolfellow, 
Goekingk,  went  to  visit  him  there  on  his  marriage, 
and  renewed  an  intimacy  which  suffered  no  subsequent 
interruption. 

Financial  difficulties  were  probably  the  cause  which, 
in  1776,  aroused  Biirger  to  publish  in  the  German 
Museum,  then  a  magazine  of  some  celebrity,  propos- 
als for  an  Iambic  version  of  the  Iliad.  The  annexed 
specimens  were  distinguished  for  a  more  than  Homeric 
rapidity  of  diction,  and  for  an  absence  of  stateliness, 
less  unfaithful  than  the  euphemism  of  Pope,  and  more 
attaching  than  the  solemnity  of  Cowper.  But  as  the 
younger  count  Stolberg  had  also  made  some  progress 
in  the  same  enterprise ;  as  his  specimens,  more  dex- 
terously chosen,  divided  at  least  the  suffrages  of  cri- 
tics, and  possessed  the  advantage  of  copying  the  hex- 
ametrical  lines  of  the  original;  as  his  industry  speedily 
outstripped  the  short  fits  of  Biirger  s  application,  and 
soon  completed  the  publication  of  the  Iliad  ;  this 


22  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

enterprise  was  abandoned  without  advantage  to  his. 
fortune  or  his  fame^  after  having  extended  beyond  six 
books.     The  Epistle  of  Defiance,  addressed  on  the 
occasion  to  Stolberg,  is  one  of  the  most  spirited  of 
Burger's  smaller  poems. 

His  next  literary  undertaking  was  a  translation  of 
Macbeth,  brought  out  at  Hamburg  for  the  benefit  of 
Schroder,  an  artist-actor  who  excelled  in  personating 
the  heroes  of  Shakspeare.  This  translation,  although 
too  much  abridged,  and  in  the  witch-scenes  too  love, 
is  in  some  respects  superior  to  the  original.  The 
character  of  Banquo  has  acquired  more  consequence, 
by  the  introduction  of  a  good  soliloquy  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  second  act.  Of  the  third  act  the  third 
scene  was  omitted  ;  the  murder  of  Banquo  is  known 
from  the  narration  of  the  assassin.  In  like  manner 
the  second  scene  of  the  fourth  act  is  curtailed ;  the 
disgusting  butchery  of  Macduff's  child  being  far  more 
pathetically  stated  by  Rosse  afterwards.  The  fourth 
scene  of  the  fifth  act  is  also  with  propriety  omitted  ; 
as  the  removal  of  Birnam  woQd  becomes  sufficiently 
explained  by  the  scout. 

The  father-in-law  of  Biirger  died  in  1777.  In  con- 
sequence of  this  event,  an  intricate  and  inconvenient 
executorship  devolved  on  the  poet.  A  law-suit,  which 
it  obliged  him  to  conduct,  displayed,  indeed,  his  pro- 
fessional qualifications,  but  absorbed  his  leisure  in 
vexatious  frivolities.  The  inheritance,  to  which  he 
acceded,  did  not  much  improve  his  circumstances ; 
which  an  increasing  family  rendered  daily  more  insuf- 
ficient. 

In  1778  he  undertook  the  exclusive  compilation  of 
the  Gottingen  Almanac  of  the  Muses  (while  Goekingk 
and  Voss  established  a  new  one  at  Hamburg),  and  as- 


op  GERMAN  POETRY.  23 

sisted  also  in  other  periodical  publications.  The  wages 
of  authorship  no  where  formed  at  that  time  an  ade* 
quate  resource,  if  a  liberal  maintenance  was  the  object. 
There  is,  however,  a  pleasure  in  composition,  there  is 
a  pleasure  in  praise,  there  is  a  pleasure^  even  when 
unknown,  in  contributing  to  tincture  the  general  flow 
of  opinion ;  these  constituted  the  chief  rewards,  for,  as 
a  necessary  division  of  human  labor,  it  was  certainly 
underpaid.  Biirger  found  it  ^p ;  and,  in  1780,  for- 
sook the  Muses  for  Pan,  and  applied  to  the  Rural 
Gods  for  a  maintenance  refused  him  by  the  Nine. 
The  farm  he  hired  was  situate  in  Appenrode.  An 
additional  motive  for  this  determination  was,  perhaps, 
that  the  accounts  of  his  stewardship  bad  been  negli- 
gently managed ;  and  that  something,  very  like  a  for- 
mal charge  of  peculation,  was  made  against  him  to 
the  lords  of  Uslar.  This  accusation^  indeed,  Biirger 
repelled  ;  but  his  carelessness  made  his  resignation  a 
duty,  and  it  was  accepted  with  readiness. 

In  1784  his  wife  died.  His  farm  appeared  unpro- 
ductive, probably  because  it  was  abandoned  to  the 
management  of  servants ;  and  he  once  more  removed, 
with  his  children,  to  Gbttingen,  where  he  subsisted 
partly  by  writing,  and  partly  by  private  tuition.  He 
read  lectures  there  on  German  style  and  the  theory  of 
taste ;  and  after  five  years  residence  obtained  a  pro- 
fessorship. 

As  soon,  or,  perhaps,  rathter  sooner  than  his  cir- 
cumstances properly  permitted,  he  became  united  to 
his  former  wife's  younger  sister,  the  so  often  celebra- 
ted "  Molly"  of  his  love-songs.  During  her  short 
stay  with  him  she  was  the  darling  of  his  affections ; 
but  she  died  in  child-bed  of  her  first  daughter,  the 
very  year  in  which  she  married.     His  children,  after 


24  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

this  catastrophe,  were  dispersed  among  different  kins- 
folks. 

BUrger  undertook,  in  1787,  to  lecture  on  the  critic 
cal  philosophy  of  Kant,  and  bis  course  was  much  at- 
tended. In  this  year  the  jubilee  of  the  foundation  of 
the  Gottingen  university  was  celebrated :  two  poems 
were  dedicated  by  him  to  the  occasion,  and  the  grateful 
college  conferred,  in  return,  a  doctor's  degree.  In 
November  1789  he  became  professor  of  philosophy. 

About  this  time  an  anonymous  poem  arrived  from 
Stntgard,  in  which  the  authoress  professed  to  have 
attached  herself  to  BUrger,  from  the  perusal  of  his 
heart-felt  poems ;  and  with  a  liberal  zeal,  by  way  of 
recompence,  offered  him  her  hand  in  marriage.  Tl^e 
verses  were  well  turned,  and  highly  complimentary ; 
and  there  was  an  interesting  singularity  in  their  heroic 
•  cast  of  sentiment.  Biirger  drew  up  a  very  galant 
reply,  and  printed  both  the  poems  in  the  Almanac  of 
the  Muses.  Intimations  now  came  in  whispers,  that 
the  lines  were  intended  for  the  individual,  not  for  the 
public.  Biirger  set  off  for  Stutgard.  The  syren  pleas- 
ed not  only  when  she  sang ;  and  Biirger  married  her 
immediately. 

It  is  melancholy  to  relate,  that  this  truly  poetical 
union  afforded  no  lasting  happiness  to  the  husband ; 
and  that,  in  1792,  after  little  more  than  three  years/' 
cohabitation,  a  separation  was  accomplished  by  ap{m- 
cation  to  a  court  of  justice.  During  this  unfortunate 
connexion  Biirger  was  assailed  with  a  deep  hoarse- 
ness, which  he  never  overcame,  and  which  unfitted 
him  for  lecturing.  This  reduced  him  once  more  to 
dependence  on  the  booksellers  for  subsistence.  A 
pulmonary  disease  was,  in  the  mean  time,  making  a 
rapid  progress;    it  affected  his    spirits  less  than   his 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  25 

health ;  but  it  sDatcbed  him,  on  the  8th  of  June  1794, 
from  a  country  which  he  had  illustrated,  at  the  age  of 
forty-six  years  and  five  months. 

His  physician  Dr.  Jager,  and  his  friend  the  benevo- 
lent Reinhard,  the  attendants  of  his  last  moments,  ac- 
cepted the  care  of  his  four  surviving  children.  His 
property  was  found  insufficient  for  the  payment  of  his 
debts.  A  marble  monument  has  been  erected  to  his 
memory^  by  voluntary  subscription,  in  a  garden  at 
Giittingcn  where  he  commonly  walked.  It  is  the  work 
of  the  brothers  Heyd  of  Cassel,  and  represents  a  Ger- 
mania  in  tears  crowning  the  poet*s  urn.  The  figure 
measures  five  feet,  the  pedestal  two  and  a  half. 

His  works  consist  of 

Anthia  and  Abrokomas,  translated  from  Xenophon 
of  Ephesus. 

Poems.     Vol.  I,  1778.     Vol.  II,  1789. 

Macbeth,  altered  from  Shakspeare. 

Munchausen's  Travels. 

Miscellaneous  Works,  two  volumes,  containing  the 
six  first  books  of  the  Iliad,  some  prose  versions  from 
Ossian,  and  the  papers  inserted  in  various  magazines, 
of  which  the  philological  (HUbnerus  redivivus),  and 
the  political  (Die  Republic  England),  are  calculated  to 
excite  some  curiosity. 

THE  WILD  HUNTER. 

I. 

His  bugle  horn  the  margrave  sounds. 

Halloo-loo-Ioo !  to  horse,  to  horse. 
Neighs  the  brisk  steed,  and  forward  bounds; 

The  pack  uncoupled  join  his  course. 
With  bark  and  yelp,  they  brush  and  rush. 
Thro*  corn  and  thorn,  thro'  wood  and  bush. 


26  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

II. 

The  Sunday  morning's  early  ray 
Had  clad  the  lofty  spire  in  gold ; 

And  deep  and  shrill,  with  dong  and  ding. 
The  bells  their  matin  chiming  toU'd ; 

While  from  afar  resounds  the  lay 

Of  pious  people  come  to  pray, 

III. 

Yolohee!  dash  athwart  the  train, 
With  trampling  haste  the  margrave  rides; 

When  lo !  two  horsemen  speed  amain, 
To  join  the  chase  from  different  sides ; 

One  from  the  right  on  milk-white  steed, 

The  left  bestrode  a  swarthy  breed. 

IV. 

And  who  were  then  the  stranger-pair  ? 

I  guess  indeed,  but  may  not  say : 
The  right-hand  horseman,  young  and  fair. 

Looked  blooming  as  the  dawn  of  May ; 
The  other's  eyes  with  fury  glow, 
And  tempests  loured  on  his  brow. 

V. 

"  Be  welcome,  sirs,  I  'm  starting  now ; 

You  hit  the  nick  of  time  and  place ; 
Not  earth  or  heaven  can  bestow 

A  princelier  pleasure  than  the  chase." 
Giving  his  side  a  hearty  slap ; 
He  wav'd  aloof  his  hunter's  cap. 

VI. 

"  111  suits  the  bugle's  boisterous  noise 

With  sabbath-chime,  and  hymned  prayer, 

(Quoth  the  fair  youth  in  gentle  voice,) 
To-day  thy  purpos'd  sport  forbear : 

Let  thy  good  angel  warn  thee  now. 

Nor  to  thy  evil  genius  bow." 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  27 

VII. 

"  Hunt  on,:  my  noble  fellow,  on," 

The  dingy  horseman  briskly  cries, 
"  Their  psalms  let  lazy  cowards  con, 

For  us  a  gayer  sun  shall  rise : 
What  best  beseems  a  prince  I  teach. 
Unheeded  let  yon  stripling  preach." 

VIII. 

*'  His  ghostly  counsels  I  shall  scorn," 
The  margrave  said,  and  spurr'd  his  steed, 

"  Who  fears  to  follow  hound  and  horn, 
Let  him  the  paternoster  heed. 

If  this,  Sir  Gentle,  vexes  you. 

Pray  join  at  church  the  saintly  crew." 

IX. 

With  sixteen  antlers  on  his  head 
A  milk-white  stag  before  them  strode. 

Soho!  hurrah!  at  once  they  sped 
O'er  hill  and  wood,  o'er  field  and  flood. 

Aleft,  aright,  beside  the  knight. 

Rode  both  the  strangers  black  and  white. 

X. 

Louder  their  bugle-horns  they  wind, 

The  horses  swifter  spurn  the  ground ; 
And  now  before,  and  now  behind, 

Crush'd,  gasping,  howls  some  trampled  hound. 
"  There  let  him  burst,  and  rot  to  hell. 
Our  princely  sport  this  must  not  quell." 


XL 

The  quarry  seeks  a  field  of  corn. 
And  hopes  to  find  a  shelter  there. 

See  the  poor  husbandman  forlorn 
With  clasped  hands  is  drawing  near. 

"  Have  pity,  noble  Sir,  forbear, 

My  little  only  harvest  spare." 


28  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XII. 

The  right-hand  stranger  calls  aside ; 

The  other  cheers  him  to  the  prey. 
The  margrave  bawls  with  angry  chide : 

"  Vile  scoundrel,  take  thyself  away." 
Then  cracks  the  lifted  whip  on  high, 
And  cuts  him  cross  the  ear  and  eye. 

XIII. 

So  said  and  done,  o*er  ditch  and  bank 
The  margrave  gallops  at  a  bound ; 

And  with  him  pours  in  rear  and  flank 
The  train  of  man  and  horse  and  hound. 

Horse,  hound,  and  man,  the  corn-field  scour. 

Its  dust  and  chaff  the  winds  devour. 

XIV. 

Affrighted  at  the  growing  din 
The  timid  stag  resumes  his  flight, 

Runs  up  and  down,  and  out  and  in. 
Until  a  meadow  caught  his  sight, 

Where,  couch'd  among  the  fleecy  breed. 

He  slily  hopes  to  hide  his  head. 

XV. 

But  up  and  down,  and  out  and  in, 
'  The  hounds  his  tainted  track  pursue ; 
Again  he  hears  the  growing  din. 

Again  the  hunters  cross  his  view. 
The  shepherd,  for  his  charge  afraid, 
Before  the  margrave,  kneeling,  said : 

XVI. 

"  In  mercy,  noble  lord,  keep  back ; 

This  is  the  common  of  the  poor ; 
Unless  you  whistle  off  the  pack, 

We  shall  be  starved  for  want  of  store. 
These  sheep  our  little  cotters  owe. 
Here  grazes  many  a  widow's  cow." 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  29 

XVII. 

The  right-hand  stranger  calls  aside ; 

The  other  cheers  him  to  proceed. 
Again  the  knight,  with  angry  chide. 

Repels  the  peasant's  humble  plead : 
"  Wert  thou  within  thy  cattle's  skin, 
I  would  not  call  a  bloodhound  in." 

XVIII. 

He  sounds  the  bugle  loo-loo-Ioo ! 

The  dogs  come  yelping  at  the  sound ; 
With  fury  fierce  the  eager  crew 

Pounce  on  whatever  stood  around. 
The  shepherd,  mangled,  blood-besmear'd, 
Falls ;  and,  beside  him,  all  the  herd. 

XIX. 

Roiis'd  by  the  murderous  whoop  so  near 
The  stag  once  more  his  covert  breaks ; 

Panting,  in  foam,  with  gushing  tear, 
The  darkness  of  the  wood  he  seeks, 

And,  where  a  lonely  hermit  dwells, 

Takes  refuge  in  the  hallow'd  cells. 

XX. 

With  crack  of  whip,  and  blore  of  horn, 

Yolohee !  on !  hurrah !  soho  ! 
Rash  rush  the  throng  thro'  bush  and  thorn. 

And  thither  still  pursue  the  foe. 
Before  the  door,  in  gentle  guise, 
His  prayer  the  holy  hermit  tries.  ' 

XXI. 

"  Break  off  thy  course,  my  voice  attend. 

Nor  God's  asylum  dare  profane; 
To  Heaven  not  in  vain  ascend 

The  groans  of  suffering  beast  or  man. 
For  the  last  time  be  warn'd,  and  bow, 
£lse  punishment  shall  seize  thee  now." 


30  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XXII. 

The  right-hand  stranger  pleads  again, 
With  anxious  mildness  to  forbear ; 

The  left-hand  horseman  shouts  amain, 
And  cheers  the  margrave  still  to  dare. 

In  spite  of  the  good  angel's  call, 

He  lets  the  evil  one  enthral. 

XXIII. 

"  Perdition  here,  perdition  there," 
He  bellows,  "  I  as  nothing  reck ; 

If  God's  own  footstool  were  its  lair, 

The  gates  of  Heaven  should  not  check. 

On,  comrades,  on ! "  he  rode  before, 

And  burst  athwart  the  oriel  door* 

XXIV. 

At  once  has  vanisht  all  the  rout. 

Hermit,  and  but,, and  stag,  and  hound; 

Nor  whip,  nor  horn,  nor  bark,  nor  shout. 
Amid  the  dun  abyss  resound. 

Dim  chilly  mists  his  sight  appal ; 

A  deadly  stillness  swallows  all. 

XXV. 

The  knight,  aiFrighted,  stares  around ; 

He  bawls,  but  tries  in  vain  to  hear ; 
He  blows  his  horn,  it  yields  no  sound. 

Cuts  with  his  lash  the  silent  air. 
And  spurs  his  steed  on  either  side. 
But  from  the  spo^  he  cannot  ride. 

XXVI. 

Darker  and  darker  grow  the  skies. 
As  were  he  shrouded  in  a  grave : 

And  from  afar  below  arise 

Sounds  as  of  ocean's  restless  wave : 

While  from  on  high,  thro'  clouds  and  gloom, 

A  voice  of  thunder  speaks  his  doom : 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  31 

XXVII. 

"  Thou  fiend  beneath  a  human  shape, 

Scorner  of  beast,  of  man — of  God, 
Know  that  no  creature's  groans  escape 

His  ear,  or  his  avenging  rod. 
Fly,  and  that  princes  long  may  heed. 
Shall  Hell  and  Devil  dog  thy  speed." 

XXVIII. 

Cold  shudders  thrill  through  flesh  and  bone ; 

The  voice  his  soul  of  hope  bereaves ; 
A  flash  of  tawny  lightning  shone 

Upon  the  forest's  rustling  leaves ; 
And  chilly  winds  begin  to  roar, 
And  showery  tempests  drift  and  pour. 

XXIX. 

Louder  and  louder  howls  the  storm. 
And  from  the  ground,  bow  wow !  soho ! 

A  thousand  hell-hounds,  ghaunt  of  form. 
Burst  open-mouth'd — at  him  they  go — 

And  there  's  a  ghastly  hunter  too, 

Horsed  on  the  steed  of  dingy  hue — 

XXX. 

The  margrave  scuds  o'er  field  and  wood. 

And  shrieks  to  them  in  vain  to  spare ; 
Hell  follows  still  through  fire  or  flood. 

By  night,  by  day,  in  earth,  in  air. — 
This  is  the  chase  the  hunter  sees. 
With  midnight  horror,  thro'  the  trees. 


The  spectre-hunt  in  Dryden's  Theodore  and  Honoria 
has 'evidently  suggested  some  of  the  imagery  in  this 
spirited  ballad.  Critics  have  objected,  that  the  church- 
bells,  and  the  congregation  singing  psalms  as  they 
approach  (stanza  II),  and  the  religious  scruple  to  a 


* 
> 


32  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

hnntiog  party  on  the  sabbath>day  (stanza  VI),  tend 
to  place  the  scene  in  a  protestant  province ;  whereas 
the  hermitage  (stanza  XIX)  removes  it  to  a  catholic 
country.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  fine  imitation  of  the 
poem,  has  wisely  veiled  an  imperfection,  which,  as  an 
historian,  I  have  thought  fit  to  retain. 


THE  PARSON'S  DAUGHTER. 


I. 

Beside  the  parson's  bower  of  yew, 
Why  strays  a  troubled  spright. 

That  peaks  and  pines,  and  dimly  shines 
Through  curtains  of  the  night  ? 

II. 

Why  steals  along  the  pond  of  toads 

A  gliding  fire  so  blue. 
That  lights  a  spot,  where  grows  no  grass. 

Where  falls  no  rain,  nor  dew  ? 

III. 

The  parson's  daughter  once  was  good, 

And  gentle  as  the  dove. 
And  young,  and  fair — and  many  came 

To  win  the  damsel's  lore. 

IV. 

High  o'er  the  hamlet,  from  the  hill, 

Beyond  the  winding  stream. 
The  windows  of  a  stately  house. 

In  sheen  of  evening  gleam. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRT.  33 

V. 


1^* 


There  dwelt  in  riot,  rout,  and  toar, 
A  lord  so  frank  and  free ;    . 

That  oft,  with  inward  joy  of  heart. 
The  maid  beheld  bis  glee : 

VI. 

Whether  he  met  tbe  dawning  day 

In  hunting  trim  so  fine ; 
Or  tapers,  sparkling  from  his  hall, 

Beshone  the  midnight  wine. 

Vll. 

He  sent  the  maid  his  portrait,  girt 
With  diamond,  pearl,  and  gold ; 

And  silken  paper,  sweet  with  musk, 
This  gentle  message  tdld : 

VIII. 

"  Let  go  thy  sweethearts  one  and  all ; 

Shalt  thou  be  basely  wooed. 
That  worthy  art  to  gain  the  heart 

Of  youths  of  npble  blood? 

IX. 

''  The  (lale  I  would  to  thee  bewray, 

In  secret  must  be  said ; 
At  midnight  hour  1 11  seek  thy  bower ; 

Fair  lass,  be  not  afraid. 


X. 

''And  when  the  amorous  nightingale 
Sings  sweetly  to  his  mate, 

1 11  pipe  my  quail-call  from  the  field  ; 
Be  kind,  nor  make  me  wait." 

VOL.  II. 


\  * 


34  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XL 

In  cap  and  mantle  clad  he  came. 
At  nighty  with  lonely  tread^ 

Unseen^  and  3ilent  as  a  mist ; 
And  hush'd  the  dogs  with  bread. 

XII. 

And  when  the  amorous  nightingale 
Sang  sweetly  to  his  mate. 

She  heard  his  quail-call  in  the  field ; 
And  ah !  ne'er  made  him  wait. 

• 

XIII.         .    * 

The  words  he  wbisper'd  were  so  soft 
They  won  her  ear  and  heart ; 

How  soon  will  she  who  loves  believe: 
How  deep  a  lover's  art !  • 

XIV. 

No  lure^  no  soothing  guise^  he  spar'd. 
To  banish  virtuous  shame ; 

He  call'd  on  holy  God  above^ 
As  witness  to  his  flame : 

XV. 

He  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast,  and  swore 

To  be  for  ever  true ; 
**  O  yield  thee  to  my  wishful  arms. 

Thy  choice  thou  shalt  not  rue." 

XVI. 

And  while  she  strove,  he  drew  her  on, 
And  led  her  to  the  bower. 

So  still,  so  dim — and  round  about 
Sweet  smelt  the  beaiis  in  flower. 


€ 


#• 


t\ 


9 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  35 

^    XVIL 

There  beat  her  hearty  and  heav*d  her  breasti 

And  pleaded  every  sense ; 
And  there  the  glowing  breath  of  lust 

Extinguish'd  innocence. 

XVIII. 

But  when  the  fragrant  beans  began 

Their  fallow  blooms  to  shed. 
Her  sparkling  eyes  their  lustre  lost. 

Her  cheek,  its  roses  fled. 

XIX. 

And  when  she  saw  the  pods  increase. 

The  ruddier  cherries  stain, 
She  felt  her  silken  robe  grow  tight, 

Her  waist  new  weight  sustain. 

XX. 

And  when  the  mowers  went  afield. 

The  yellow  corn  to  ted. 
She  felt  her  burden  stir  within. 

And  shook  with  tender  dread. 

XXI. 

Aii^  when  the  winds  of  autumn  hist 
Jluoi^  the  stubble-field, 
'*    Then  cduld  the  damsel's  piteous  plight 
«^,  ,    No  longer  be  conceal'd. 

XXII. 

Her  sire,  a  harsh  and  angry  man. 

With  fiirious  voice  revil'd ; 
"  Hence  firom  my  sight !  I  '11  none  of  thee — 

I  harbour  not  thy  child." 

D3 


•* 


I 


V 


36  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

xxm. 

And  fast^  amid  her  fluttering  hair. 

With  clenched  fifit  he  gripes. 
And  seiz'd  a  leathern  thong,  and  lash'd 

Her  side  with  sounding  stripes. 

XXIV. 

Her  Uly  skin,  so  soft  and  white, 

He  ribb'd  with  bloody  wales ; 
And  thrust  her  out,  though  black  the  night, 

Though  sleet  and  storm  assails. 

XXV. 

Up  the  harsh  rock,  on  flinty  patiis. 

The  maiden  had  to  roam ; 
On  tottering  feet  she  grop'd  her  way. 

And  sought  her  lover's  home. 

XXVI. 

*^  A  mother  thou  hast  made  of  me. 

Before  thou  mad'st  a  wife. 
For  this,  upon  my  tender  breast. 

These  livid  stripes  are  rife : 

xxvn. 

"  Behold!" — And  then,  with  bitter  sobs. 
She  sank  upon  the  floor —  ^ 

^'  Make  good  the  evil  thou  bast  wrought ; 
My  injur'd  name  restore." 

xxvm. 

^'  Poor  soul !  1 11  have  tiiee  hous'd  and  mirs*d, 

Thy  terrors  I  lament. 
Stay  here ;  we  11  have  some  further  talk — 

The  old  one  shall  repent — " 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  37 

XKIX. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  rest  and  wait ; 
That  saves  not  my  good  name : 
If  thou  with  honest  soul  hast  sworn, 

0  leave  me  not  to  shame. 

XXX. 

"  But  at  the  holy  altar  be 

Our  union  sanctified ; 
Before  the  people^  and  the  priest, 

Receive  me  for  thy  bride." 

XXXI. 

"  Unequal  unions  may  not  blot 

The  honors  of  my  line : 
Art  thou  of  wealth,  or  rank,  for  me 

To  harbour  thee  as  mine  ? 

xxxn. 

"  What 's  fit  and  fair  I  '11  do  for  thee ; 

Shalt  yet  remain  my  love — 
Shalt  wed  my  huntsman — and  we  11  then 

Our  former  transports  prove." 

XXXIII. 

'^  Thy  wicked  soul,  hard-hearted  man, 

May  pangs  in  hell  await ! 
Sure,  if  not  suited  for  thy  bride, 

1  was  not  for  thy  mate. 

XXXIV. 

^  Go/  seek  a  spouse  of  nobler  blood, 
%  Nor  God's  just  judgments  dread : 
S«  shall,  ere  long,  some  base-born  wretch 
Defile  thy  marriage-bed. 


38  HISTORIC  SURVEY     • 

XXXV. 

"  Then,  traitor,  feel  how  wretched  they 

In  hopeless  shame  immerst ; 
Then  smite  thy  forehead  on  the  wall, 

While  horrid  curses  burst. 

XXXVI. 

"  Roll  thy  dry  eyes  in  wild  despair — 

Unsooth'd  thy  grinning  woe : 
Through  thy  pale  temples  fire  the  ball. 

And  sink  to  fiends  below." 

XXXVIL 

Collected  then,  she  started  up, 

And,  through  the  hissing  sleet. 
Through  thorn  and  briar,  through  flood  and  mire. 

She  fled  with  bloody  feet. 

XXXVIII. 

"  Where  now,"  she  cried,  "  my  gracious  God, 

What  refiige  have  I  left?" 
And  reach'd  the  garden  of  her  home. 

Of  hope  in  man  bereft. 

XXXIX. 

On  hand  and  foot  she  feebly  crawl'd 

Beneath  the  bower  unblest ; 
Where  withering  leaves,  and  gathering  snow, 

Prepar'd  her  only  rest. 

XL. 

There  rending  pains,  and  darting  throes, 

Assail'd  her  shuddering  frame ; 
And,  from  her  womb,  a  lovely  boy 

With  wail  and  weeping  came. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  39 

XLL 

Forth  from  her  hair  a  silver  pin 

With  hasty  hand  she  drew, 
And  prest  against  its  tender  heart, 

And  the  sweet  babe  she  slew. 

XLII. 

Erst  when  the  act  of  blood  was  done, 

Her  soul  its  guilt  abhorred : 
''  My  Jesus !  what  has  been  my  deed ! 

Have  merev  on  me.  Lord  !'* 

xLin. 

With  bleeding  naib,  beside  the  pond. 

Its  shallow  grave  she  tore : 
''  There  rest  in  God;  there  shame  and  want 

Thou  canst  not  suffer  more. 

XLIV. 

"  Me  vengeance  waits.    My  poor,  poor  child, 

Thy  wound  shall  bleed  afresh, 
When  ravens  from  the  gallows  tear 

Thy  mother's  mouldering  flesh." 

XLV. 

Hard  by  the  bower  her  gibbet  stands : 

Her  skull  is  still  to  shew; 
It  seems  to  eye  the  barren  grave. 

Three  spans  in  length  below. 

XLVL 

That  is  the  spot,  where  grows  no  grass. 

Where  falls  no  rain,  nor  dew ; 
Whence  steals  along  the  pond  of  toads 

A  hovering  fire  so  blue. 


40  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XLVIL 

And  nightly,  when  the  ravens  come, 

Her  ghost  is  seen  to  glide, 
Pursues,  and  tries  to  quench,  the  flame, 
*  And  pines  the  pool  beside. 

This  truly  pathetic  ballad  is  said  to  have  been  sug- 
gested by  a  fact,  which  happened  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Gottingen,  and  which  inspired  universal 
compassion.  At  that  time  child-murder  was  punished 
with  death :  a  more  lenient  legislation  is  now  content 
to  pity  the  agonies  of  shame,  and  to  notice  merely  the 
concealment  of  pregnancy.  No  doubt  this  poem  has 
contributed  to  soften  the  ancient  severity  of  the  law  ; 
for  the  poet  diffuses  and  perpetuates  the  feelings  he 
excites,  and  thus  guarantees  the  duration  of  the  public 
opinion  he  insinuates. 

ELLENORE. 
I. 

At  break  of  day  from  finghtful  dreams 

Upstarted  Ellenore : 
My  William,  art  thou  slayn,  she  sayde, 

Or  dost  thou  love  no  more  ? 

II. 

He  went  abroade  with  Richard's  host 

The  paynim  foes  to  quell ; 
But  he  no  word  to  her  had  writt, 

An  he  were  sick  or  well. 

III.  ♦ 

With  blore  of  trump  and  th^mp  of  drum 

His  fellow-soldyers  come. 
Their  helms  bedeckt  with  oaken  boughs, 

They  seeke  their  long'd-for  home. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  41 

IV. 

And  evry  road  and  evry  lane 

Was  foil  of  old  and  young 
To  gaze  at  the  rejoycing  band. 

To  haile  with  gladsom  toung, 

V. 

**  Thank  God  1"  their  wives  and  children  say  de, 

"  Welcome !"  the  brides  did  saye  ; 
But  greet  or  kiss  gave  EUenore 

To  none  upon  that  daye. 

VI. 

And  when  the  soldyers  aU  were  bye. 

She  tore  her  raven  hair. 
And  cast  herself  upon  the  growne, 

In  furious  despair. 

VIL 

Her  mother  ran  and  lyfte  her  up. 

And  clasped  in  her  ann, 
"  My  child,  my  child,  what  dost  thou  aal ! 

Grod  shield  thy  life  from  harm !" 

YUL 

*  O  mother,  mother !  William  's  gone 

What 's  all  besyde  to  me  ? 
There  is  no  merde,  sure,  above ! 

All,  all  were  spar'd  but  be !' 

IX. 

"  Kneele  downe,  thy  paternoster  saye, 

T  will  calm  thy  troubled  spright : 
The  Lord  is  wise,  the  Lord  is  good ; 

What  He  hath  done  is  right.*' 


42  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

X. 

*  O  mother^  mother !  saye  not  so ; 

Most  cruel  is  my  fate : 
I  prayde^  aiid  prayde ;  but  watte  avaylde  i 

'T  is  noW|  alas !  too  late/ 

XL 

"  Our  Heavenly  Father,  if  we  praye, 

Will  help  a  suffring  child : 
Go  take  the  holy  sacrament ; 

So  shal  thy  grief  grow  mild." 

XII. 

'  O  mother,  what  I  feele  within, 

No  sacrament  can  staye ; 
No  sacriament  can  teche  the  dead 
1^  To  bear  the  sight  of  daye.' 

XIII. 

'^  May-be,  among  the  heathen  folk 
Thy  William  false  doth  prove. 

And  put  away  his  faith  and  troth. 
And  take  another  love. 

XIV. 

^*  Then  wherefor  sorrowe  for  his  loss? 

Thy  moans  are  all  in  vain : 
But  when  his  soul  and  body  parte. 

His  falsehode  brmgs  him  pain.** 

XV. 

'  O  mother,  mother !  gone  is  gone : 

My  hope  is  all  forlorn ; 
The  grave  my  only  safeguard  is — 

O,  had  I  ne'er  been  born ! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  43 

XVI. 

*  Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  life ; 

In  grizely  darkness  die : 
There  is  no  mercie,  sure,  above ! 
For  ever  let  me  lie.' 

XVII. 

"  Almighty  God !  O  do  not  judge 

My  poor  unhappy  child ; 
She  knows  not  what  her  lips  pronounce. 

Her  anguish  makes  her  wild. 

XVIII. 

"  My  girl,  forget  thine  earthly  woe, 

And  think  on  God  and  bliss ; 
For  so,  at  least,  shal  not  thy  soul 

Its  heavenly  bridegroom  miss."  ^0-* 

XIX. 

*  O  mother,  mother !  what  is  bliss. 

And  what  the  fiendis  cell? 
With  him  't  is  heaven  any  where. 
Without  my  William,  hell. 

XX. 

*  Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  life. 

In  endless  darkness  die : 
Without  him  I  must  loathe  the  earth, 
Without  him  scorne  the  skie.' 

XXI. 

And  so  despair  did  rave  and  rage 

Athwarte  her  boiling  veins ; 
Against  the  Providence  of  God 

She  hurlde  her  impious  strains. 


HISTORIC  SURVEY 

xxn. 

She  bet  her  breaat,  and  wrung  her  bands, 

And  Tollde  her  tearleBs  eye, 
From  rise  of  mom,  til  the  pale  stara 

Again  orespred  the  skye. 

XXIII. 

When  harke !  abroade  she  herde  the  tramp 

Of  nimble-hoofed  steed ; 
She  herde  a  knight  yitb  dank  alighte, 

And  climbe  the  stair  in  speed. 

XXIV, 

And  soon  she  herde  a  tinkling  hand. 

That  twirled  at  the  [nn ; 
And  thro  her  door,  that  opend  not, 

These  words  were  breathed  in. 

XXV. 

"  What  ho !  what  ho  1  thy  door  undo ; 

Art  watching  or  asleepe  7 
My  love,  dost  yet  remember  me. 

And  dost  thou  laugh  or  weepe  ?" 

XXVI. 

'  Ah !  William  here  bo  late  at  night  1    * 
Oh !  I  have  wachte  and  wak'd : 

Whense  art  thou  come  7    For  tby  return 
My  heart  has  sorely  ak'd.' 

xxvn.  ' 

"  At  nudnigbt  only  we  may  ride ; 

I  come  ore  land  and  see : 
I  mounted  late,  but  toone  I  go ; 

Aryse,  and  come  with  mee," 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  45 

xxvm. 

*  O  William,  enteif  first  my  bowre, 

And  give  me  one  embrace : 
The  blasts  athwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss ; 

Awayte  a  little  space.' 

XXIX. 

^'  Tho  blasts  adiwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss, 

I  may  not  harbour  here ; 
My  spurs  are  sett,  mycourser  pawes. 

My  hour  of  flight  iff  nere.  ^ 

XXX.  V 

"All  as  thou  lyest  upon  ihy  couch, 

Aryse,  and  mount%ehinde  ;       '^v     - 
To-night  we'le  ride  a  thousand  miles. 

The  bridal  bed  to  finde.-  '       ^"^ 

XXXI.  "  s^^  .    ^^       " 

'  How,  ride  to  night  a  thousand  miles  ? 

Thy  love  thou  dost  bemock :  *"" 

Eleven  is  the  stroke  that  still 

Rings  on  within  the  clock.* 

XXXII. 

"  Jmdke  up ;  the  moon  is  bright,  and  we 

Outstride  the  earthly  men : 
lie  take  thee  to  the  bridal  bed. 

And  night  shal  end  but  then.** 


«' 


.1* 


xxxra.  i 


*  And  where  is  then  thy  house,  and  home, 

And  bridal  bed  so  meet  V 
"  T  is  narrow,  silent,  chilly,  low, 

Six  planks,  one  shrouding  sheet.'* 


t 


46  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XXXIV. 

'  And  is  there  any  room  for  me^ 
Wherein  that  I  may  creepe  V 

"  There 's  room  enough  for  thee  and  me, 
Wherein  that  we  may  sleepe. 

XXXV, 

^' All  as  thou  lyestupon  thy  couch; 

Aryse,  no  longer  stop ; 
The  wedding-guests  thy  coming  wayte. 

The  chamber-door  is  ope." 

XXXVL 

All  in  her  sarke,  as  there  she  lay. 

Upon  his  horse  she  sprung ; 
And  with  her  lily  hands  so  pale 

About  her  William  clung. 

XXXVII. 

And  hurry-skurry  off  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

xxxvnL 

How  swift  the  flood,  the  mead,  the  wo%d, 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gone ! 
The  bridges  thunder  as  they  pass. 

But  earthly  sowne  is  none. 

XXXIX.. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
"  Hurrah !  the  dead  can  ride  apace ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  47 

XL. 

"  The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night ; 

Dost  quake  the  blast  to  stem  ? 
Dost  shudder,  mayd,  to  seeke  the  dead  ?** 

*  No,  no,  but  what  of  them?' 

XLI. 

How  glumly  sownes  yon  dirgy  song ! 

Night-ravens  flappe  the  wing. 
What  knell  doth  slowly  tolle  ding  dong  ? 

The4>salms  of  death  who  sing  ? 

XLn. 

Forth  creepes  a  swarthy  funeral  train, 

A  corse  is  on  the  biere ; 
Like  croke  of  todes  from  lonely  moores. 

The  chauntings  meete  the  eere. 

xLin. 

^^Go,  beare  her  corse  when  midnight 's  past. 

With  song,  and  tear,  and  wail ; 
I  Ve  gott  my  wife,  I  take  her  home. 

My  hour  of  wedlock  hail ! 

XLIV. 

"  Leade  forth,  o  clark,  the  chaunting  quire. 
To  swelle  our  spousal*song :  '^ 

Come,  preest,  and  reade  the  blessing  soone ; 
For  our  dark  bed  we  long." 

XLV. 

The  bier  is  gon,  the  dirges  hush  ; 

His  bidding  all  obaye,  , 

And  headlong  rush  thro  briar  and  bush. 

Beside  his  speedy  waye. 


48  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XLVI. 

Halloo !  halloo !  how  swift  thoy  go^ 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow» 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

XLVII. 

How  swift  the  faiU,  how  swift  the  dale, 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gon ! 
By  hedge  and  tree,  by  thorp  and  town, 

They  gallopi^  gallop  on. 

xLvin. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
**  Hurrah !  the  dead  can  ride  apace ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 

XLIX. 

**  Look  up,  look  up5  an  airy  crew 

In  roundel  daunces  reele : 
The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  nighty 

M ayst  dimly  see  them  wfaeele. 

L. 

^*  Come  to,  come  to,  ye  ghostly  crew. 

Come  to,  and  follow  me. 
And  daunce  for  us  the  wedding  daunce, 

When  we  in  bed  shal  be." 

LI. 

And  brush,  iHTush,  brush,  the  ghostly  crew 
Came  wheeling  ore  their  heads, 

All  rustling  like  the  witherd  leaves 
That  wide  the  whirlwind  spreads. 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  49 

LII. 

Halloo !  halloo !  away  they  go. 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  %» 

LIIL 

And  all  that  in  the  moonshyne  lay, 

Behind  them  fled  afar; 
And  backward  scudded  overhead 

The  skie  and  every  star. 

LIV. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
"  Hurrah !  the  dead  can  ride  apace  ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 

LV. 

I  weene  the  cock  prepares  to  crowe ; 

The  sand  will  soone  be  run : 
I  snuffe  the  early  morning  air ; 

Downe,  downe !  our  work  is  done. 

LVI. 

The  dead,  the  dead  can  ride  apace : 

Our  wed-bed  here  is  fit : 
Our  race  is  ridde,  our  journey  ore. 

Our  endless  union  knit." 

LVH. 

And  lo !  ^n  yroD-grated  gate 

Soon  biggens  to  their  view : 
He  crackdei  bis  whyppe ;  the  locks,  the  bolts. 

Cling,  clang !  assuhder  flew. 

VOL.  u.  E 


50  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Lvm. 

They  passe^  and  't  was  on  graves  they  trodde ; 

**  *T  is  hither  we  are  bound  :" 
And  many  a  tombstone  ghastly  white 

Lay  in  the  moonshyne  round. 

LIX. 

And  when  he  from  his  steed  alytte. 

His  armure,  black  as  cinder^ 
Did  moulder  moulder  all  awaye. 

As  were  it  made  of  tinder. 

LX. 

His  head  became  a  naked  scull ; 

Nor  hair  nor  eyne  had  he : 
His  body  grew  a  skeleton, 

Whilome  so  blithe  of  ble. 

LXL 

And  at  his  dry  and  boney  heel 

No  spur  was  left  to  bee ; 
And  in  his  witherd  hand  you  might 
The  scythe  and  hour-glass  see« 

LXII. 

And  lo !  his  steed  did  thin  to  smoke, 

And  charnel-fires  butbreathe ; 
And  paUd,  and  bleachde,  then  vanishde  quite 

The  mayd  from  undemeathe. 

LXIII. 

And  hollow  bowlings  hung  in  air, 
And  shrekes  from  vaults  arose  : 

Then  knewe  the  mayd  she  might  no  more 
Her  living  eyes  unclose. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  51 

LXIV. 

But  onward  to  the  judgment-seat^ 

Thro'  mist  and  moonlight  dreare^ 
The  ghostly  crew  their  flight  persewe, 

And  hoUowe  in  her  eare : 

LXV. 

"  Be  patient ;  tho  thyne  herte  should  breke, 

Arrayne  not  Heaven's  decree ; 
Thou  nowe  art  of  thy  bodie  reft, 

Thy  soul  forgiven  bee !" 


NOTES  TO  ELLENORE. 


Stanza  I.  No  German  poem  has  been  so  repeatedly  translated  into  English  as 
EUenore:  eight  different  versions  are  lying  on  my  table,  and  I  have  read  others.  It 
becomes  not  me  to  appretiate  them  :  suffice  it  to  observe  that  this  was  the  earliest 
of  them  all|  having  been  communicated  to  my  friends  in  the  year  1790,  and  men- 
tioned in  the  preface  to  Dr.  Aikin's  poems,  which  appeared  in  1791.  It  was  first 
printed  in  the  second  number  of  the  Monthly  Magazine  for  1796.  The  German  title 
is  Lenore,  which  is  the  vernacular  form  of  Eleonora,  a  name  here  represented  by 
Ellenore. 

Stanza  II.  In  the  original  the  emperor  and  empress  have  made  peace,  which 
places  the  scene  in  southern  Germany ;  and  the  army  is  returning  home  triumph- 
ant By  shifting  the  scene  to  England,  and  making  William  a  soldier  of  Richard 
liionheart,  it  became  necessary,  that  the  ghost  of  Ellenore,  whom  Death,  in  the 
form  of  her  lover,  conveys  to  William's  grave,  should  cross  the  sea.  Hence  the 
splash !  splash !  'of  the  XXXIX  and  other  stanzas,  of  which  there  is  po  trace  in  the 
original ;  of  the  tramp !  tramp  I  there  is.  I  could  not  prevail  on  myself  to  efface 
these  words,  which  have  been  gotten  by  heart,  and  which  are  quoted  even  in  Don 
Juan ;  but  I  am  aware  that  the  translation  is  in  some  respects  too  free  for  a  history 
of  poetry;  and  it  is  too  trailing,  (schieppend)  said  one  of  my  German  correspond^ 
ents,  for  the  ra^nd  character  of  the  prototype. 

Stanza  V.  The  word  bride  in  German  signifies  not  only  a  newly-married  wo- 
man, but  any  betrothed  woman  ;  and  in  this  sense  it  is  here  employed. 

Stanza  XXIII.  Here  begins  a  n^arked  resemblance  to  an  obscure  English  ballad 
called  the  Suffolk  miracle,  which  it  may  be  curious  to  exhibit  in  comparison.  A 
Collection  of  Old  Ballads,  corrected  from  the  best  and  most  ancient  copies  extant  (the 
third  edition),  London,  1727,  published  by  J.  Roberts,  Warwick-lane ;  287  pages — 
is  quoted  more  than  once  in  Percy's  Reliques.  It  contains  44  poems :  among  them 
<)ccun,  p.  226,  the  following  tale,  which,  it  is  thought,  bears  a  considerable  resem- 
blance to  Lenore,  and  must  have  su^ested  the  first  hint  of  the  fable. 

E2 


52 


HISTORIC  SURVEY 


THE  SUFFOLK  MIRACLE : 

Or  a  relation  qfa  young  man,  who,  a  month  after  his  death,  appeared 
to  hit  sweetheart,  and  carried  her  on  horseback  behind  him  for  forty  miles  in  two  hours  f 

and  was  never  seen  after  but  in  his  grave. 


A  wonder  stranger  ne'er  was  known. 
Than  what  I  now  shall  treat  upon ; 
In  Suffolk  there  did  lately  dwell 
A  farmer  rich,  and  known  full  well ; 
He  had  a  daughter,  fair  and  bright, 
On  whom  he  plac'd  his  whole  delight ; 
Her  beauty  was  beyond  compare, 
She  was  both  virtuous  and  fair. 
There  was  a  young  man  living  by. 
Who  was  so  charmed  with  her  eye, 
That  he  could  never  be  at  rest, 
He  was  by  love  so  much  possest ; 
He  made  address  to  her,  and  she 
Did  grant  him  love  immediately. 
But,  when  her  father  came  to  hear. 
He  parted  her  and  her  poor  dear ; 
Forty  miles  distant  was  she  sent, 
Unto  his  brother,  with  intent 
That  she  should  there  so  long  remain, 
Till  she  should  change  her  mind  again. 
Hereat  this  young  man  sadly  grieved. 
But  knew  not  how  to  be  reliev'd ; 
He  sigh'd  and  sobb'd  continually, 
That  his  true  love  he  could  not  see, 
She  by  no  means  cou'd  to  him  send. 
Who  was  her  heart's  espoused  friend. 
He  sigh'd,  he  griev'd,  but  all  in  vain, 
For  she  confin'd  must  still  remain ; 
He  mourn'd  so  much  that  doctor's  art 
Could  give  no  ease  unto  his  heart, 
And  was  so  strangely  terrify'd. 
That  in  short  time  for  love  he  dy'd. 
She  that  from  him  was  sent  away. 
Knew  nothing  of  his  dying  day. 
But  constant  still  she  did  remain, 
And  lov'd  the  dead,  although  in  vain. 
After  he  had  in  grave  been  laid 
A  month  or  more,  unto  the  maid 
He  came  in  middle  of  the  night. 
Who  gazed  to  see  her  heart's  delight. 


And  unto  him  she  then  did  say, 
Thou  art  as  cold  as  any  clay ; 
When  we  come  home  a  fire  we  '11  have. 
But  little  dream'd  he  went  to  grave. 
Soon  were  they  at  her  father's  door, 
And  after  she  ne'er  saw  him  more. 
I  '11  set  the  horse  up,  then  he  said, 
And  there  he  left  the  harmless  maid. 
She  knock'd,  and  strait  a  man  he  cry'd, 
Who  's  there?  'T  is  I,  she  then  reply'd; 
Who  wonder'd  much  her  voice  to  hear. 
And  was  possest  with  dread  and  fear« 
Her  father  he  did  list,  and  then 
He  star'd  like  an  affrighted  man ; 
Down  stairs  he  ran,  and,  when  he  see  her, 
Cry'd  out.  My  child,  how  cam'st  thou  here? 
Pray,  sir,  did  you  not  send  for  me, 
By  such  a  messenger  ?  cry'd  she. 
Which  made  his  hair  stand  on  his  head. 
As  knowing  well  that  he  was  dead. 
Where  is  he  .then?  to  her  he  said. 
He  's  in  the  stable,  quoth  the  maid. 
Go  in,  said  he,  and  go  to  bed, 
We  '11  see  the  horse  well  littered. 
He  star'd  about,  and  there  could  he 
No  shape  of  any  mankind  see. 
But  found  his  horse  all  in  a  sweat. 
Which  made  him  in  a  dreadful  fret ; 
His  daughter  he  said  nothing  to, 
Nor  none  else,  tho'  full  well  he  knew. 
That  he  was  dead  a  month  before. 
For  fear  of  grieving  her  full  sore. 
Her  father  to  the  father  went 
Of  the  deceas'd,  with  full  intent 
To  tell  him  what  his  daughter  said : 
So  both  came  back  unto  the  maid. 
They  askt  her,  and  she  still  did  say, 
'T  was  he  that  thus  brought  her  away. 
Which  when  they  heard  tttey  were  amaz'd, 
And  on  each  other  strangely  gaz'd. 


Her  father's  horse,  which  well  she  knew,     A  handkerchief,  she  said,  she  ty'd 


Her  mother's  hood  and  safeguard  too. 
He  brought  with  him,  to  testify 
Her  parents  order  he  came  by ; 
Which,  when  her  uncle  understood, 
He  hop'd  it  would  be  for  her  good, 
And  gave  consent  to  her  straitway. 
That  with  him  she  should  come  away. 
When  she  was  got  her  love  behind, 
They  pass'd  as  swift  as  any  wind. 
That  in  two  houirs,  or  little  more, 
He  brought  her  to  her  father's  door  : 
But,  as  they  did  this  great  haste  make. 
He  did  complain  his  head  did  ake. 
Her  handkerchief  she  then  took  out. 
And  ty'd  the  same  his  head  about : 


About  his  head,  and  when  they  try'd. 
The  sexton  they  did  speak  unto, 
That  he  the  grave  would  then  undo. 
Affrighted  then  they  did  behold 
His  body  turning  into  mould. 
And,  tho'  he  had  a  month  been  dead. 
The  kerchief  was  about  his  head ; 
This  thing  unto  heathen  they  told. 
And  the  whole  truth  they  did  unfold. 
She  was  thereat  so  terrify'd. 
And  grieved,  that  she  quickly  dy'd. 

Part  not  true  love,  you  rich  men  then. 
But,  if  they  be  right  honest  men 
Your  daughters  love,  give  them  their  way, 
Nor  force  ofttimes  their  life's  decay. 


OF  GERMAN  PQETRY.  53 

Stanza  XXIV.  The  line,  **  That  twirled  at  the  pin;"  is  taken  from  Percy, 
not  from  Burger  :  in  the  original,  Death  pulls  the  ringlet  of  a  bell-string,  and  at  the 
ding^ngling !  Ellenore  awakes.  This  is  better ;  bat  I  could  not  render  it  to  my 
sads&ction. 


The  minor  poems  of  Burger  consist  partly  of  love- 
and-wiue  songs^  of  epistles,  and  of  elegiac  and  occasi- 
onal sonnets  and  stanzas,  many  of  which  have  been 
excellently  translated  into  English  by  the  itev.  M.  Be- 
resford,  and  printed  in  an.  anthology,  which  he  pub- 
lished at  Berlin;  (2)  partly  of  translations,  among 
which  the  Pervigilium  Veneris  is  much  distinguished 
for  grace  and  elegance ;  and  (3)  partly  of  original 
explosions  of  personal  and  peculiar  feeling  concern- 
ing passing  events  or  books.  Two  or  three  of  the  last 
class  follow. 


PRO  PATRIA  MORI. 

For  virtue,  freedom,  human  rights,  to  fall, 
Beseems  the  brave :  it  is  a  Saviour's  death. 

Of  heroes  only  the  most  pure  of  all 
Thus  with  their  heart's  blood  tinge  the  battle-heath. 

And  this  proud  death  is  seemliest  in  the  man 
Who  for  a  kindred  race,  a  country  bleeds : 

Three  hundred  Spartans  form  the  shining  van 
Of  those,  whom  fame  in  this  high  triumph  leads. 

Great  is  the  death  for  a  good  prince  incurr'd ; 

Who  wields  the  sceptre  with  benignant  hand : 
Well  may  for  him  the  noble  bare  his  sword, 

Falling  he  earns  the  blessings  of  a  land. 


54  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Death  for  a  parent^  friend^  or  her  we  love. 
If  not  so  great,  is  beauteous  to  behold: 

This  the  fine  tumults  of  the  heart  approve ; 
It  is  the  walk  to  death  unbought  of  gold. 

But  for  mere  majesty  to  meet  a  wound — 

Who  holds  that  great  or  glorious,  he  mistakes : 

That  is  the  fury  of  the  pamper'd  hound. 
Which,  envy,  anger,  or  the  whip,  awakes. 

And  for  a  tyrant's  sake  to  seek  a  jaunt 

To  hell — 's  a  death  which  only  hell  enjoys : 

Where  such  a  hero  falls — a  gibbet  plant. 

The  murderer's  trophy,  and  the  plunderer's  prize. 


PROMETHEUS. 

Scarse  had  Prometheus  to  the  dark  cold  earth 
Convey'd  the  source  of  light,  and  warmth,  and  life, 
Olympian  fire — when  many  an  idle  boy, 
For  warnings  had  been  fruitless,  burnt  his  fingers. 
Lord !  what  an  uproar  the  fond  parents  make, 
Join'd  by  fat  fools,  and  many  a  pious  nurse ! 
Like  frighten'd  geese,  priests  hiss,  and  the  pohce 
Gobbles  and  struts,  as  a  scar'd  turkey-cock. 

And  shall  we  let  them  quench  thee,  heavenly  light 
Of  free  inquiry  ? — No.    Blaze  up  aloft 
And  penetrate  e'en  into  things  of  heaven. 


THE  MENAGERIE  OF  THE  GODS. 

Our  lap-dogs  and  monkeys,  our  squirrels  and  cats. 

Our  parrots,  canaries,  and  larks. 
Have  fiimisht  amusement  to  many  old  maids, 

And  once  in  a  while  to  young  sparks. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  55 

In  heaven^  where  time  passes  heavily  too, 
When  the  gods  have  no  subject  to  talk  on, 

Jove  calls  for  an  eagle,  he  keeps  in  a  mew, 
As  an  old  English  baron  his  falcon. 

He  lets  it  jump  on  to  his  sofa  and  chair, 

And  dip, its  crookt  beak  in  his  cup ; 
And  laughs  when  it  pinches  young  Ganymed's  ear, 

Or  eats  his  ambrosia  up. 

Queen  Juno,  who  fears  from  rough  play  a  mishap. 

Keeps  peacocks  with  rainbowy  tails ; 
And  when  she  's  dispos'd  to  grudge  Saturn  his  nap, 

Their  screaming  or  screeching  ne'er  fails. 

Fair  Venus  most  willingly  coaxes  the  doves, 

That  coo,  woo,  and  wed,  on  her  wrist ; 
The  sparrow,  her  chambermaid  Aglae  loves, 

As  often  is  fondled  and  kist. 

Minerva,. too  proud  to  seem  pleas'd  with  a  trifle. 

Professes  to  keep  her  old  owl, 
The  crannies  and  chinks  of  Olympus  to  rifle ; 

For  rats,  mice,  and  vermin,  to  prowl. 

Apollo,  above  stairs,  a  first-rate  young  blood, 

Has  a  stud  of  four  galloway  ponies ; 
To  gallop  them  bounding  oii  heaven  s  high  road, 

A  principal  part  of  his  fun  is. 

'T  is  fabled  or  known,  he  instructed  a  swan. 

One  spring,  to  outwhistle  a  blackbird^ 
Which  sings  the  Castalian  streamlet  upon. 

Like  any  Napolitan  lack-beard. 

Lyaeus  in  India  purchas'd  a  pair 

Of  tygers,  delightfully  pyball'd. 
And  drives  them  about  at  the  speed  of  a  hare. 

With  self-satisfaction  unrivall'd. 


56  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

At  Pluto's  black  gate,  in  a  kennel  at  rest, 

A  mastiff  so  grim  has  his  station, 
That  fearful  of  reaching  the  fields  of  the  blest, 

Some  ghosts  have  made  choice  of  damnation. 

But  among  all  the  animals,  little  and  great, 

That  are  foster'd  and  pamper'd  above, 
The  ass,  old  Silenus  selects  for  his  mate. 

Is  that  which  most  fondly  I  love. 

So  quiet,  so  steady,  so  guarded,  and  slow. 

He  bears  no  ill-will  in  his  mind ; 
And  nothing  indecent,  as  far  as  I  know. 

Escapes  him  before  or  behind. 

So  fully  content  with  himself  and  his  lord. 

He  is  us'd  with  good  humor  to  take 
Whatever  the  whims  of  the  moment  afford. 

Be  it  drubbing,  or  raisins  and  cake. 

He  knows  of  himself  ev'ry  step  of  the  way. 

Both  down  to  the  cellar  and  back ; 
A  qualification,  I  venture  to  say, 

No  butler  of  mine  is  to  lack. 

So  largo  his  rump,  so  piano  his  pace, 

*T  is  needless  the  rider  to  gird  on ; 
Tho'  fuddled  the  god,  tho'  uneven  the  ways, 

He  never  gets  rid  of  his  burden. 

An  ass  such  as  this  all  my  wishes  would  fill ; 

O  grant  me,  Silenus,  one  pray'r. 
When  thou  art  a-dying,  and  planning  thywill, 

Good  father,  do  make  me  thy  heir ! 

There  must  be  in  genius  a  something  contagions ; 
not  that  innate  talent  can  be  transferable ;  but  there 
is  a  productive  skill  which  may  be  communicated  as 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  57 

a  knack ;  and  there  is  an  art  of  selecting  the  moral 
point  of  view  best  adapted  for  eflfect,  the  picturesque 
station  of  vision  whence  to  survey  the  object  under 
delineation^  which  can  also  be  taught  by  the  artist  to 
those  who  have  the  opportunity  of  observing  him  ; 
there  is  moreover  in  unrecognized  superiority  a  tend- 
ency to  provoke  competitory  exertion,  and  these  com- 
bats of  the  mind,  if  they  gradually  settle  the  relative 
rank  of  the  athlets,  have  at  least  occasioned  efiusions, 
many  of  which  retain  an  enduring  vitality.  How  else 
can  it  be  explained  that  so  many  individuals  as  re- 
main to  be  enumerated  in  this  groop  should  all  have 
canght  so  high  a  degree  of  impressive  power  as  still 
to  live  in  the  literature  of  their  country ;  and  yet  all 
were  inoculated  from  the  strong  arm  of  Burger?  It 
is  time  to  pass  on  to  his  cdmpanions. 


58  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


§3. 

IJfe  of  J,  H.  Voss — Remewal  of  his  chief  works — Eclogues 
— Demi  in  Ban — Luise — Odes  and  Songs — Translations 
of  Homer  and  other  ancients. 

John  Henry  Voss  was  born  20th  of  February,  1751, 
at  Sommersdorf,  and  sent  for  education  to  Penzlin  in 
the  duchy  of  Meklenburg,  where  he  was  well  ground- 
ed in  the  latin  language.  Greek  and  hebrew  he  un- 
dertook for  himself^  without  the  assistance  of  a  master. 
About  the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  admitted  into  the  free 
school  of  New-Brandenburg,  where  he  had  to  earn 
his  own  clothing ;  his  father  having  been  reduced  by 
the  events  of  the  seven  years*  war  to  a  state  of  com- 
plete destitution.  This  he  accomplished  by  giving 
private  lessons.  He  formed  a  greek  club  among  his 
fellow-students,  in  which  every  one  of  the  twelve  mem- 
bers officiated  in  turn  as  tutor ;  and  thus  the  know- 
ledge of  each  soon  became  common  to  all.  Fines 
were  imposed  on  the  sluggard,  or  the  blunderer ;  and 
these  were  employed  in  the  purchase  of  the  necessary 
books. 

The  works  of  Klopstock,  and  of  Ramler,  were  ac- 
quired by  this  society,  and  early  engaged  the  attention 
of  Voss.  His  own  first  attempts  at  versification  were 
made  in  hexameter :  progressively  he  varied  his  me- 
trical experiments,  acquired  a  command  of  rime,  and 
composed  some  eclogues  both  in  low  and  high  dutch, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  69 

which  he  inserted  for  a  modest  remuneration  in  the 
periodic  miscellanies  of  the  time.  In  1770  he  contri- 
buted to  the  Gottingen  Almanac  of  the  Muses. 

A  desire  of  studying  at  some  German  university  was 
strong  in  Voss ;  but  as  his  family  could  not  supply 
him  with  the  means,  he  went  as  private  preceptor  into 
some  nobleman's  family,  and  endeavoured  by  a  rigid 
economy  to  provide  the  necessary  resources.  After 
his  engagement  at  the  castle  was  expired,  he  ventured 
in  1772  to  Gottingen.  The  Germans  every  where  are 
kind  to  poor  scholars,  and  do  not  treat  it  as  deroga- 
tory in  them  occasionally  to  ask  charity.  If,  as  often 
happens  during  the  vacation,  a  small  party  of  students 
undertake  a  pedestrian  tour  to  botanize  beside  the 
lakes,  or  to  geologize  around  the  health-wells,  of 
Germany,  the  gentlemen  tourists,  or  invalids,  who 
happen  to  be  staying  on  the  spot,  take  a  pleasure  in 
franking  these  collegians  at  the  ordinary,  or  in  contri- 
buting to  replenish  their  common  purse. 

Heyne,  the  celebrated  editor  of  Virgil  and  Homer, 
permitted  Voss  to  attend  his  lectures  gratis.  So  did 
other  professors.  There  was  a  philological  Seminary 
at  Gottingen,  intended  to  prepare  young  men  for  the 
office  of  ushers  and  schoolmasters  in  the  Hanoverian 
territory.  Heyne  obtained  for  Voss  a  situation  in 
this  academy.  Boie,  the  friend  of  Burger,  also'  pa- 
tronized the  rising  talent  of  Voss,  and  procured  for 
him  during  two  years  a  gratuitous  place  at  one  of 
those  public  tables,  which  have  been  founded  for  the 
use  of  necessitous  students. 

Voss  was  not  sufficiently  deferential  to  the  estab- 
lished reputation,  nor  sufficiently  grateful  for  the  ex- 
perienced patronage,  of  Heyne.  However  necessary 
it  might  be  for  the  literary  candidate  to  exert  his  pen, 


60  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

however  oanyenient  to  display  his  knowledge  of  those 
topics  on  which  Heyne  lectured ;  yet  urbanity  was 
clearly  doe  to  his  teacher  and  his  patron.  But  Voss 
attacked  the  opinions  of  Heyne  with  the  coarseness 
of  low-breeding,  and  in  great  part  with  the  very  argu- 
ments which  Heyne  was  accustomed  to  produce  and 
to  refiite  in  his  owo  lectures.  Lichtenberg  undertook 
the  defense  of  the  professor^  and  reproached  to  the 
rude  polemic  his  ingratitude  in  plundering  the  sub- 
stance of  a  series  of  instruction^,  which  he  had  been 
permitted  to  attend  gratuitously.  Stung  by  this  merit- 
ed reproof,  Voss  borrowed  four  gold  Frederics,  which 
was  the  admission^fee  to  the  course^  and  sent  them  to 
Heyne  ;  who  presented  the  money  to  a  charitable  in- 
stitution for  lying-in  women.  All  tbis.cantributed  to 
render  the  breach  between  these  two  eminent  scholars 
irreparable ;  and  Voss  was  coolly  removed  from  the 
Philological  Seminary ^  which  would  have  prepared 
for  him  Hanoverian  patronage. 

A  society  of  young  men  had  been  formed  under  the 
designation  of  "  The  Gottipgeu  Friends,"  to  which 
Burger,  Boie,  the  two  Stolbergs,  Holty,  Miller,  Kra- 
mer, Leisewitz,  Halm,  and  others  successively  belong- 
ed* Voss  was  admitted  into  this  genial  club,  which 
furnished  the  materials  for  the  Almanac  of  the  Muses, 
and  expended  the  profits  of  the  undertaking  in  jovial 
entertainments.  Klopstock  himself  came  to  pass  a 
short  time  at  Gottingen,  and  was  admitted  a  member. 
But  as  this  society  acquired  a  character  for  libertinism, 
though  tolerated,  it  was  not  countenanced  by  the  gra- 
ver heads  of  the  university.  A  story  circulates  in 
French  literature,  that  the  author  of  the  Pucelle,  the 
author  of  the  Chandelle  d" Arras,  and  Piron,  were  once 
supping  together,  and  defied  each  other  to  produce  the 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  61 

most  obscene  poem.  Piron,  to  the  surprize  of  the 
party,  won  the  prize  by  an  Ode  h  Priape,  which  is 
still  remembered  in  the  French  army.  A  similar 
wager  has  been  attributed  to  three  of  die  Gottingen 
friends,  Burger,  Frederic  Leopold,  and  Voss  ;  and  as 
the  German  biographers  relate  this  tradition  in  the 
life  of  Voss,  it  is  suspectable  that  he  was  the  suc- 
cessfal  competitor,  and  must  bear  his  blushing  honors. 
Let  us  rather  hope  this  levity  is  but  a  hoax,  or  a  rur 
mor;  certainly  no  such  poem  occurs  in  the  Collective 
Works  of  Voss. 

In  1775  be  undertook  the  editorship  of  the  Al- 
manac of  the  Muses^  under  die  new  title  of  Annual 
Anthology  (Blumenlese) .  The  place  of  publication 
was  shifted  to  Hamburg ;  and  it  continued  to  succeed 
until  1800.  During  a  visit  to  his  new  publiiihers,  Voss 
became  acquainted  with  Claudius  at  Wandsbeck ;  and 
took  lodgings  there  for  some  time,  as  an  indisposition, 
under  which  he  laboured,  was  thought  to  require  coun- 
try-air. Meanwhile  he  was  an  active  contributor  to  the 
Deutsches  Museum^  a  periodic  miscellany  of  eminence, 
and  displayed  with  increasing  success  his  philological 
learning,  his  critical  acuteness,  his  skill  as  a  classical 
translator,  and  his  various  resources  as  a  poet. 

In  1778  he  became  rector  of  the  jCoUege  at  Otten- 
dorf,in  the  Hanoverian  territory,  and  married  the  sister 
of  Boie.  Ease,  matrimony,  and  professional  employ-^ 
ment,  soon  reclaimed  what  there  had  been  of  explosive^ 
ness  in  his  juvenile  temper  and  conduct.  He  became 
sedately  sedentary,  and  undertook  that  fac- simile  trans- 
lation of  the  Odyssey,  which  remains  the  most  perfect 
imitation  of  the  Homeric  original,  that  any  modern 
language  has  produced.  The  Greek  has  been  render- 
ed almost  every  where  line  for  line :  and  with  a  fidelity 


62  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

and  an  imitative  harmony  so  admirable,  that  it  suggests 
to  the  scholar  the  original  wording,  and  reflects,  as 
from  a  mirror,  every  beauty  and  every  blemish  of  the 
ancient  poem.  A  learned  commentary  mythologic  and 
geographic  was  to  have  accompanied  the  version,  and 
specimens  of  the  intended  annotations  were  given  in 
the  Deutsches  Museum ;  but  as  these  speculations 
were  contested  by  Heyne,  and  tended  to  render  the 
work  inconveniently  voluminous,  the  Odyssey  was 
printed  eventually  without  them  in  1781. 

Soon  after^  he  translated  the  Arabian  Nights  from 
the  French  of  Galland ;  a  bookseller's  job,  which 
brought  more  profit  than  praise. 

From  Ottendorf  Voss  removed  in  1782  to  Eutin; 
where  he  also  conducted  a  more  considerable  gram- 
mar-school. Immediately  on  his  arrival,  he  edited  a 
recently  discovered  Hymn  to  Ceres,  which  he  provided 
with  a  latin  interpretation,  and  which  he  also  trans- 
lated into  German.  At  Eutin,  Voss  dwelt  quietly  for 
twenty-three  years ;  assiduously  superintending  a  large 
school,  and  yet  finding  leisure  to  render  frequent  ser- 
vices to  german  and  to  classical  literature.  He  trans- 
lated beautifully  the  Georgics  of  Virgil,  and  accom- 
panied the  publication  with  a  dissertation  on  the  Tone 
and  Interpretation  (Ueher  VirgiVs  Ton  und  Auslegung 
1791)  of  the  latin  poet.  A  splendid  edition  of  this 
excellent  translation  has  lately  been  made  in  London, 
accompanied  with  an  English,  a  French,  an  Italian, 
and  a  Spanish  version  of  the  same  poem. 

Voss  also  translated  from  Horace,  Tibullus,  Ovid, 
and  Aratus;  and  again  from  Hesiod,  from  the  Argo- 
nautics,  from  Theocritus,  Bion  and  Moschus,  and, 
hut  with  least  success,  from  Aristophanes. 

He  is  said  also  to  have  assisted  his  sons  in  their 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  63 

translation  of  Shakspeare ;  but  it  is  likely  that  the 
paternal  mantle  was  extended  in  this  instance^  and 
perhaps  in  some  others,  over  works  executed  by  his 
pnpils. 

In  1805  Voss  relinquished  school-keeping,  having 
been  invited  by  the  Grand  Duke  of  Baden  to  occupy 
the  chair  of  classical  professor  at  the  University  of 
Heidelberg,  which  he  filled  many  years  with  high  ce- 
lebrity. A  pension  from  the  Duke  of  Oldenburg  was 
given  to  his  long  services  at  Eutin,  and  Voss  pas- 
sed his  latter  days  in  considerable  comfort,  and  even 
affluence.  He  had  the  misfortune  in  1822  to  lose  his 
eldest  son,  professor  Henry  Voss,  the  translator  of 
^schylus;  and  yielded  himself  to  an  attack  of  apo- 
plexy in  March,  1826. 


Translation  is  an  expedient  exercise  of  rising  talent ; 
it  guards  against  the  triviality  of  copying  doniestic 
models,  and  is  often  the  school  in  which  a  young 
author  learns  to  form  a  style  of  his  own.  It  provides 
the  pleasures  of  competition  without  its  envies,  and 
stimulates  the  exertions  of  rivality  without  hazarding 
its  disappointments.  The  imitation  of  a  foreign  work 
of  art  of  acknowledged  excellence  best  prepares  the 
habit  of  analogous  original  composition  :  by  rendering 
into  English  Ovid's  Sappho  to  Phaon  Pope  learned  to 
write  his  epistle  of  Eloisa  to  Abelard\  and  by  trans- 
lating from  the  greek  many  idyls  of  Theocritus,  Voss 
acquired  the  skill  to  endite  his  German  eclogues: 
although  these  versions  did  not  appear  in  print  so 
early  as  the  poems,  which  they  may  be  thought  to 
have  suggested. 

Vossen's  (this  is  the  German  genitive)  Eclogues  are 


64  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

much  finer  than  the  earlier  attei^pts  of  Gesner  in  this 
form  of  poetry.  The  second  and  third  iof  diem  enti- 
tled: "  The  Serfs'*  and  "  The  Emancipated*"  sure  pa- 
thetic and  picturesque:  they  paint  the  miseries  of 
vassalage,  and  the  blessings  of  freedom^  with  a  truth 
of  nature,  a. fidelity  to  German  manners,  notions,  and 
costume,  tnily  admirable.  Still  the  influence  of  Bur- 
ger's Wild  Hunter  over  the  imagination  of  the  writer 
is  conspicuous  in  the. first  of  them. 

A  more  singular  and  original  Idyl  is  the  twelvtb, 
which  follows. 


THE  DEVIL  IN  BAN. 


LURIAN. 

Slower,  my  goat,  no  panting ;  we  shall  reach 
The  Bloxberg^  soon  enough.    By  the  seven  stars 
It  yet  must  want  an  hour  and  more  of  midnight. 
Fly  higher,  fool !  already  twice  you  Ve  singed 
Your  beard  with  shooting  stars ;  and  't  is  so  damp 
Here  o'er  the  desart  shores  of  the  red  sea, 
That  firom  my  shaggy  hide  and  both  my  horns 
The  de Wrdrops  drizzle.    Hark !  what  howls  below  ? 

PUCK. 

Boohoo! 

LURIAN. 

That  voice  is  for  an  owFs  too  loud, 
But  too  low  for  a  devil's,  sure — 

PUCK. 

Boohoo! 

1  Bloxberg  is  a  mountain  where  witches  hold  their  sabbath. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  65 


LURIAN. 


1 

What,  my  heart's  brother,  Puck?  You  look,  poor  fellow, 

Like  Belzebub's  own  grand-mother  laid  ableaching 

In  fumes  of  brimstone  and  vulcanic  rays. 

One  almost  hears  within  your  shriveU'd  skin 

The  dry  bones  clatter.    Who  could  wedge  your  tail 

Into  the  palm-tree  so? 


PUCK, 


£ 


The  Bristol  parsons,^ 

Dabs  at  exorcism,  who  might  shame  Tobias— 

But  what 's  your  name  ? 

LUHIAN-. 

What,  know  you  not  poor  Lurian, 

Full  in  whose  face  fierce  Luther  flung  his  ink-stand  ? 

Hence  this  pitch-plaster  covers  my  left  eye. 

PUCK. 

Lurian,  meseems  once  else  you  got  a  scar. 
While  yet  the  pope  rul'd  undisturb*d  at  Rome, 
Satan  sent  us  together  to  that  blacksmith. 
Who  on  his  wall  had  drawn  the  archnl^vil's  picture. 
And  us'd  to  pince  at  it  with  glowing  tongs. 
We  knock'd,  and  ask'd  for  house-room ;  but  the  christian 
Held  on  the  key-hole  a  becro&s*d,  beblest, 
Besprinkled  bag  of  holy  sackcloth,  given  him 
'  By  Saint  Nepomucene,  and  caught  us  in  it ; 
Then  flung  us  on  his  anvil,  and  with  hammer, 
Swingeingly  heavy,  so  belabour'd  us,  ' 
That  had  we  not  dwindled  ourselves  to  fleas. 
And  hopp'd  about  the  creases  of  the  sack. 
He  must  have  done  for  us.    When  he  untied 
His  poke,  I  got  away ;  but  you,  poor  Lurian ! 
He  caught  by  the  tail,  and  held  against  his  grindstone. 
Till  you  had  s^om  not  to  come  near  him  more. 

2  In  the  original,  Pater  Gassner,  of  8inulu|  celebrity :  this  translation  was  made 
about  1798  when  an  exorcism  by  priests  of  me  Anglican  church  had  been  exhibited 
at  Bristol ;  as  recently  at  Bordeaux  by  the  Jesuits. 

VOL.  II.      •  P 


66  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

You  limp'd  and  jiffled  for  a  long  while  after ; 
And  when  old  Death  met  the  bowed,  hobbling,  imp, 
' He  'd  lift  your  tail,  and  grinning  ask — "  How  goes  it?" 

LURIAN. 

Sad  is  the  memory  of  those  evil  days, 

While  with  the  keys  of  heaven  and  of  hell 

The  pope  did  as  he  pleas*d.     It  was  provoking, 

Even  to  a  devil,  to  see  those  orthodox 

Jump  into  heaven  for  aping  monks'  grimaces. 

While  worthy  heathens,  and  bold  heretics, 

Shower'd  into  hell  by  scores !  It  is  no  wonder 

Some  honest  merry  imp  should  slink,  at  times. 

Far  from  the  eternal  fires*,  and  howl  of  souls, 

To  make  a  pother  in  the  pious  world 

By  noises,  ghostly  hauntings,  and  possessions. 

But  since,  at  length,  an  angel  of  the  light 

Flung  into  the  abyss  the  keys,  and  by  degrees 

Th'  eternal  bonfires  slacken — ^^all  's  so  still. 

That  e'en  the  priests  grow  doubtful  if  we  are  living. 

PUCK. 

Whose  tail 's  in  a  cleft-stick  has  no  such,  doubt* 

Feebly,  indeed,  but  still  the  pope  bears  sway ; 

And  would-be  popelings,  arm'd  with  Birmingham  keys. 

Yet  rouse  us  firom  the  dead  repose  we  seek. 

But  tell  me,  friend,  how  comes  this  double  chin? 

You  look  as  sleek  as  any  stabled  stallion. 

With  eyelets,  by  the  fat  flesh  squeez'd  together ; 

You  seem  half-brother  to  some  rosy  dean. 

'  LURIAN. 

No  marvel !  from  a  girl,  who  was  possessed. 

An  Abyssinian  bishop  drove  me:  hence 

Came  our  acquaintance  first,  and  next  our  friendship. 

And  now  I  dwell  the  cloister,^  sweep  the  ailes. 

Cover  the  kitchen  embers,  and  at  night 

8  At  Diarbekr,  Niebuhr  heard  a  similar  story. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  67 

Shut  up  the  cells  of  monks*    For  this»  their  care 

Feeds  me  at  noon,  and  let^  me  steal  At  6ve 

Down  to  the  cellar  with  diem.    What 's  that  nose  for  ? 

PUCK. 

Lurian,  my  faithful  friend,  these  forty  days 
I  'ye  only  tasted  grasshoppers  and  honey, 
A  starveling  lizard,  and  some  scorpions : 
I  should  have  caught  an  ague  on  these  sands, 
Did  not  a  simoom  cheer  me  now  and  then. 

LURIAN. 

Poor  fiend !  we  11  see  what  fare  the  butler's  foresight 

Has  skewer'd  into  my  knapsack.    When  thou  art  cheer'd, 

1 11  try  to  rid  thee  of  this  blessed  spell* 

The  Bristol  parsons  can't  have  got  a  saintship 

Home  from  Sienna  yet. 

PUCK. 

No  fear  of  that. 

LURIAN. 

Taste,  hungred,  first,  this  spitchcock'd  rattle-snake. 

And  toasted  toad,  with  assa-foetida. 

Lo !  how  his  long  ears  wag !  The  devil  is  pleas'd. 

His  nostrils  whiffle — shine  his  greedy  eyes. 

Here-^here  's  an  otter's  pluck — an  owlet's  wing. 

Dog's  tongues;  with  newts-eye  sauce,  and  spawn  of  frog. 

What  will  you  drink  ? — tobacco-oil,  or  gin  ? 

PUCK. 

0  this  is  dainty  diet! — My  Wrinkled  belly 

Grows  plump  and  smooth,  and  sounds  like  a  brac'd  drum. 
Were  but  my  tail  set  fi'ee — I  too  would  go 
Into  a  monastery. 

LURIAN. 

1  '11  snap  your  spell. 

This  book  I  stole  from  my  old  Coptic  bishop : 


68  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

» 

'T  is  full  of  Pharao-writing,  and  contains 
Words  that  break  every  charm  but  those  of  saints. 
O !  that  this  ink  had  never  reached  my  eyes ! 
Even  the  right  is  weak.     Stroke  back  my  hair. 
That  the  brisk  sparks  may  light  me  as  I  read. 
^^Ahirom!  Tukif  Zaiarush!  Misraim/^ 
(You  scratch  like  a  tom-cat — pull  in  your  claws). 
^^  Abrctcadabra  !  Kirlekamatsh  f  JVoil/*' 

PUCK. 

Hurrah ! — Live  dance,  and  frolic ! — Puck  is  free ! 
My  friend,  let  me  embrace  thee ! — One  more  hug ! 
Now  at  the  witches'  sabbath  may  attend 
Long-absent  I — ^rewhirl  the  airy  reel, 
Under  each  arm  a  doxy — join  their  burly, 
Till  mouth  and  nostrils  snort  the  flames  of  glee. 

LURIAN. 

How  like  a  sucking-lamb  the  old  boy  wriggles 
His  tail  for  gladness !  Scramble  up  behind. 
Puck,  on  my  goat.     Your  shriveU'd  leathern  wings 
Are  for  our  thousand  miles  of  flight  too  feeble. 
Cling  close,  and  clasp  below  the  cloven  feet. 
Now,  goat,  aloof  !^— whizz  thro'  the  air  to  Bloxberg. 

Loise  is  a  rural  epopo&a  of  simple  structure^  and  is 
divided  into  three  cantoes,  or  idyls^  as  they  are  here 
called,  which  relate  the  betrothment  and  marriage  of 
the  heroine.  It  is  composed  in  hexameter  verse ;  and 
the  charm  of  the  narrative  chiefly  consists  in  the  mi- 
nute description  of  the  local  domestic  manners  of  the 
personages. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  village  of  Griinau,  where 
the  most  conspicuous  of  the  stationary  residents  are 
the  pastor  and  his  wife,  and  their  only  daughter  Luise. 
A  dowager  countess  inhabits  the  hall  during  the  sum- 
mer months  only :  her  family  consists  of  a  grown  up 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  69 

daughter  Amelia^  the  friend  of  Luise,  of  a  younger 
son,  who  is  about  to  be  sent  to  the  university,  and  of 
this  son*s  preceptor,  a  young  lutheran  minister  named 
Walter,  for  whom  the  countess  has  procured  a  neigh- 
bonring  benefice,  in  consequence  of  his  services  to  the 
family  being  no  longer  needed. 

Walter  has  seen  Luise  at  the  table  of  the  countess, 
at  church,  and  elsewhere,  and  has  applied,  probably 
through  the  countess,  to  the  parents  of  Luise,  for  per- 
mission to  make  an  offer  of  marriage  to  the  daughter. 
The  father  and  mother  and  Luise  are  all  content  with 
the  match;  and  an  invitation  has  been  sent  to  Walter, 
to  come  and  pass,  at  the  parsonage-house,  Luise's 
eighteenth  birth-day. 

With  this  important  morning  the  poem  opens:  the 
plan  for  passing  the  day  is  discussed  in  the  domestic 
circle ;  and  it  is  determined  to  go  and  take  coffee  in 
the  open  air,  on  the  banks  of  the  neighbouring  lake, 
and,  after  rowing  on  the  water  to  the  principal  points 
of  view,  to  return  and  dine  at  home.  Walter  arrives, 
is  received  with  welcome :  it  is  agreed  he  shall  escort 
Luise  by  land  to  the  place  of  breakfast.  The  old  peo- 
ple send  to  borrow  a  boat,  and  having  packed  up  the 
necessary  prog,  embark  vnth  it  to  meet  the  lovers. 
The  preparations  for  this  breakfast  will  give  an  idea 
of  the  turn  of  the  poem. 


Wandering  ihus  through  blue  flai-fields  and  by  acres  of  barley, 

Both  on  the  hill-top  paus'd,  which  commands  such  a  view  of  the  whole  lake 

Crisp'd  with  the  lenient  breath  of  the  zephyr,  and  sparkling  in  sunshine ; 

Fair  were  the  forests  beyond  of  the  white-bark'd  birch,  and  the  fir-tree, 

Lovely  the  village  at  foot  half-hid  by  the  wood. — Then  Louisa 

Listening  observed :  Do  I  hear  from  afiir  oars  dashing  ?  Again  now. — 

Meanwhile  Charles,  who  had  run  off  before  them,  impatiently  came  back, 

Shouting  in  glee :  Make  haste,  or  the  boat  will  be  ready  before  us : 

Bat  for  the  reeds  you  would  see  it,  I  saw  it  the  while  I  was  yonder. 

Wing*d  were  the  steps  they  now  took ;  winds  blowing  the  robes  of  the  maiden 


70  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Close  to  her  well-shap'd  Umbs,  and  disheTelling  curls  on  her  shoulders. 
Now  from  the  stern  of  the  boat  the  pastor  descried  them,  and  call'd  out : 
Decently,  children,  and  softly ;  you  run  like  the  fowls  in  the  court-yard. 
When  cook  flings  them  some  crumbs,  or  a  handful  of  barley  or  oatmeal. 
Cautiously,  daughter,  you  '11  stumble  else  over  the  roots  of  the  bushes. 
Breathless  they  halted  awhile,  and  the  boat  lay  dabbling  before  them. 
Resting  the  keel  of  her  prow  on  the  pebbles  that  gamish'd  the  lake-shore. 
Walter  had  fetch'd  them  a  flat  stone,  placing  it  firm  in  the  water, 
■    So  they  could  land  dry-shod,  and  he  offer'd  his  hand  to  the  pastor. 
Next  to  the  good  old  lady,  and  both  got  safe  on  the  meadow : 
Baskets  were  landed  the  last,  which  the  boatswain  handed  to  Walter. 
Lovely  Louisa  had  welcomed  her  parents,  and  shown  them  a  green  mound. 
Under  an  old  beech-tree,  where  the  prospect  was  very  inviting — 
There  we  propose,  said  she,  to  unpack,  and  to  spread  out  the  breakfast ; 
Then  we  *11  adjourn  to  the  boat,  and  be  row'd  for  a  time  on  the  waters, 
^uick  then,  and  strike  us  a  light  I  so  rejoin'd  the  affectionate  pastor, 
I  shall  besmoaking  a  pipe,  while  you  are  preparing  the  coffee. 
Then  to  the  boatswain  whisper'd  the  notable  wife  of  the  pastor : 
John,  first  fiisten  the  boat ;  strike  light,  and  do  make  us  a  brisk  fire 
So  that  the  smoak  may  be  wafted  away  from  the  spot  we  shall  sit  on. 
Under  the  (amily-beech,  where  the  names  of  my  children  are  graven. 
Pick  us  up  sticks,  you  young  ones,  and  bring  us  some  wisps  of  the  reed-straw : 
Proverbs  remark  that  the  angler  must  not  fight  shy  of  the  water. 
Now  had  the  servant  with  flint  struck  glittering  sparks  from  the  bright  steel. 
Mushroom-tinder  received  them  hissing ;  he  lighted  a  match  next. 
Holding  the  straw  to  the  flame,  and  it  caught,  reek'd,  blaz*d,  in  an  instant. 
Sticks,  twigs,  heap'd  on  the  fire,  and  resinous  cones  of  the  fir-tree 
Crackled  and  torch'd,  and  scudded  the  smoak  in  the  air-stream. 
Just  where  the  wind  blew  into  the  fire  was  stationed  the  trivet. 
On  it  the  well-clos'd  kettle,  replenished  with  crystalline  water. 
Meanwhile  carried  Louisa  his  pipe  to  papa,  and  tobacco 
Wrapt  in  the  velvety  hide  of  the  seal,  and  a  paper  for  pipe-light : 
Calmly  the  old  man  sat,  and  he  whiff 'd,  and  he  smil'd,  and  agsin  whiff "d. 
Soon  as  the  flame  had  surrounded  the  kettle,  and  steam  firom  the  lid  burst. 
Out  of  a  paper-envelope  the  good  old  lady  her  coffee 
Into  the  brown  jug  shower'd,  and  added  some  shavings  of  hartshorn. 
Then  with  the  boiling  water  she  fill'd  up  the  pot  to  the  summit. 
Kneeling  she  waver'd  it  over  the  fire,  and  watch'd  for  its  clearing : 
Hasten,  my  daughter,  she  said,  to  arrange  all  the  cups  in  their  places. 
Coffee  is  soonly  enough,  and  our  firiends  will  excuse  it  unfilter'd. 
Quickly  Louisa  uplifted  the  lid  of  the  basket,  and  took  out 
Cups  of  an  earthen  ware,  and  a  pewter  basin  of  sugar. 
But  when  all  had  been  emptied,  the  butter,  the  rolls,  and  the  cold  ham. 
Strawberries,  radishes,  milk,  and  the  cowslip-wine  for  the  pastor. 
Archly  Louisa  observed :  Mamma  has  forgotten  the  tea-spoons ! 
They  laugh'd ;  also  the  father ;  the  good  old  lady  she  laughed  too — 
Echo  laugh'd ;  and  the  mountains  repeated  the  wandering  laughter. 
Walter  presently  ran  to  the  birch-tree  beside  them,  and  cut  off 
Short  smooth  sticks  with  his  clasp-knife,  offering  skewers  for  stirrers. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  71 

This  specimen  is  not  a  strictly  verbal  translation; 
such  as  Voss  himself  was  wont  to  execute ;  some  lines 
having  been  skipped^  which  appeared  trailing  or  so- 
perflaous,  and  some  few  having  been  a  little  trans- 
planted. It  gives  however  a  faithful  notion  of  the 
spirit  of  the  piece^  which  may  be  compared  with  those 
works  of  the  Flemish  painters,  in  which  a  housewife, 
surrounded  by  kitchen  furniture,  forms  the  main  ob- 
ject, and  in  which  all  the  minute  articles  for  domestic 
use  are  as  elaborately  painted  as  the  human  indivi- 
duals. 

In  the  second  idyl  the  countess  and  Amelia  call  at 
the  pstrsonage  house,  and  gently  hint  that  they  hope 
the  wedding-day  will  be  fixed  prior  to  their  leaving 
the  country  for  a  city-residence.  The  intimation  is 
received  with  deference,  and  they  are  invited  to  the 
wedding. 

In  the  third  idyl  the  wedding-day  has  dawned.  The 
dress  of  Luise,  and  other  preparations  are  described 
with  profiise  detail.  The  bridegroom  arrives  with  a 
young  friend,  a  college  fellow-student  who  is  lodged 
at  the  hall ;  he  is  perhaps  a  barrister  who  keeps  the 
manorial  courts  of  the  countess.  She  and  her  daugh- 
ter Amelia  arrive  next,  bringing  presents.  Amelia  has 
a  new  cassock  for  the  bridegroom ;  and  the  countess 
some  articles  of  dress  for  Luise.  To  the  dinner  all 
the  neighbourhood  have  contributed :  the  game-keeper 
has  sent  venisoVi,  the  villagers  fish,  Walter  and  his 
friend  have  killed  pheasants  and  a  hare ;  and  the  par* 
sonage-house  has  furnished  ham,  poultry,  and  fruit. 
In  the  dessert,  a  posset  milked  under  the  cow  is  con- 
spicuous, which,  after  being  tasted  in  the  parlour,  is 
sent  to  regale  the  kitchen.  After  dinner  the  marriage 
ceremony  is  performed  by  the  old  pastor  in  his  own 


72  HISTORIC  SURVkY 

par][par^  and  in  the  presence  of  his  gneftts :  the  comic 
cpnsequentiality  with  which  he  pronounces  the  couple 
tp  he  legally; married  deserves  transcription. 

.      ■  >      ■ 

Were  it  arrugned  by  the  voice  of  the  General  Superintendent ; 
Crenlelral  Superintetident,  I  'd  answer,  the  marriage  ii  valid. 

Sandwiches  succeed  and  music ;  and  the  clerk,  of 
the  parish  has  also  assembled  a  band  without  doors  tp 
honour  the  occasion.  Presently  the  countess's  carriage 
arrives :  the  party  disperses :  the  bridegroom  .leads 
Lnise  to  her  chamber :  and  the  holy  curtain  falls. 

The  Odes,  Songs,  Elegies,  and  Epigrams,  of  Voss 
may  deserve  perusal,  praise,  and  preservation;  in  gene- 
ral they  breathe  a  love  of  liberality,  and  a  mania  for 
music ;  but  they  exhibit  few  of  those  startling  singu- 
larities, or  glowing  beauties,  which  would  render  a 
commentary  amusing.  The  Allegro  and  Penseroso  of 
Milton  occur  among  his  imitations  of  English  writers; 
and  there  are  epigrams  on  Pope's  Homer  not  very 
flattering.  His  own  version  of  the  Greek  poet  pursues 
quite  another  idea  of  perfection,  and,  without  any  effort 
at  an  habitual  stateliness  of  diction,  copies  his  original 
with  learned  precision^  with  scrupulous  fidelity,  and 
with  that  natural  colouring  of  style,  which  has  placed 
his  Iliad  and  his  Odyssey  high  among  the  classical 
poems  of  the  Germans,  and  at  the  head  of  all  modem 
interpretations  of  the  father  of  poetry.  To  give  sonie 
idea  of  the  effect  of  a  Homer  in  hexs^eter,  a  short 
passage  shall  be  copied  from  each  epopoea. 

ILIAD  IX,  308. 

Hear,  high-bom  Laertes's  son,  most  ingenious  pleader.  ' 

Frankly  to  tell  you  my  mind,  and  the  course  I  intend  to  persist  in, 
Suits ;  that  ye  may  n't  buz  round  me,  assailing  with  troublesome  prayers. 
;  Hatefol  to  me,  as  the  gates  of  the  tomb,  is  the  dOttble-fae'd  cringer,. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  73 

Wbo  one  miad  hides  sly  in  hu  hre8st«  and  eiqpiessies  a&otller. 
I  speak  out :  and  I  fancy  that  not  Agamemnon  in  person, 
Nor  any  other  Achaian^  could  move  me.     Unwelcome  his  fortune 
Who  has  been  dragg'd  among  hostile  mc»»  and  has  always  to  struggle. 
Where  but  an  even  allotment  awaits  who  lingers  or  combats. 
Equally  honor  is  shown  to  the  coward  as  shown  to  the  brave  man. 
Hades  as  well  may  ^urprlse  the  repose  as  Hie  toil  of  the  hero. 
Nothing  is  thrust  upon  me,  but  the  sorrows  of  mind  I  have  suffered ; 
Though  I  always  have  given  my  whole  soul  into  the  battle. 
Like  to  a  bird,  who  bestows  on  her  callowy  nestlings  the  morsel, 
Which  she  weary  and  hungry  requires,  I  too  have  been  passing 
Sleepless  the  night,  and  in  bloody  exertion  the  daylight, 
AH  for  their  bedmates. 


ODYSSEY  XI,  593. 

ffis3nphus  also  I  saw,  with  unwelcomest  taskage  tormented. 

Toilsomely  hoisting  aloof,  unassisted,  a  ponderous  round  stone. 

Straining  he  laboured  amain  with  his  feet,  and  his  hands,  and  his  shoulders. 

Uphill  trying  to  roll  it  away  from  the  meadow.     He  wanted 

Quite  on  the  summit  to  place  it  at  rest ;  but  in  vain :  for 

Sudden,  with  long  loud  sound  down  thundered  the  treacherous  marble 

Bounding ;  anew  he  begins  the  unprofiting  effort :  the  thick  sweat 

Gush'd  from  his  faultering  limbs,  and  the  dust  had  disfigur'd  his  visage. 


Voss  has  written  much  coDcerning  Homer,  and  has 
learnedly  commented  his  mythology,  his  geography, 
and  his  other  acquirements ;  but  there  is  one  clue  to 
his  local  habitation  and  his  name,  which  has  been 
overlooked  by  the  German  commentator,  and'  which 
it  may  be  instructive  to  bring  under  notice. 

The  earliest  writer  who  cites  Homer,  is  Herodotus; 
Hesiod  did  not  know  Homer  s  poems.  The  earliest 
writer,  who  cites  that  Life  of  Homer  which  is  ascribed 
to  Herodotus,  is  Clemens  Alexandrinus :  Plato  did 
not  know  that  Life.  Of  course  Homer  flourished  be- 
tween  Hesiod  and  Herodotus ;  and  his  biographer, 
between  Plato  and  Clemens. 

This  biography,  then,  is  an  Alexandrian  fbrgery  in 
the  name  of  Herodotus :  and  it  is  so  glaringly  a  book- 


74  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

seller  s  speculation,  that  all  the  poems  uttered  at  Alex- 
andria  in  Homer's  name^  such  as  the  Batrachomyo- 
machia,  are  officiously  quoted  in  it ;  and  anecdotes  are 
contrived  to  account  for  their  having  been  written. 
All  these  anecdotes^  connected  with  the  advertisement 
of  surreptitious  poems,  are  to  be  received  with  pecu- 
liar mistrust. 

From  Homer's  writings,  and  especially  from  the 
Odyssey,  it  is  clear,  that  he  had  travelled  much  about 
the  Archipelago,  particularly  by  sea.     Still  in  the  de- 
scription of  the  Spartan  territory  (see  the  581st,  and 
following  verses,  of  the  second  book  of  the  Iliad,)  one 
may  discern  a  precision  of  topography,  characteristic 
of  local  residence.     Sparta  was  eminent  at  a  more 
early  period  than  Athens  ;    Lycurgus  long  preceded 
Solon.     Hence  Sparta  had,  in  some  degree,  acquired 
the  lead,  or  sway,  in  Greece,  before  the  Athenians 
were  at  all  competitors  for  it.    The  Spartan  language 
was  termed  Greek ;  and  the  Attic,  or  Ionic,  or  Doric, 
was  insulted  with  the  humiliating  name  of  a  dialect. 
This  earlier  civilization  of  Sparta  renders  it  naturally 
probable,  that  Homer  may  have  flourished  there ;  and, 
as  he  chose  a  national  theme,  the  rape  of  Helen,  wife 
of  the  king  of  Sparia,  it  is  the  more  evident  that  he 
kept  in  view  a  Lacedaemonian  audience.     The  kings 
of  Sparta,  according  to  Pausanias  (lib.  HI),  derived 
their  pedigree  from  the  son  of  Agamemnon,  and  their 
inheritance  from  the  daughters  of  Tyndarus. 

Now  let  us  turn  to  a  remarkable  passage  in  Plu- 
tarch's Biography  of  Lycurgus,  which  well  deserves 
to  be  transcribed  at  length,  on  account  of  the  reflect- 
ions which  it  is  adapted  to  excite  in  a  speculative  mind, 
"  Among  the  friends  gained  by  Lycurgus  in  Crete, 
was  Thales,  whom  he  could  induce  to  go  and  settle 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  76 

in  Sparta.     Thales  was  famed  for  wisdom  and  politi- 
cal ability.     He  was  also  a  bard,  who,  under  color  of 
exercising  his  art,  performed  as  great  things  as  the 
most  excellent  lawgivers :  for  his  sangs  were  so  many 
persaasives  to  obedience  and  unanimity, — and  as  by 
means  of  melody  and  number  they  had  great  grace 
and  power, — they  softened  insensibly  the  manners  of 
the  auditors,  drew  them  off  from  the  animosities  whidi 
then  prevailed,  and  united  them  in  zeal  for  excellence 
and  virtue.     From  Crete,  Lycurgus  passed  into  Ana- 
tolia ;   where,  apparently,  he  met  with  Homer  s  poems, 
which  were  preserved  by  the  posterity  of  Cleophylus. 
Observing  that  many  moral  sentences,  and  much  po^ 
litical  knowledge,  were  intermixed  with  that  poet's 
stories,  which  had  an  irresistible  charm,  he  collected 
them  into  one  body.     He  transcribed  them  with  plea- 
sure, in  order  to  take  them  home  with  him :  for  this 
glorious  poetry  was  not  yet  fully  known  in  Greece ; 
only  some  particular  pieces  were  in  a  few  hands,  as 
they  happened  to  be  dispersed.     Lycurgus  was  the 
first  who  made  them  collectively  known/' 

So  far  Plutarch.  Now,  when  the  high  panegyric 
is  observed,  which  is  here  bestowed  on  the  poetry  of 
Thales,  who  is  said  to  have  performed  as  great  things 
as  the  most  celebrated  lawgivers ;  when  it  is  recollect- 
ed that  this  Thales  was  the  personal  friend  of  Lycur- 
gus, and  accompanied  him  from  Crete  to  the  plain  of 
Troy,  and  from  the  plain  of  Troy  to  Sparta  ;  when  it 
is  recollected  that  Lycurgus  was  so  anxious  an  enthus- 
iast of  poetry,  as  to  have  collected  and  edited  poems 
which  remain  to  us ; — it  is  plainly  impossible  that  the 
poems  of  Thales  can  have  totally  perished.  Lycurgus 
would  not  have  neglected  the  reputation  of  such  a 
friend. 


76  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

* 

Conseqfaently,  the  poems  collected  by  Lycurgns, 
and  edited  by  him,  are.  those  of  Thales*. 

Homer  then  is  but  the  assumed  name  of  the  author, 
who  thought  to  secure  a  greater  illusion  among  his 
readers^  by  representing  himself  as  contemporary  with 
the  incidents  related.  Homer  is  the  eyeless  antique 
mask  worn  by  Thales,  as  Ossian  by  Macpherson. 
And  who  can  avoid  detecting  a  latent  Cretan  in  the 
poet^  who  places  heaven  on  mount  Ida? 

May  we  not  therefore  venture  to  talk  of  the  Eiad 
and  Odyssey  of  Thales^  a  bard,  who,  to  repeat  the 
emphatic  words  of  Plutarch,  ^'  was  famed  for  wisdom 
and  political  ability;  and,  under  color  of  exercising 
his  art,  performed  as  gre^t  things  as  the  most  excellent 
lawgivers** — ^a  panegyric,  which  cannot  have  been  me- 
rited by  two  different  individuals^  at  a  time  when  edu- 
cation was  so  rare ;  since,  even  now,  after  an  elapse 
of  two  thousand  years,  it  has  not  been  redeserved  by 
any  subsequent  poet. 


OF  GERMAN  POBTRT.  77 


§4. 

Goiter — Holty- — Christian  Count  Stolberg — Frederic  Leo^ 
pold  Count  Stolberg — Bath-song — Song  to  Freedom  of  the 
nineteenth  century-^Ode  tq  a  Mountain  T&rent — Tfie  Peni- 
tent, ^c. 

FuDERic  William  GotteR}  was  born  at  Gotha  on 

the  3rd  of  September,  1746.     His  constitution  was 

feebb ;  and,  bnt  for  iSxe  solibitous  care  of  parents  in 

affluent  circumstances,  he  would  probably  have  fallen 

an  early  victim  to  -the  various  aihnentd^  with  which  he 

was  assailed.    Reared  at  home,  and  provided*  with  the 

best  masters,  his  accomplishments  were  prematurely 

conspicuous ;   and  it  was  judged  expedient  that  he 

should  travel,  at  sixteen,  uhder  the  guidance  of  a  tutor, 

as  well  for  the  establishment  of  his  health,  as  for  the 

sak^of  acquiring  modern  languages.     After  making 

the  tour  of  Fi'ance,  he  sojourned  some  time  at  Paris, 

took  lessons  of  Italian,  and  in  1763  returned  home ; 

whence  he  was  sent  to  Gottingen,  and  passed  three 

years  there  in. studying  the  law.    Already  he  was  im-r- 

passioned  for  French  literature,  had  translated  several 

plays  of  Voltaire,  Merope,  Alzirey  and  Oreste,  and 

brought  with  him  a  Parisian  Almanac  of  the  Muses, 

which  suggested  the  successful  undertaking  of  a  simi* 

lar  publication  in  German.     Polished  in  his  manners^ 

liberal  in  his  expenditure,  fastidious  in  his  taste,  Gotter 

became  a  favourite  companion  in  the  literary  circle  of 


78  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Gottingen,  and  was  praised  for  the  elegant  style   in 
which  his  effusions  were  couched. 

In  1766  Gotter  returned  to  his  native  place,  and 
obtained  the  situation  of  archivist  to  the  duke  of  Saxe* 
Gotha,  which  office  he  held  until  1770,  when  he  -was 
sent  to  Wetzlar  as  secretary  of  legation.  But  his  health 
having  again  become  impaired,  he  obtained  in  1774 
leave  to  travel,  visited  Lyons,  the  Italian  Alps,  Zurich 
and  Geneva,  and  got  acquainted  with  Lavater  and  Ges- 
ner,  with  whom  he  afterwards  corresponded. 

In  1782  he  was  made  private  secretary  to  the  duke^ 
and  was  in  a  great  degree  released  from  the  toils  of 
office.  Leisure  and  inclination  to  compose  he  now 
possessed ;  but  his  effbrts  were  transient,  his  vivacity 
decayed,  his  correction  less  assiduous ;  and  his  latter 
works  were  thought  inferior  to  his  juvenile  prodne* 
tions.  His  bad  health  progressively  lessened,  and  at 
length  suspended,  his  activity  ;  he  lived  -however,  in 
a  morbid  state  until  the  18th  of  March,  1797. 

Two  volumes  of  his  dramatic  works  had  appeared 
in  1778  and  1779;  a  third  came  out  in  1795:  two 
volumes  of  his  minor  poems  had  appeared  in  1787  and 
1788 ;  a  third  was  issued  by  a  firiend  in  1802  accom- 
panied with  a  biographic  memorial.  More  indebted 
to  elegance  of  diction  than  force  of  conception,  his 
pristine  popularity  has  been  perpetually  on  the  wane; 
for  style  is  a  transient,  thought  an  enduring,  charm. 
The  Abb^  Bertola,  in  the  second  volume  of  his  Idea 
della  heUa  letteratura  Alemanna,  has  beatifully  ren- 
dered several  little  poems  of  Gotter ;  and  a  song  of 
his  has  been  translated  into  English  in  the  Specimens 
qf  German  hyric  Poets,  p.  30. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  79 

The  father  of  Holty  settled  in  1742  as  preacher  at 
pfariensee,  in  the  Hanoverian  territory:  he  succes- 
^eiy  married  three  wives,  and  by  the  second  of  them, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Gossel,  he  had  two  daughters 
land  a  son,  Loois  Henry  Christopher  Holty,  the  poet, 
who  was  born  the  21st  of  December,  1748.  In  his 
early  youth  he  was  eminently  beautiful ;  but,  having, 
in  the  tenth  year  of  his  age,  caught  the  natural  small- 
pox, his  complexion  was  impaired,  his  visage  pitted, 
land  his  eyes  so  deplorably  injured,  that  for  a  long 
time  his  sight  was  in  danger,  and  he  was  obliged,  dur- 
ing nearly  half  a  year,  to  abstain  from  reading,  of 
which  he  was  excessively  fond.  His  mother  died  of 
the  same  complaint  caught  at  the  same  time.  , 

Holty  was  attentively  instructed  by  his  father,  and 
was  not  put  to  school  until  he  was  sixteen,  when  he 
was  sent  to  finish  his  preparatory  education  at  Celle, 
and  was  thence  removed,  in  the  twentieth  year  of  his 
age,  to  Gottingen;  where  he  became  intimate  with 
Voss  especially,  and  with  Burger,  the  Stolbergs,  and 
4e  rest  of  the  Gottingen  friends. 

The  study  of  theology  was  prescribed  to  Holty  by 
his  father,  who  could  not  however  afford  the  usual 
degree  of  pecuniary  assistance  to  his  son ;  the  young 
man  therefore  had  to  give  private  lessons,  and  to  earn 
a  part  of  his  subsistence :  he  also  translated  occasion- 
ally for  the  booksellers.  His  manners  are  praised  for 
their  simplicity,  suavity,  and  calmness ;  he  was  some* 
what  inclined  to  melancholy,  and,  when  attacked  with 
pnlmonary  consumption,  he  foresaw  a  fatal  termination 
of  his  disease  with  a  resignation  bordering  on  compla- 
cence. He  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  in  Sep- 
tember 1776. 

The  poems  which  he  wrote,  chiefly  while  at  Got- 


80  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

tingen,  had  been  successively  inserted  in  the  Almana 
of  the  Muses^  and  other  periodic  publications :  the 
have  a  propriety  and  neatness,  which  seemed  to  pre 
mise  excellence.  After  bis  death  they  were  collecte 
by  his  friend  Voss,  and  published  separately,  in  IdOC 
with  a  biographic  and  critical  memoir  prefixed^  am 
were  received  with  extensive  welcome.  They  includ 
ballads  much  inferior  to  Biirger^s,  songs,  elegies^  odec 
and  what  might  be  called  ^^  exhalations/'  short  simpli 
expressions  of  natural  feeling  concerning  some  con 
tignons  occurrence.  In  the  specimens  of  German  lyri 
Poets  printed  in  1823,  at  London,  three  poems  an 
ascribed  to  Holty,  the  originals  of  which  do  not  occoi 
in  Vossen's  edition  of  the  works  of  this  poet. 


Christian,  count  Stolberg,  was  born  the  15th  a 
October,  1748,  at  Bramstedt  in  Holstein,  which  wai 
the  entailed  seat  of  a  family  so  conspicuously  noble; 
that  it  could  enumerate  among  its  ancestors  Charle 
magne  and  Alfred.  But  as  the  father  count  Christiaii 
Gunther  had  employments  under  the  Danish  govern- 
ment, he  frequently  wintered  with  his  household  iii 
Copenhagen,  or  summered,  oh  the  coast  of  Seland,  in 
a  marine  pavilion  belonging  to  the  king  of  Denmark 
The  minister  Bernstor£Fintervisited  with  the  Stolbergs^ 
and  at  his  table  young  Christian  was  introduced  to 
Klopstock,  who  inspired  him  with  the  love  of  poetry 
and  piety.  Count  Christian-Gniither  died  in  1765; 
bnt'the  widow  persisted  in  the  domestic  educatioDi 
which  had  been  hitherto  given  to  her  children  by  able 
preceptors,  and  first  sent  her  two  elder  sons,  Christian 
and  Frederic  Leopold,  together  to  college  at  Gottingen 
in  1770.    There  they  became  acquainted  with  Burger 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  81 

and  his  set,  and  both  wrote  several  poems.    Christian 
however  was  a  less  brilliant  and  a  less  original  poet  than 
his  younger  brother ;  and  although  his  translations  from 
Ana^reon,  Sophocles,  and  Theocritus,  are  read  with 
approbation ;  although  his  best  ballad,  Eliza  von  Mans- 
field^ has  been  printed  among  the  fraternal  works; 
although  some  odes  which  he  addressed  to  Biirger, 
to  the  countess  of  Raventlau,  whom  he  married  in 
1777,  and  to  others,  have  also  been  preserved;  yet 
the  warmest  of  his  poems  was  dictated  by  the  warm- 
est of  his  passions,  which  was  a  devoted  affection  and 
enthusiastic  friendship  for  his  brother.     Like  Plato, 
like  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  Frederic  Leopold  was  born  on 
the  7th  of  November ;  and  The  Seventh  of  November 
is  the  title  of  Christian's  glowingly  affectionate  con- 
gratulatory epistle,  or   ode,  to  his   brother  on  the 
twenty-eighth  anniversary  of  his  birth-day,  the  first 
time  they  had  passed  the  day  in  separation.     Chris- 
tian had  no  children  by  his  wife.     He  jnst  lived  to 
survive  his  darling  friend,  and  to  place  a  pathetic  va- 
ledictory elegy  on  his  tomb:  his  own  death,  which 
took  place  in  January,  1823,  having  probably  been 
accelerated  by  his  regret.     He  was  one  of  the  best 
of  brothers,  and  of  the  most  estimable  of  men. 


Frederic  Leopold,  bom,  as  has  jast  been  observed, 
on  the  7th  of  November,  1750,  was  the  second  son  of 
Chris tian-Ganther,  count  Stolberg  ;  and  as  the  junior 
branches  of  high  families  in  Germany  inherit  nobility, 
he  also  was  entitled,  count  Stolberg.  In  the  family 
mansion  at  Bramstedt,  he  first  saw  the  day-light,  and 
'  passed  six  years  there,  chiefly  under  the  care  of  his 

VOL.  II.  G 


82  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

excellent  mother,  a  noble  lady  of  Franconia,  whose 
maiden  name  was  Castell. 

In  1756  the  father  obtained  official  employment  at 
the  Danish  court,  and  removed  to  Copenhagen;  where 
he  engaged  a  private  tutor  for  his  sons,  and  where  he 
passed  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  revisiting  his  estate 
only  during  the  autumnal  months,  when  his  avocations 
best  permitted.  In  the  summer  he  frequently  occu- 
pied a  marine  pavilion,  picturesquely  situate  on  the 
coast  of  Seland,  and  belonging  to  the  king  of  Den- 
mark. On  this  spot  Frederic  Leopold  loved  best  to 
reside :  the  situation  was  romantic,  and  in  unison  with 
his  enthusiastic  or  poetic  turn :  he  found  amusement 
in  walking  on  the  shore,  in  rowing  or  sailing  on  the 
sea,  and  in  bathing,  for  he  was  an  expert  swimmer. 
One  of  the  earliest  of  his  poems  runs  nearly  thus :  it 
is  entitled, 

ft 

BATH-SONG  TO  SING  IN  THE  SOUND. 

I. 

Mild  zephyrs  are  streaming. 
The  sun  is  still  beaming, 

And  sparkles  the  wave ; 
It  looks  so  alluring. 
The  coolness  securing, 

Our  Umbs  let  us  lave. 

II. 

Here,  where  either  ocean. 
Like  tonies  in  motion. 

Are  met  in  the  plain ; 
We  '11  plunge  through  the  billow. 
And  floating  we  '11  pillow 

Our  heads  on  the  main. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  83 

III. 

Though  Titan  be  sinking. 
The  sea-nymphs  are  winking. 

And  proffer  their  kiss. 
The  moon  is  arising, 
Nor  shames  at  surprizing 

Our  innocent  bliss. 

IV. 
O'er  glittering  surges 
The  calm  swimmer  urges 

His  wanderings  soon : 
O  exquisite  pleasure ! 
To  bathe  at  our  leisure, 

With  sun  and  with  moon. 

These  pastinaes  did  not  last  long:  but  the  memory 
of  them  often  arose  radiant  in  the  fancy  of  Frederic 
Leopold  at  a  later  period,  and  has  suggested  many  a 
beautiful  allusion.  In  "  Hellebek/*  in  "  The  Moun- 
tain-Torrent," and  especially  in  "  The  Seas,'*  an  ode, 
which  so  sublimely  depicts  the  confluence  of  the  At- 
lantic and  the  Baltic,  and  so  happily  contrasts  the  dis- 
tinct character  of  either  ocean,  the  traces  of  this  resi- 
dence on  the  coast  of  Seland  are  conspicuous. 

The  decease  of  count  Christian- Gun ther,  in  1765, 
occasioned  the  widow  to  return  to  Bramstedt,  where 
she  continued  to  superintend  the  education  of  her  sons 
under  the  preceptor  chosen  by  her  husband  until  17,70, 
when  both  the  young  men  were  sent,  at  the  same  time, 
to  Gottingen.  The  period  spent  at  Copenhagen  had 
not  been  without  its  influence.  Klopstock  was,  as  it 
were,  the  poet-laureate  of  the  court  of  .Denmark ;  and 
his  high  reputation  there  naturally  drew  the  early  at- 
tention of  Frederic  Leopold  to  his  writings ;  and  con- 
tributed to  prepare  in  the  youth  an  analogous  tendency 
of  mind.    In  odes,  in  Klopstockian  metres,  his  pristine 


84  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

essays  of  versification  were  exhaled:  he  also  translated 
assiduously  from  the  greek  classics.  The  imitation  of 
Klopstock  is  peculiarly  apparent  in  his 


SONG  OF  FREEDOM, 

FOR  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY. 

Why  dost  thou  linger  thus,  O  morning  sun  ? 
Do  the  cool  waves  of  ocean  stay  thy  march  ? 

Why  dost  thou  linger  thus, 

Sun  of  our  day  of  fame ! 
Rise :  a  free  people  waits  to  hail  thy  ray. 
Turn  firom  yon  world  of  slaves  thine  eye  of  fire; 

On  a  free  people  shed 

The  glories  of  thy  beam. 
He  climbs,  he  climbs  aloof,  and  gilds  the  hills ; 
A  rosier  radiance  dances  on  the  trees ; 

Sparkling  the  silver  brook 

To  the  dim  valley  flies. 

Now  thou  art  bright,  fair  stream ;  but  once  we  saw 
Blood  in  thy  waves,  and  corses  in  thy  bed. 

And  grappling  warriors  choak'd 

Thy  swollen  and  troubled  flood. 
With  fluttering  hair  the  flying  tyrants  sped — 
Pale,  trembling,  headlong,  to  thy  waters  sped — 

Into  thine  angry  wave 

Pursuing  fireemen  sprang. 
Blood  of  the  horses  dy'd  thy  azure  stream — 
Blood  of  the  riders  dy'd  thy  azure  stream — 

Blood  of  the  tyrant's  slaves — 

Blood  of  the  tyrant's  slaves. 
Red  was  the  meadow,  red  thy  rushy  brink 
Reeking  with  slaughter.    In  the  bush  of  thorn 

Clothes  of  the  flying  stuck. 

Hair  of  the  dying  stuck. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  85 

At  the  rock's  foot  the  nation-curber  lay ; 
Apollyon's  sceptre-wielding  arm  was  stifi^ 

Broken  his  long  long  sword, 

Wounded  his  groaning  horse. 
Dumb  the  blasphemer's  the  commander's  tongue. 
Nor  hell  nor  man  gave  heed :  his  conscious  eye 

Still  roird,  as  if  to  ask 

The  brandish'd  spear  for  death  ; 
But  not  a  son  of  Germany  vouchsafed 
With  pitying  hand  the  honourable  steel : 

Was  not  the  curse  of  God 

Upon  his  forehead  stamp'd  ? 
As  o'er  her  prey  the  screaming  eagle  planes, 
O'er  him  was  seen  the  wrath  of  heaven  to  lour. 

He  lay  till  midnight  wolves 

Tore  out  the  unfeeling  heart. 

But  ah !  the  young  heroic  Henry  fell ; 

The  castle-walls  of  Remling  rang  with  groans ; 

Mother  and  sister  wept 

Their  fallen,  their  beloved ; 
His  lovely  wife  not  e'en  a  parent's  hope 
Could  lift  above  the  crushing  load  of  wo, 

She,  and  the  babe  unborn 

Partook  his  early  tomb. 

Not  one  of  all  the  slavish  crew  escap'd. 

Like  to  the  fallow  leaves  which  stormwinds  throw, 

Their  corses  far  and  wide 

Lay  weltering  in  the  field ; 
Or  floated  on  the  far-polluted  stream 
Welcome  not  now  where  health  or  pity  dwell. 

Back  from  the  bloody  wave 

The  thirsting  horse  withdrew ; 
The  harmless  herd  gazed  and  forbore  to  taste ; 
The  silent  tenants  of  the  wood  forbore ; 

Only  the  vulture  drank, 

The  raven  and  the  wolf. 


86  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  glee  of  the  victor  is  loud  on  the  hill. 
Like  nightingales  singing  where  cataracts  rush. 

The  song  of  the  maiden. 

The  warriors'  music, 
In  thundering  triumph  are  mingled  on  high, 
Or  call  on  the  echoes  to  bound  at  the  dance, 

With  drum  and  with  cymbal, 

With  trumpet  and  fife. 
High  in  the  air  the  eagle  soars  of  song. 
Beneath  him  hawks,  our  lesser  triumphs,  flit ; 

0*er  the  last  battle  now 

His  steadier  wing  is  pois*d. 

Fierce  glow'd  the  noon;  the  sweat  of  heroes  bath'd 
The  trampled  grass ;  and  breezes  of  the  wood 

Reach'd  but  the  foe,  who  strove 

Three  hours  in  doubtful  fight. 
Like  standing  halm  that  rocks  beneath  the  wind. 
The  hostile  squadrons  billow  to  and  fro ; 

But  slow  as  ocean  ebbs 

The  sons  of  freedom  cede. 
When  on  their  foaming  chargers  forward  sprang 
Two  youths,  their  sabres  lightning :  and  their  name 

Stolberg — behind  them  rode. 

Obeying,  thousand  friends. 
Vehement,  as  down  the  rock  the  floody  Rhine 
Showers  its  loud  thunder  and  eternal  tbam ; 

Speedy,  as  tigers  spring, 

They  struck  the  startled  foe. 
The  Stolbergs  fought  and  sank ;  but  they  achiev'd 
The  lovely  bloody  death  of  freedom  won : 

Let  no  base  sigh  be  heard 

Beside  their  early  grave ! 
Time  was,  their  grandsire  wept  a  burning  tear^ 
Of  y outhfiil  hope  that  he  might  perish  so ; 

Upon  his  harp  it  fell 

To  exhale  not  quite  in  vain. 

4  This  Spartan  sentiment  would  have  something  of  harshness,  had  F.  L.  Stolberg 
been  a  fiither :  he  was  still  a  bachelor. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  87 

Then,  through  the  mist  of  future  years,  he  saw 
Battles  of  freedom  tinge  the  patrial  soil, 

Saw  his  brave  children  fall. 

And  smil'd  upon  their  doom. 

Sunk  was  the  sun  of  day ;  with  roseate  wing 
The  evening  fann'd  the  aged  Rhine ;  but  still 

The  battle  thundered  loud. 

And  lightened  far  and  wide. 
Glad,  from  the  eaves  of  heaven,  thro'  purple  clouds 
Herman  and  Tell,  Luther  and  Klopstock,  lean'd. 

And  godlike  strength  of  soul 

And  German  daring  gave. 
To  the  pale  twilight  wistful  look'd  the  foe ; 
Dimm'd  was  the  frown  of  scorn,  the  blush  of  shame; 

They  fled,  wide  o'er  the  field 

Their  scattering  legions  fled. 
With  dreeping  swords  we  followed  might  and  main. 
They  hop'd  the  mantle  of  the  night  would  hide, 

YTien  o'er  the  fires  arose 

Angry  and  fell  the  moon. 
Night  of  destruction,  dread  retributress. 
Be  dear  and  holy  to  a  nation  freed ; 

The  country's  birth-day  each 

More  than  his  own  should  prize. 
More  than  the  night  which  gave  his  blushing  bride. 
Thy  song  of  triumph  in  our  cities  shout. 

The  song  which  heroes  love. 

The  song  to  freedom  dear. 
Voices  of  virgins  mingle  in  the  lay. 
As  floats  its  music  o'er  rejoicing  crowds. 

So  murmur  waterfalls 

Beside  the  ocean's  roar. 

Germania — thou  art  free !  Germania  free. 
Now  may'st  thou  stately  take  thy  central  stand 

Amid  the  nations ;  now 

Exalt  thy  wreathed  brow. 
Proud  as  thy  Brocken,  when  the  light  of  dawn 
Reddens  its  forehead,  while  the  mountains  round 


88  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Still  in  wan  twilight  sleep. 
And  darkness  shrouds  the  vale. 

Welcome  great  century  of  Liberty, 

Thou  fairest  daughter  of  slow-teeming  Time, 

With  pangs  unwont  she  bare 

But  haird  her  mighty  child ; 
Trembling  she  took  thee  with  maternal  arm ; 
Glad  shudders  shook  her  frame ;  she  kist  thy  fronts 

And  from  her  quivering  Up 

Prophetic  accents  broke : 
'  Daughter,  thou  tak'st  away  thy  mother's  shame. 
Thou  hast  avenged  thy  weeping  sisters*  woe. 

Each  to  the  yawning  tomb 

Went  with  unwilling  step : 
Each  in  her  youth  had  hop'd  to  wield  thy  sword 
And  hold  thy  balance,  dread  retributress ; 

Bold  is  thy  rolling  eye, 

And  strong  thy  tender  hand. 
And  soon  beside  thy  cradle  shall  be  heard 
The  tunes  of  warfare  and  the  clash  of  arms. 

And  thou  shalt  hear,  with  smiles. 

As  on  thy  mother's  breast. 
I  see  thee  quickly  grow ;  with  giant  step. 
With  streamy  golden  hair,  with  lightening  eye. 

Thou  shall  come  forth,  and  thrones 

And  tyrants  tread  to  dust« 
Thy  urn,  though  snatch'd  with  bloody  hand,  shall  pour 
O'er  Germany  the  stream  of  liberty. 
Each  flower  of  paradise 
D^Ughts  to  crown  its  brink. 

A  more  original^  and  perhaps  an  earlier  poem  is  the 


ODE  TO  A  MOUNTAIN-TORRENT. 

Immortal  youth. 
Thou  streamest  forth  from  rocky  caves ; 
No  mortal  saw 
The  cradle  of  thy  might ; 


OF  OERMAN  POETRY.  89 

No  ear  has  heard 
Thy  infant  stammering  in  the  gushing  spring. 

How  lovely  art  thou  in  thy  silver  locks ; 

How  dreadful  thundering  from  the  echoing  crags ! 

At  thy  approach 
.  The  fir- wood  quakes ; 
Thou  castest  down,  with  root  and  branch,  the  fiir ; 

Thou  seizest  on  the  rock. 
And  roU'st  it  scornful  like  a  pebble  on. 

Thee  the  sim. clothes  in.  dazzling  beams  of  glory. 
And  paints  with  colors  of  the  heavenly  bow 
The  clouds  that  o'er  thy  dusty  cataracts  climb. 

Why  hasten  so  to  the  cerulean  sea  ? 
Is  not  the  neighbourhood  of  heaven  good, 
Not  grand  thy  temple  of  encircling  rocks. 
Not  fair  the  forests  hanging  o'er  thy  bed  ? 
Hasten  not  so  to  the  cerulean  sea ; 

Youth,  thou  art  here 

Strong  as  a  god, 

Free  as  a  god. 

Though  yonder  beckon  treacherous  calms  below. 

The  wavering  lustre  of  the  silent  sea, 

Now  softly  silver'd  by  the  swimming  moon. 

Now  rosy-golden  in  the  western  beam ; 
Youth,  what  is  silken  rest. 
And  what  the  smiling  of  the  friendly  moon. 
Or  gold  and  purple  of  the  evening  sun. 
To  him  who  feels  himself  in  thraldom's  bonds ! 

Here  thou  canst  wildly  stream 
As  bids  thy  heart : 
Below  are  masters  ever-changeful  winds. 
Or  the  dead  stillness  of  the  servile  main. 

Hasten  not  so  to  the  cerulean  sea ; 
Youth,  thou  art  here 
Strong  as  a  god. 
Free  as  a  god. 


90  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Like  his  own  mountain-torrent,  Frederic  Leopold 
streamed  somewhat  wildly  in  Gottingen.  Other  noble 
collegians  have  done  the  same  in  this  country;  nor  is 
it  to  be  lamented.  When  there  are  no  excesses  in 
youth,  there  is  seldom  inherent  vigor  enough  for  the 
desirable  energy  of  maturity :  experience  is  acquired 
without  loss  of  frankness,  where  there  are  no  domestic 
prejudices  to  offend:  and  it  is  always  an  object  to  know 
what  are  the  natural  sympathies  of  man,  and  how  much 
there  is  of  conventional  in  the  exoteric  morality  pro- 
fessed in  houses,  where  wives,  mothers,  and  sisters, 
reside. 

Frederic  Leopold  herded  with  Burger's  set,  with  the 
G5ttingen  friends,  as  they  were  called ;  and  was  one 
of  those  who  went  over  to  Alten-Gleichen  to  hear 
read  the  still  manuscript  Lenore.  The  impression  was 
necessarily  vivid ;  it  was  also  lasting ;  and  produced 
some  attempts,  if  not  at  direct  imitation,  yet  at  analo- 
gous composition.  The  two  best  of  Stolberg's  ballads 
are  entitled  Rudolph,  of  which  a  satisfactory  transla- 
tion occurs  in  the  specimens  of  German  Lyric  Poets, 
p.  116,  and  The  Penitent,  which  follows : 


THE  PENITENT. 


L 


Inne  the  purer  olden  time, 
When  for  man  to  sin  was  crime. 
And  a  woman  might  not  straye 
Ene  a  hair-breadth  from  the  waye 
Of  yhallow'd  chastitie; 
Rode  a  knight  through  moor  and  grime, 
From  Armorique  come  to  see 
Arthur  pride  of  chivalrie. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  91 

II. 

Loud  the  storm,  and  black  the  night. 
And  his  horse  in  wearie  plight, 
He  beheld  a  distant  gleam 
Thro  a  castel-windore  beam. 
Much  the  loftie  elm-trees  swang, 
As  he  pac'd  the  alley's  side ; 

While  the  wind-gust's  hollow  twang 
Round  the  rocking  towrets  sang* 

III. 

To  the  cullis-gate  he  rode, 
Knock'd  aloud :  the  while  he  stode, 
Chatter'd  much  his  teeth  for  cold ; 
Frost  and  sleet  had  bleach'd  the  wold. 
Trustie  knaves  anon  were  seen. 
Who  his  palfrey  took,  and  stowde. 
Leading  him,  by  torches  sheen. 
To  the  prow  Sir  Egerwene. 

IV. 

Inne  the  base  coiu*t  him  doth  meete 
The  nobil  host  with  friendlie  greete. 
As  a  hearty  Briton  wones. 
"  Welcome  stranger  for  the  nones : 
Lo !  thie  beard  doth  sheen  with  ice. 
And  thie  hand  is  numb  pf  sleet ; 
Hard  has  been  thy  winter-ryse, 
Foode  and  rest  I  shall  alyse." 

V. 

Then  he  leades  the  frozen  wight, 
"Where  the  chemnee  brenneth  bright. 
Down  the  hall,  so  high  and  long. 
His  forefathers'  weapons  hong. 
Iron  sarkes  in  black  arraye : 
There,  I  ween,  at  dead  of  night. 

When  the  roddie  gledes  decaye, 
Yerne  the  owners  ghosties  straye. 


L 


92  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

VI. 

Soon  the  slughornes  call  to  mele. 
And  the  knighties  tope  their  fele ; 
But  at  once  their  glee  is  farre. 
For  a  door  doth  softe  unbarre^ 
And  a  woman^  wo-forwome, 
Whom  the  blackest  wedes  concele^ 
Slowlie  steppeth  them  beforne^ 
Bare  her  bowed  head,  and  shorne. 

VII. 

Wan  she  was,  but  fayre  to  see, 
As  the  moon  at  full  may  be. 

Yet  did  paleness,  gryse  and  glome, 
Ore  the  stonied  stranger  come : 
From  his  hand  the  bumper  fell ; 
For  he  lookte  to  see  her  gree 
Soone  an  uglie  sprite  of  hell, 
Rysing  from  his  dismal  cell. 

VIII. 

More  and  more  she  draweth  nie, 
Speaketh  not,  but  sitsomelie 

Cometh  to  their  plenteous  borde, 
Which  doth  onelte  bredde  afibrde 
For  her  much-forbidden  lip. 
To  the  vassal  standing  bie 

Xhen  she  noddes,  that  he  should  trip. 
For  she  needeth  drink  to  sip. 

IX. 

Lo !  he  sieeketh  out  a  skuUe, 

^^  « 

Rinseth  it,  and  filleth  fulle 
Of  the  water  from  the  spring. 
And  with  piteous  gait  doth  bring. 
Meeklie  then  her  face  she  lowte ; 
Inne  her  eyne  a  tear  upswoll ; 

And  she  shudder'd,  stared  abowte, 
.  Drank  her  draught,  and  totter'd  owte. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  93 

X. 

'^  I  beswear  thee,  tell  me,  man/' 
So  the  stranger-knight  began, 
**  What  this  woman's  sin  hath  been. 
That  thou  loadest  her  with  teen ; 
Of  her  teares  the  silent  prayer 
Canst  thou  from  thie  bosom  ban? 
She  is  as  an  aungel  fayre, 
Meeke  and  mild  as  children  are." 

XL 

"  Stranger,  she  is  fayre,  I  knowe„ 
Once  did  I  her  seeming  trowe, 
Hong  delighted  on  her  looke, 
Thrill'd  for  pleasaunce  when  she  spoke. 
And  her  honeyde  wordes  beleev'd. 
Wonian's  bosom  who  can  knowe  ? 
All  her  winsome  lookes  deceev'd. 
Were  in  falsehood's  loom  yweav'd. 

XII. 

For  her  love  was  given  and  gone 
To  a  squire  that  here  did  wiQne, 
Whom  from  dole  and  derthe  I  drewe. 
And  upbred  in  gentle  thewe. 
After  wearie  war  was  o'er. 
Homeward  ones  I  sped  alone, 
And  at  unawaited  hour   - 
Hasten'd  to  my  wed-bed  bower* 

xni. 

Lo !  her  sighte  mie  eyne  dismayde, 
Inne  the  clasp  of  ewbrice  layde, 
With  the  squire  of  lowe  degree ; 
Boiling  did  mine  anger  gree. 
Swifte  mie  righteous  sworde  I  toke, 
And  his  pulse  of  life  I  quayde : 
Her  I  weened  to  have  stroke, 
Wile  mie  sowle  for  choler  quoke. 


94  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XIV. 

But  forthwith  she  did  her  throwe 
At  mie  feete^  and  to  the  blowe 
Layde  her  paler  bosom  bare. 
Ruthful  shudders  through  me  fare. 
And  the  shape  of  helle  was  come 
FuD  of  harowe  to  mie  browe. 

No  methought  I  maye  not  dome 
Her  to  the  ycursed  home. 

XV. 

And  I  spake :  "  Thou  shalt,  beldame^ 
Pay  the  finaunce  of  mie  shame, 
Al  it  be  thie  life  I  spare : 
Though  the  fiend  thie  sprite  shuld  tare 
What  have  I  to  gain  therebye  ? 
No :  with  prayer,  and  teare,  and  grame, 
Eame  the  pardon  of  thie  shame, 
I  raUent  not  till  I  die. 

XVI. 

"  Then  her  head  I  shavde  and  shore, 
Toke  the  gaiides  and  gems  she  wore. 
Clad  her  limmes  in  mourning  weede. 
Of  her  weeping  had  no  heede. 
Woes  enow  I  make  her  beare. 
Wilt  thou  know  her  painsome  stowre, 
From  her  Kps  thou  mayst  it  heare ; 
Cheere  thie  sprite,  and  follow  neare." 

XVII. 

Down  a  narrow  grese  they  straye. 
Dank  and  dim  their  winding  waye. 
"  Is  it  to  a  toome  we  go  ?" 
Spake  the  faltring  stranger  tho. 
"  What  doth  feare  alreadie  cling 
To  thie  breste?"  the  knight  did  saye; 
"  Harke !  I  hear  her  gittem  ring ; 
Hymnes  of  penaunce  she  doth  sing." 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  95 

XVIII. 

Deeper  down  the  vault  so  colde^ 
Both  the  knights  in  silence  stroUde: 
Suddenlie  Sir  Egerwene 
Op'd  a  dore^  and  she  was  seene. 
By  a  single  lampis  fleare, 
Sitting  in  a  dongeon-holde : 

On  her  eye-lash  blinks  the  cleare 
Halie  God-atoning  teare. 

XIX. 

"  Bitter,  bitter  is  her  wo/^ 
Saith  the  guest,  as  in  they  go. 
Sternlie  frowned  his  British  guide. 
And,  advancing  to  her  side, 
Op'd  a  grate  with  sudden  tone. 
And  began  therein  to  show 

Where  against  the  mildewde  stone 
Stood  a  headless  skeleton^. 

XX. 

Then  he  spake :  ^^  Behold  the  man. 
Who  this  woman's  lyking  wan ; 
Who,  by  his  advoutrous  game. 
Brought  his  master's  bed  to  shame. 
Now  I  ween  she  shuld  not  shrink 
Him  from  near  her  side  to  ban : 

From  his  sight  she  may  not  slink. 
And  his  skull  doth  hold  her  drink." 

XXL 

Ere  they  left  the  dismal  cell, 
Did  the  stranger  wish  her  well. 
And  a  pardon  for  the  sin 
She  bewailed  there  within. 
Then  she  spake  with  gentle  moane, 
Through  her  lippes  so  swote  and  pale : 
"  Yeares  may  not  my  guilt  atone ; 
Righteouslie  mie  lord  hath  done." 


96  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XXII. 

Now  they  sought  their  roomes:  til  daye 
Sleepless  did  the  traveller  laye ; 
The  remembrance  of  her  sight 
Haunted  him  the  Uvelong  night ; 
How  she,  by  the  lamp  so  wan^ 
Wept,  and  sang,  and  preeres  did  saye. 
Chilly  sweats  him  overran. 
Thoughts  of  anguish  him  unman. 

XXIII. 

Ere  the  golden  howre  of  dawn. 
On  had  he  his  armure  drawn ; 
Parting  to  his  host  he  said : 
^*  Til  thie  wife  in  earth  be  laid 
Through  the  sorrow  undergone. 
Leave  her  not  in  thraldom's  pawn ; 
I  have  nere  a  woman  knone, 
Half  so  fair,  and  wo-begone.'** 

Both  the  Stolbergs  had  much  the  pride  of  nobility. 
After  leaving  Gottingen  they  collected  their  poems  in 
an  octavo  volume,  which  appeared  at  Leipzig  in  1779, 
to  which  this  somewhat  haughty  motto,  from  the  VH 
book  of  jdSneid,  was  prefixed-— 

Ceu  duo  nubigenae,  quum  vertice  montis  ab  alto 
Desceudunt,  Centauri, 

as  if  it  were  a  condescension  in  the  nobleman  to  enter 
the  arena  of  intellectual  conflict,  and  to  display  that 

5  In  some  editions  this  stanza  concludes  the  poem : 

And  at  length  her  gentle  guize, 
And  her  patient  peaceful  wize. 
Won  Sir  ^erwene  to  ruth ; 
He  forgave  her  sad  untruth  : 
Heeded  now  his  threat  no  more, 
No  forgiveness  to  alyse ; 

Joyed  with  her  as  of  yore : 
Many  worthie  sons  she  bore. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  97 

native  and  sterling  strength  of  mind^  of  which  artificial 
rank  is  but  the  tinsel  representative. 

About  this  time  the  two  brothers  visited  Switzer- 
land, and  undertook  a  pedestrian  tour  among  the 
Italian  Alps.  ^  Gothe,  Lavater,  Salis,  were  alternately 
the  companions  of  their  stroll. 

The  next  enterprize  of  Frederic  Leopold  was  a 
translation  of  the  Iliad :  he  had  indeed  began  it  at 
Gottingen  in  competition  with  Biirger ;  but  it  was  not 
completed  for  publication  until  1781.  It  is  an  elegant 
and  stately  poem ;  less  learnedly  precise  than  the  sub* 
sequent  version  of  Voss,  but  it  has  a  flow  and  a  ma- 
jesty, which  long  preserved  for  it  a  seeming  preference 
of  popularity  •  A  short  specimen  from  the  third  book 
will  suffice : 

These  were  of  them  who  sat  at  the  Scsean  gate,  of  the  elders 

Spar'd,  for  their  age,  the  burden  of  war,  still  useful  in  coundli 

Shriller  of  voice  than  the  crickets,  which  startle  the  forest  with  chirping, 

Perch'd  on  the  leaf-clad  trees :  so  sat  these  men  in  the  turret. 

Sponly  as  Helena  came,  thus  spake  they  aloud  to  each  other: 

**  *T  is  no  wonder  we  wage  with  the  weU-greav'd  (rrecians  this  warfare, 

Bearing  for  such  a  woman  so  long  our  distresses ;  for  truly 

Like  the  immortal  gods  is  she  shapen,  and  lovely  to  look  on. 

Yet  were  it  well  she  returned  to  her  home  in  the  ships  of  her  country, 

Rather  than  bring  upon  us  and  our  children  this  heirdom  of  evil." 

Stolberg  calls  the  greek  gods  by  their  greek  names ; 
and  uses  the  latin  y  to  represent  the  phi — Zeus^  Here, 
AiVodite^  Poseidon,  Artemis,  Demeter,  instead  of  Ju- 
piter, Juno,  Venus,  Neptune,  Diana,  Ceres,  &c«  This 
innovation  surely  merits  adoption :  but  perhaps  some 
vowel  mark  is  desirable  to  easily  distinguish  between 
epsilon  and  eta,  between  omicron  and  omega. 

After  the  return  of  Frederic  Leopold  to  Holstein, 
the  duke  of  Oldenburg,  prince-bishop  of  Lubeck,  ap- 
pointed him  resident,  or  envoy,  to  the  court  of  Den- 

VOL.  11.  H 


98  HISTORIC  SURVET 

mark;  a  welcome  appointment,  as  it  placed  him  in 
contiguity  with  his  brother-in-law,  count  BemstorflF, 
and  was  so  nearly  a  sinecure,  as  to  interfere  little  with 
his  literary  occupations.  Besides  it  added  enough  to 
his  income  to  enable  him  to  settle ;  and  on  the  1 1th 
of  June,  1782,  he  was  united  to  a  countess,  Agnes  of 
Witzleben,  whom  he  saw  at  Eutin,  and  married  there, 
and  who  conciliated  alike  the  welcome  of  her  husband^s 
relations,  and  his  own  tender  attachment. 

The  moral  satire,  entitled  *^  Iambics,'*  appeared  in 
1784;  but,  as  it  includes  complaints  against  solitude, 
it  seems  to  have  been  written  while  he  was  still  single. 
A  translation  of  JEschylus  occupied  the  first  year  or 
two  of  his  marriage.  In  1785  he  accepted  a  diplo- 
matic mission  from  the  duke  of  Oldenburg  to  the 
court  of  Russia,  and  was  rewarded  for  his  services 
with  the  bailiwick  of  Neuenburg,  where  he  went  with 
his  family  to  reside. 

There  he  composed  two  chorus-dramas  on  the  greek 
model,  "  Theseus,  and  the  Suckling,"  which  were 
printed  with  some  plays  of  his  brother  s  in  1787,  and 
a  romance  in  dialogue,  "  The  Hand,"  which  may  be  ad- 
vantageously contrasted  with  Plato's  "  Republic,"  for 
the  superior  purity  of  its  sentiments ;  and  which  well 
deserves  to  be  translated  into  modern  greek,  as  it  pro- 
jects the  establishment,  in  a  Mediterranean  iland,  of  a 
free  and  independent  people,  whose  republican  insti- 
tutions were  to  realize  in  the  national  manners  a  steady 
adherence  to  the  beautiful  and  the  good.  In  the  course 
of  this  classical  romance  a  quotation  occurs  from  an 
unpublished,  and  perhaps  unfinished,  poem  of  the  au- 
thor, which  was  to  have  been  entitled  *^  Futurity."  This 
fragment  will  not  displease. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  99 

Orer  the  quTering  string  air-habitant  Hannony  hoven, 
Over  the  virgin's  mind-steept  tone  more  soft  than  the  flute's  voice. 
Raptures  of  loftier  poets  assailing  the  soul  of  the  hearer 
Call  from  her  echoing  halls  coy  Melody,  henceforth 
Bride  to  immortal  Song,  and  his  chaste  nor  ignoble  companion. 
Thee  degenerate  ages  profan'd,  all  beauteous  enchantress ! 
Wildly  invoking  thy  holier  footstep  to  stroll  in  the  lewd  choir, 
Led  along  by  their  soulless  enervated  metres,  which  shrunk  back 
When  in  the  glow  of  the  dance  was  offer'd  majestic  thy  right  hand. 
Hasten  with  step  unreluctant  to  wander  delighted  and  easy 
Where  the  true  bard  leads,  now  soft  as  the  lay  of  his  mildness. 
Now  with  the  rapid  and  lightning  ascent  of  the  seraphs  of  heaven. 

A  fine  passage  is  also  quoted  from  an  elegy  of 
Klopstock^  which^  as  it  exemplifies  the  alternate  hex- 
ameter and  pentameter  lines  so  frequently  employed 
in  the  mournful  poetry  of  the  Germans,  may  deserve 
transcription. 

Denmark's  beautiful  rite,  which,  e'en  on  the  grave  of  the  rustic 
Yearly  scatters  some  flower,  emblem  of  hope  to  the  just ; 

Come  more  solemnly  now  to  the  spot  where  reposes  the  monarch, 
Scattering  wreaths  of  the  spring,  glad  resurrection  in  thought : 

Fair  soul-cheering  symbol  of  hope  in  rerisal  I  ah  wherefore 

Seems  the  eye  troubled  with  woe,  glitters  a  tear  on  the  wreath  ? 


The  romance  concludes  with  an  ideal  form  of  worship 
in  verse,  which  offers  a  proper  text  for  an  oratorio^ 

Almost  immediately  after  the  publication  of  the 
Iland,  in  1788,  a  heavy  blow  of  fate  fell  on  Frederic 
Leopold :  his  beloved  wife  Agnes  died  on  the  17th  of 
November  of  that  year,  almost  without  her  being  aware 
of  the  approaching  catastrophe ;  and  thus  he  saw,  to 
nse  his  own  expression,  his  heaven  on  earth  closed* 
His  brother  Christian  flew  to  his  consolation,  and 
persuaded  him  to  return  to  the  family-seat  in  Hols- 
tein,  and  to  pass  the  winter  there* 

While  he  was  visiting  his  relations  at  Copenhagen, 
the  prince-regent  of  Denmark  proposed  to  him  a 


Hi 


100  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

diplomatic  mission  of  considerable  importance ;  and 
leave  was  obtained  of  the  duke  of  Oldenburg  that  he 
might  accept  the  employment.  The  Russians  and 
Turks  were  at  war.  Sweden,  as  the  ally  of  Turkey, 
had  invaded  Finland.  Catharine  applied  to  the  king 
of  Denmark,  on  the  ground  of  some  subsisting  treaty, 
to  invade  Sweden  from  Norway.  The  king  of  Prussia 
sent  word  to  Copenhagen,  that,  as  the  ally  of  Sweden, 
he  should  in  such  case  invade  Denmark,  and  this  was 
a  formidable  threat.  Count  F.  L.  Stolberg  went  to 
Petersburg,  and,  probably  by  offering  a  subsidy  instead 
of  armed  assistance,  calmed  a  storm,  which  threatened 
the  total  dismemberment  of  the  north  of  Europe.  He 
staid  some  time  at  Petersburg,  after  his  negociation 
was  concluded,  and  returned  by  way  of  Berlin. 

In  this  metropolis,  at  the  house  of  the  Sardinian 
ambassador,  he  became  acquainted  with  a  catholic  lady, 
the  countess  Sofia  of  Redern,  who  was  sister  to  the 
ambassadors  wife,  and  the  attachment  became  so 
strong  that  a  marriage  was  the  consequence,  which 
was  solemnized  on  the  15th  of  February,  1790. 

Frederic  Leopold  had  always  wished  to  visit  Italy : 
and,  shortly  after  his  second  marriage,  he  undertook 
to  travel  over  that  classical  region,  accompanied  by  his 
bride,  by  his  son  of  the  first  bed,  and  by  the  lad's 
tutor,  Mr.  Nicolovius.  The  history  of  this  tour  was 
published  in  four  octavo  volumes  adorned  with  engrav- 
ings, during  the  year  1794.^  It  details  a  journey  up 
the  Rhine,  through  Switzerland  to  Turin,  Geneva,  and 
Pavia ;  next  to  Florence,  Rome,  Naples,  Salerno,  and 
Sicily;  which  iland  is  examined  with  peculiar  care, 
and  its  history  learnedly  illustrated.  The  count  re- 
turns through  Ancona,  Bologna,  and  Venice,  into 
Germany,  loiters  at  Vienna,  and  vanishes  in  Saxony : 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  101 

the  picture-galleries  of  Diisseldorf  and  Uresden  foriHT 
ing  his  boundary-pillars. 

This  peregrination  was  completed  between  July 
1791  and  December  1792:  the  peculiar  feature  of  the 
narrative  is  an  uniform  endeavour  to  employ  the 
reader's  attention  on  objects  of  agreeable  contempla- 
tion. Of  men,  the  writer  mentions  only  the  distin- 
guished, the  wise,  and  the  good;  of  governments,  he 
analyzes  only  the  free ;  in  works  of  nature  and  of  art, 
his  select  notice  is  confined  to  the  sublime  and  the 
beautiful.  Objects  the  most  habituated  to  ridicule  rise 
hallowed  from  his  embellishing  touch  :  even  the  lique- 
&ction  of  saint  January's  blood  i^  mentioned  with  re-: 
spectful  scepticism;  and  the  pilgrim's  ladder  in  the 
Lateran  is  converted,  by  his  learned  inquiries,  into  a 
relique  dear  to  the  votaries  of  freedom.  By  this  poet- 
ical contrivance,  Italy  is  here  idealized  into  a  terresi 
trial  paradise ;  where  the  author,  like  another  Anachar^ 
sis,  has  only  to  look  about  him,  and  to  praise.  His 
motto,  rdL  xaTu^  M  roTg  ofyoMg,  well  characterizes  the  objects 
of  his  fortunate  pursuit.^ 

The  more  than  candor,  thie  panegyrical  tone,  in 
which  all  the  ceremonies  of  the  catholic  church  are 
imposingly  described,  the  approbation  given  to  its 
idolatry,  and  to  that  belief  which  it  impresses  of  the 
continued  existence,  and  efficacious  intercession  of  the 
saints,  announces  a  state  of  mind  in  the  author,  which 
was  preparing  him  to  embrace  Catholicism.  With 
Avellino,  bishop  of  Bologna,  he  became  acquainted, 
and  corresponded  with  him  on  points  of  faith. 

At  the  close  of  the  fourth  volume  occur  some  episr 
ties  in  rime,  addressed  to  J.  A.  Ebert,^  and  entitled, 

^  For  a  more  detailed  account  of  these  Travels,  which  contain  perhaps  .the  best 
spedmens  of  German  prose  extant ;  see  Monthly  Review,  vol.  zviil,  p.  535. 
7  Concerning  J.  A.  Ebert,  see  vol.  I,  p.  231. 


102  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

HesperideSj  which  are  three  in  number^  and  agreeably 
condense  in  allegoric  forms  the  general  impression 
made  on  the  poet  by  his  Italian  excursion.  The  third 
Hesperide  is  the  best. 

After  his  return  from  Italy,  Frederic  Leopold  came 
to  his  residence  at  Eutin,  and  was  intrusted  by  the 
prince-bishop  of  Lubeck  with  the  prime-ministry  of 
that  little  ecclesiastic  principality.  His  pubHc  cares 
however  did  not  interrupt  his  literary  pursuits^  and  he 
translated  the  Dialogues  of  Plato,  to  which  he  attach- 
ed anti-jacobin  notes ;  having  from  a  friend  to  the 
principles  of  the  French  revolution,  become  its  adver- 
sary, in  consequence  of  the  atrocious  scenes  which 
occurred  under  the  government,  or  anarchy,  of  the 
Convention  and  the  Directory. 

On  the  death  of  the  Russian  empress  Catharine  11^ 
in  1797,  he  was  deputed  by  his  sovereign  to  Peters- 
burg to  congratulate  the  new  emperor  Paul  on  his 
accession,  and  was  in  consequence  decorated  with  the 
order  of  St.  Alexander  Newski.  He  was  preparing  to 
follow  the  court  to  Moscow,  when  he  was  attacked 
with  fever.  An  English  physician,  Dr.  Robertson,  at- 
tended him ;  and  so  far  reestablished  his  health,  as  to 
enable  him  to  set  off  for  the  baths  at  Carlsbad,  where 
his  recovery  was  in  great  measure  completed. 

A  something  of  languor  however  remained  behind, 
which  indisposed  him  to  active  employment,  without 
at  all  impairing  his  passion  for  study,  and  for  seden- 
tary composition.  In  1600  he  resigned  all  his  official 
situations,  took  a  house  in  the  old*fashioned  city  of 
Miinster,  declared  himself  a  convert  to  Catholicism, 
and  was  formally  admitted  to  the  communion  of  the 
Romish  church.  Except  the  eldest  daughter  by  the 
first  bed,  all  his  family  declared  their  adhesion  to  this 


L 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  IQQ 

new  religion  of  their  father ;  the  eldest  son,  perhaps 
from  indifference,  the  children  by  the  second  bed  from 
the  influence  of  maternal  education.  He  had  in  all 
fifteen  children,  of  whom  thirteen  survived  him. 

This  conversion  was  much  censured  in  Germany, 
especially  by  Voss,  but  surely  without  reason.  If  the 
usual  march  of  conviction  be  from  believing  more  to 
believing  less ;  yet  apostacy,  from  whatever  to  what- 
ever creed,  is  always  so  far  a  merit,  that  it  implies  in- 
quiry, and  the  exercise  of  private  judgement:  and  when 
it  enables  a  family  to  walk  together  to  the  house  of 
God,  and  to  foster  the  hope  of  a  reunion  on  high,  even 
if  this  world  should  sever  the  fond  ties  of  their  rela- 
tionship, it  almost  acquires  the  character  of  a  duty  of 
the  heart. 

On  the  continent  of  Europe,  the  gentleman,  and 
Frederic  Leopold  was  emphatically  so,  is  seldom 
brought  up  with  much  solicitude  for  any  positive  doc- 
trine ;  he  is  taught  to  be  a  liberalist,  because  it  is  felt 
that  the  statesman  ought  not  to  be  afraid  of  the  priest: 
and  a  point  of  honor  is  substituted  to  interior  convic- 
tion, as  a  security  for  the  expedient  choice  of  faith. 
Among  the  catholics,  the  moralist  insists  on  the  duty 
of  conforming  to  the  religion  of  one's  ancestors ; 
among  the  protestants,  on  the  duty  of  conforming  to 
the  religion  of  the  magistrate ;  but  Frederic  Leopold 
seems  to  have  invented  a  new  point  of  honor,  and  a 
most  rational  one,  the  duty  of  conforming  to  the  reli- 
gion of  one's  father-in-law. 

A  young  man  is  the  happier  while  single,  for  being 
unincumbered  with  religious  restraints ;  but,  when  the 
time  comes  for  submitting  to  matrimony,  he  will  find 
the  precedent  of  Frederic  Leopold  well  entitled  to 
consideration.     A  predisposition  to  conform  to  the 


104  HISTORIC  SURVBY 

religion  of  the  father-in-law  facilitates  advantageous 
matrimonial  connexions ;  it  produces  in  a  family  the 
desirable  harmony  of  religious  profession ;  it  secures 
the  sincere  education  of  the  daughters  in  the  faith 
of  their  mother ;  and  it  leaves  the  young  men  at  liber- 
ty to  apostatize  in  their  turn,  to  exeii:  their  right  of 
private  judgement^  and  to  choose  a  worship  for  them- 
selves. Religion,  if  a  blemish  in  the  male,  is  surely 
a  grace  in  the  female  sex ;  courage  of  mind  may  tend 
to  acknowledge  nothing  above  itself;  but  timidity  is 
ever  disposed  to  look  upwards  for  protection^  for  con- 
solation, and  for  happiness. 

The  ecclesiastic  reasons  for  conversion  are  often  but 
the  exoteric  grounds  of  conduct ;  these  however  were 
paraded  at  great  length  by  Frederic  Leopold,  in  a 
History  of  the  Christian  Religion,  which  began  to 
appear  at  Hamburg  in  1806,  and  was  progressively 
extended  to  fifteen  volumes  octavo.  It  was  reprinted 
entire  at  Vienna  in  1816.  It  has  since  been  translated 
into  Italian  at  the  expense  of  the  papal  see,  and  issued 
from  the  printing-press  of  the  Vatican.  It  brings 
down  the  history  of  the  church  only  to  the  year  430; 
but  the  argument  is  so  strongly  put,  that  the  duke  of 
Meklenberg  was  converted  by  it,  and  has  since  em- 
braced Catholicism. 

A  pamphlet  concerning  Lessing,  another  on  the  Spi- 
rit of  the  Age,  a  dissertation  on  Christian  Charity, 
and  some  other  pious  tracts,  amused  the  leisure  of 
Frederic  Leopold's  latter  days.  Be  it  also  observed 
that  he  translated  Ossian  ;  but  I  have  not  the  means 
of  dating  that  exertion.  He  died  on  the  6th  of  De- 
cember 1819,  with  a  calm  confidence  in  the  divine 
mercy. 


OF  GERMAN  POBTRY.  105 


§6. 

Kreisehmann — Schubart--Jacobi — Pfeffel-—  Boie —  Gockingk 
— MiUer — Schlegel —  Matthison — Milesian  Tale — Neu- 
heck — Poetesses* 

Charles  Frederic  Kretschmann^  born  in  1738  at 
Zittan,  in  Lusatia^  published  in  1764  a  collection  of 
lyric  and  epigrammatic  poems,  and  in  1768,  Songs  of 
RMngulph  the  Bard,  which,  in  the  manner  of  Klop- 
Btock,  imitated  the  supposed  primaeval  poetry  of  the 
forefathers  of  the  country.  This  volume  had  tempo- 
rary success ;  but  is  now  forgotten :  fables  and  allego  - 
ries  succeeded,  and  also  expired. 


In  the  catalogue  of  royal  and  noble  authors  occur 
several,  who  have  not  owed  but  lent  celebrity  to  their 
writings,  in  consequence  of  the  conspicuous  situation 
they  occupied.  Though  of  humble  origin.  Christian 
Frederic  Daniel  Schubart  belongs  to  this  class.  Born 
in  1739  he  attempted  in  1767  to  draw  attention  by  a 
volome  of  Death-Songs,  which  aim  at  an  energy  of 
diction,  and  a  boldness  of  metaphor,  bordering  on  rant. 
Having  displeased  the  Austrian  government,  he  was 
imprisoned  by  the  duke  of  Wtirteuiberg  for  ten  years 
in  the  fortress  of  Hohen-Asperg ;  and  there  wrote 
Poems  of  a  Prisoner,  which  were  edited  by  a  friend 
in  1785,  and  were  eagerly  read.   After  his  release,  the 


106  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

interest  excited  by  his  misfortunes  no  longer  accona 
panied  his  pen ;  and  his  autobiography  is  at  presen 
more  consulted  than  his  poetry^  which  was  edited  b 
his  son  in  1802. 


John  George  Jacobin  born  at  Diisseldorf,  in  174fl 
was  sent  to  college  at  Gottingen,  and,  like  his  fellow 
student  Gotter,  formed  his  taste  on  French  models 
and  imitated  the  lighter  poets  of  that  nation,  in  hi 
songs  and  lyric  efiusions.  I  do  not  willingly  borroin 
the  translations  of  others,  but,  not  possessing  Jacobi*/ 
poems,  I  transcribe  one  of  them,  nearly  as  rendered 
in  the  Specimens  of  German  Lyric  Poetry y  p.  48. 


ELEGY. 


I. 


Tell  me  where  's  the  violet  fled. 

Late  so  gayly  blowing ; 
Springing  under  Flora's  tread, 

Choicest  sweets  bestowing. 
Swain,  the  vernal  scene  is  o'er, 
And  the  violet  blooms  no  more ! 

IL 

Say,  where  hides  the  blushing  rose. 
Pride  of  fragrant  morning; 

Garland  meet  for  Beauty's  brows ; 
Hill  and  dale  adorning. 

Swain,  alas,  the  summer  's  fled, 

And  the  hapless  rose  is  dead ! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  107 

m. 

Bear  me  then  to  yonder  riW, 

Late  so  freely  flowing, 
Wat'ring  many  a  daffodil 

On  its  margin  glowing. 
Sun  and  wind  exhaust  its  store ; 
Yonder  rivulet  glides  no  more  I 

IV. 

Lead  me  to  the  bow'ry  shade. 

Late  with  roses  flaunting ; 
Lov'd  resort  of  youth  and  maid. 

Amorous  ditties  chaunting.  • 

Hail  and  storm  with  fury  show'r ; 
Leafless  mourns  the  rifled  bow'r ! 

V. 

Where  's  the  silver-footed  maid, 

With  curling  flaxen  tresses ; 
Oft  I  've  met  her  in  the  glade. 

Gathering  water-cresses  ? 
Swain,  how  short  is  Beauty's  bloom ! 
Seek  her  in  the  grassy  tomb. 

VI. 

Whither  roves  the  tuneful  swain. 

Who,  of  rural  pleasures  ; 
Rose  and  violet,  rill  and  plain, 

Sung  in  deftest  measures  ? 
Swift  Life's  fairest  vision  flies. 
Death  has  closed  the  Poet's  eyes ! 

Through  the  patronage  of  the  emperor  Joseph  II, 
Jacobi  became  in  1784  professor  of  fine  literature  in 
the  university  of  Freiburg^  and  died  in  1813. 


108  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Gottlieb  Conrad  Pfeffel  was  born  in  1736  at  Colmj 
in  Alsace,  and  lost  his  sight  at  the  age  of  twenty-oni 
The  first  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1761  ;  ai 
contains  good  epistles.  He  wrote  a  tragedy  *^  Tl 
Hermit/'  and  translated  several  plays  from  the  Frencl 
Notwithstanding  his  blindness,  he  maintained  bimse] 
as  a  schoolmaster,  and  died  in  1809. 


Heinrich  Christian  Boie  of  Holstein  was  born  io 
1744,  was  sent  to  Gottingen  as  a  law- student,  and 
passed  first  into  the  service  of  the  Hanoverian  after- 
wards into  that  of  the  Danish  government.  The 
eldest  of  the  Gottingen  friends,  and  a  generoas  patron 
to  all  who  needed  his  assistance,  his  indirect  services 
to  literature  merit  gratitude,  although  he  never  col- 
lected his  contributions  to  the  Almanac  of  the  Muses, 
which,  in  concert  with  Gotter,  he  had  founded.  He 
died  in  1806. 


Leopold  Frederic  Giinther  von  Gockingk  was  of 
noble  descent,  and  born  in  1748,  at  Griiningen,  in  the 
Prussian  province  of  Halberstadt.  He  studied  at  Got- 
tingen, frequented  Burger's  set,  produced  two  volumes 
of  poems,  which  appeared  in  1780  and  1782,  in  which 
are  most  remarked  Epistles^  rimed  with  ease  and  grace, 
which  have  a  national  and  moral  turn,  and  Songs  of 
two  LoverSy  which  display  tenderness  and  talent.  In 
1793  Gockingk  attained  the  office  of  counsellor  of 
finance  at  Berlin. 


John  Martin  Miller  was  born  on  the  2nd  of  De* 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  109 

mber^  1750,  at  Ulm^  where  his  father  was  professor 
f  the  oriental  languages  at  the  Gymnasium :  in  which 
stitntion  he  received  the  requisite  elementary  in- 
ruction,  previously  to  his  being  sent  to  Gottingen 
m  1770.  He  frequented  Burger's  friends  ;  and  wrote 
degies,  ballads^  and  lyric  poems,  which  had  both 
merit  and  popularity.  A  novel  entitled  Siegwart  und 
Mariamne,  which  displays,  perhaps,  a  superfine  sensi- 
bility, had  an  astonishing  success,  and  was  twice  trans- 
lated into  French :  he  also  wrote  Carl  von  Burgheim^ 
qr  the  correspondence  of  three  college-friends.  After 
staying  five  years  at  the  university,  as  a  theological 
student,  he  took  priest's  orders,  and  returned  to  his 
native  city,  where  he  obtained  a  pastoral  office,  and 
became  greek  professor  at  the  Gymnasium.  Pious 
land  principled,  he  was  much  esteemed ;  and  in  1810 
iwas  appointed  by  the  king  of  Wiirtemberg  consis- 
torial  counsellor:  he  died  in  June  1814. 


It  may  seem  hardly  regular  to  notice  the  living ;  and 
yet,  in  the  case  of  Gothe,  it  must  be  done,  and  at  con- 
siderable length :  why  then  omit  Augustus  William 
Schlegel^  who,  if  more  celebrated  as  a  critic  than  a 
poet,  yet  studied  at  Gottingen  in  Burger's  time,  and 
distinguished  himself  by  promoting  a  taste  for  the  dif- 
ficalt  form  of  the  Italian  sonnet.  In  1790  he  published 
a  collection  of  German  sonnets,  in  which  there  are 
original  samples  of  his  own :  here  is  a  loose  imita- 
tion of  one  of  them,  derived  from  vague  recollection. 

You  bite  your  nails,  and  say  't  is  very  hard 
To  range  your  rimings  as  befits  a  sonnet, 

And  seem  to  think  that  no  unpractis'd  bard 
Should  dare  essay  his  doubtful  hand  upon  it. 


110  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

I  'II  bet  you^  and  consent  to  disregard 
All  thread^bare  topics — aye  to  choose  A  Bonnet, 

I  write  one  in  seven  minutes  on  this  card. — 

Prepare  your  cash,  you  hear  I  've  almost  won  it. 

« 

Hail,  more  than  diadem,  tiara,  crown, 

Mitre,  or  scarlet  hat,  or  helmet  gray ! 
By  them  the  masters  of  mankind  are  known, 

'  Whom  coward  fear,  or  superstition,  throne ; 
By  thee,  the  tulers,  whom  we  choose  to*  obey. 
Whom  Nature,  Beauty,  Pleasure,  call  to  sway. 

Schlegers  Lectures  on  the  Drama  were  much  at" 
tended ;  and  his  critical  works,  which  appeared  at  Ber« 
lin  in  1828,  are  highly  esteemed. 


Frederic  Matthison  was  bom  in  1761^  at  Hohen- 
dadeleben,  near  Magdeburg,  and  was  educated  at 
Klosterberg ;  whence  he  was  removed  to  Halle,  as  a 
student  of  theology.  After  leaving  this  university  he 
was  employed  as  a  teacher  in  the  philanthropic  col- 
lege at  Dessau;  but  that  institution  having  become 
somewhat  obnoxious  from  the  Socinian  character 
of  the  lectures,  he  separated  from  it,  and  accepted 
the  situation  of  tutor  to  some  young  Livonians,  with 
whom,  awhile  he  resided  at  Heidelburg,  and  after- 
wards travelled  up  the  Rhine,  through  Lyons,  Geneva, 
and  Switzerland,  into  the  South  of  France.  Of  this 
tour  an  account  was  published  in  a  series  of  letters, 
which  fill  two  volumes. 

In  1 794  the  title  of  Aulic  counsellor  was  conferred 
on  Matthison,  in  consequence  of  the  great  popularity 
of  his  poems,  which  had  appeared  in  1791 :  to  the  prince 
of  Hesse  Homberg  he  was  indebted  for  this  distinc- 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  1 1 1 


Ition :  it  introduced  him  to  the  notice  of  the  princess 
«>f  Anhalt  Dessau^  whom  he  accompanied  in  her  tra- 
vels over  Italy,  as  a  sort  of  Cicerone :  and  after  his 
ifetam  he  established  himself  at  Worlitz  near  Dessau. 

The  margrave  of  Baden  appointed  him  counsellor 
of  legation  in  1801,  and  ennobled  him :  so  that  his 
latter  days  were  passed  in  elevated  society. 

Among  the  poems  of  Matthison  may  be  remarked 
a  descriptive  sketch  of  the  lake  of  Geneva,  elegantly 
englished  by  Miss  Plumtre,  an  elegy  on  the  Ruins  of 
a  mountain-castle,  a  Milesian  Tale,  some  fairy-songs, 
the  Warning,  translated  in  the  Specimens  of  German 
lyric  PoetSj  p.  62,  and  several  Inscriptions  for  the 
scenes  and  monuments,  which  struck  the  accomplished 
author  in  his  various  wanderings :  a  sensibility  to  the 
beauties  of  landscape  is  a  marking  feature  in  his  pro- 
ductions. Exquisite  polish  of  style,  and  melody  of 
metre,  fit  these  poems  for  the  eye  and  ear  of  refine- 
ment :  but  force  of  thought,  or  originality  of  idea, 
seldom  stamp  them  with  the  seal  of  immortality. 

The  Milesian  Tale  follows. 

Now,  a  Milesian  tale,  my  Adonida ! 

Beneath  unfading  laurels'  sacred  shade 

A  temple  glitters  from  the  sea-washt  cape 

Majestic  in  its  ruin ;  and  afar, 

But  within  ken,  an  iland,  blest  by  Pan, 

Lifts  through  the  wave  its  green  and  hilly  breast. 

Oft,  at  the  moonlight  hour,  a  bark  was  seen 

To  quit  the  shadowy  precincts  of  the  isle. 

And  waft  a  lonely  rower  to  the  bay. 

Whence  winds  through  myrtle  groves  a  stony  path 

Up  to  the  roseate  gardens  of  the  temple. 

Where  stands  a  marble  groop  of  sculptured  Grraces. 


112  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Then  on  the  pedestal  a  priestess  sat. 
Fair  as  the  lifeless  statues  that  she  leaned  on. 
Watching  with  eye  and  ear  the  dashing  oar^ 
Praying  the  goddesses,  whose  feet  she  clasp'd^ 
To  waft  her  Kallias  safely  o'er  the  main. 

And  presently  he  lands,  he  climbs  the  rock. 
And  sinks  enraptured  at  Glycera's  feet : 
A  lovely  youth,  such  as  Endymion  seem'd 
In  more  than  mortal  eyes.    The  moon-beams  play*d 
Bright  on  his  beauteous  form ;  the  nightingale. 
As  if  by  the  fair  Lesbian's  song  inspired, 
Warbled  of  love;  and  o'er  the  happy  pair 
The  son  of  Aphrodite  flung  her  veil. 

The  violets  bloom'd  and  faded ;  by  the  brook 
Roses  supplanted  them ;  then  Ceres  spread 
Her  whitening  sheaves  upon  the  golden  fields ; 
And  still  the  bark  was  seen  to  come  and  go. 

Blest  as  the  immortal  tenants  of  Olympus, 
This  happy  couple  quaffed  the  nectar,  joy ; 
The  past,  the  future,  in  the  present  lost. 

Not  brighter  stream  the  waves  of  Arethusa, 
Rippling  beneath  the  roseate  light  of  dawn. 
Than  glide  the  hours  of  love;  but  ah!  they  fly. 
Like  arrows  darted  from  the  bow  of  Phcebus, 
Swiftly  afar,  and  vanish.    An  olympiad 
Seems  but  a  summer's  day,  spent  in  the  grove 
Holy  to  Bacchus,  where,  with  song  and  flute. 
Youths,  brandishing  the  ivy-circled  thyrsus. 
Provoke  the  nymphs  to  dance,  and  drink,  and  love. 

An  old  magician,  Agerochos,  saw 
The  handsome  priestess ;  and  his  iron  heart 
Glow'd  with  the  phrenzy  of  a  wild  desire. 
But  she  with  scoffs  receiv'd  his  wanton  flame. 
As  Galatea  when  the  Cyclops  wooed. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  113 

Her  thoughts  were  centred  on  the  sea-girt  isle^ 
Whence  starts,  at  sunset,  for  the  nook  below 
The  boat  which  Kallias  moves  with  sparkling  oar. 
Tritons  and  Nereids  often  play  around  it, 
And  sea-born  radiance  gilds  its  glittering  path. 

One  day — 't  was  Aphrodite's  festival, 

The  priestess,  rob*d  in  white,  approach'd  the  altar, 

Her  hair  was  garlanded,  and  in  her  hand 

She  wav'd  the  silver  censer,  when  on  high, 

Above  the  curling  smoak-cloud,  she  beheld 

In  words  of  fire  this  threatening  oracle. 

"  Fair  priestess,  heed  the  love  of  Agerochos* 

He,  since  Deucalion's  flood,  has  held  the  sceptre, 

Which  sways  the  daemons  of  the  elements. 

Which  veils  in  raven-darkness  the  moon's  disk. 

Arrests  the  cataract  in  its  headlong  course, 

Bids^  palaces,  like  exhalations,  rise. 

Calls  from  their  urns  the  spirits  of  the  dead. 

And  changes  human  forms  to  bush,  or  tree, 

Or  scaly  monster  of  the  watery  deep. 

Or  fen-fires  wand'ring  at  the  cavern's  mouth. 

Beware — and  heed  the  love  of  Agerochos." 

But  she,  in  Aphrodite's  shelter  trusting, 
Plac'd  on  the  temple-wall  a  waxen  tablet, 
Which  thus  repell'd  the  suitor's  vain  address. 

"  When  fig-trees  bear  the  golden  fruit  that  ripens 
In  the  Hesperian  gardens,  when  the  pard 
Sports  with  the  dolphin  in  the  azure  sea. 
When  iStna's  fire  shall  join  Caucasian  ice, 
Glycera  first  shall  follow  Hymen's  torch 
That  marshals  to  the  couch  of  Agerochos." 

Dark  was  the  anger  of  the  potent  wizard. 
One  night,  while  Kallias  on  Glycera's  bosom 
Lay  in  the  tepid  moonshine — thunders  roll'd 

VOL.  H.  I 


1 14  HISTORIC  SURVET 

And  echoed  from  the  cavern'd  cliffs  around, 
Black  clouds  eclipsed  the  moon,  amid  the  boughs 
E'en  of  the  sacred  laurels  lightnings  filash'd, 
And,  through  the  enkindling  forest's  walls  of  flame, 
A  car,  by  dragons  drawn,  came  rolling  on. 

Paler  than  marble  of  Pentelicus 
Glycera  and  the  youth  embrac'd  each  other; 
For  in  the  car  they  saw  the  dragon-guider 
Was  the  offended  wizard,  Agerochos. 
Soon  as  he  view'd  the  happy  rival  youth, 
Like  young  Adonis  clasp'd  by  Aphrodite, 
Girt  in  the  swanny  arms  of  fair  Glycera, 
He  touch'd  them  with  the  sceptre  of  revenge. 

Dark  were  the  stars,  and  red  with  lurid  light 

The  roaring  waves  below,  while  lightnings  quiver'd. 

And  crashing  thunders  told  their  fatal  doom. 

But  when  the  storm  abated,  were  not  seen 
The  loving  pair — their  place  of  rest  was  blasted ; 
And  two  green  myrtles  sprouted  from  their  tomb. 
Beside  the  marble  statues  of  the  Graces. 

Love  hallows  still  their  intermingling  boughs ; 
And  oft  the  nightingale  will  perch  upon', them. 
And  tell  to  twilight  how  they  lov'd  and  perish'd. 

A  priest  of  Ephesus,  who  told  me  this, 
Saw,  when  a  boy,  the  temple's  lingering  ruin. 
And  the  calm  nook  that  moor  d  the  boat  of  Kallias. 


Valerius  William  Neubeck  was  born  in  1763,  at 
Armstadt,  in  Thiiringen,  was  brought  up  to  the  me- 
dical profession,  and  ultimately  settled  as  a  physician 
at  Sleiiiau,  in  Silesia.     He  translated,  into  German, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  115 

Dr.  Sayers's  Dramatic  Sketches  of  Northern  Mytho- 
logj/y  pablished  two  volumes  of  miscellaneous  poems 
ID  1792  and  1795,  and  in  1798  a  didactic  poem  en- 
titled the  Health-wells,  or  Gesund-brunnen. 

Neubeck's  verses  are  favourable  specimens  of  the 
average  poetry  of  the  Germans :  they  are  infinitely 
varied  as  to  form  and  matter;  and  they  are  mostly 
elegant  and  short.  Those  of  the  latter  description  are 
addressed  to  the  zephyr^  to  the  apple-blossom,  to  the 
evening-cloud,  to  the  nightingale,  to  sympathy,  to 
Lina,  &c.  Among  the  loftier  odes,  that  to  the  north- 
ern light  distinguishes  itself  advantageously.  Among 
the  ballads  from  the  English,  W.  J.  Mickle*s  Hengist 
is  most  worthy  of  praise.  The  elegiac  poetry  is  per- 
haps penned  with  the  more  feeling,  and  polished  with 
the  more  perseverance;  Morven,  and  the  ruined  hall 
of  Ossian,  produce  an  emotion  very  like  the  Songs  of 
Selma. 

The  most  extensive  of  these  poems  is  entitled  the 
Health-wells,  a  name  by  which  mineral  springs  are 
designated  in  the  German  tongue.  The  fable  may  be 
deduced  from  the  fourth  book  of  Virgil's  Georgics, 
where  the  bee-master,  Aristaeus,  is  admitted  into  the 
cave  of  the  Nymphs,  and  initiated  into  the  wonders 
of  the  subterranean  world. 

This  poet  in  like  manner  supposes  himself  received 
by  the  Naiad  of  the  Gera  into  her  grotto.  He  is  led 
to  the  iron  cisterns  of  the  chalybeate  rills ;  to  the 
volcanic  caverns  and  lava-lakes,  in  which  the  sulphu- 
reous waters  are  impregnated  with  caloric  and  vitriolic 
ingredients ;  and  to  the  glittering  crystalline  chasms, 
whence  the  salt  streams  are  distilled.  The  celebrated 
Thermopylae  of  the  antient  and  modern  world  are 
sung :  those  of  Jud^a,  of  Greece,  of  Italy,  of  Eng- 

1% 


116  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

land,  and  of  bis  own  country.  The  diseases  which 
require  this  remedy  are  enumerated,  and  the  rites 
which  Hygeia  has  prescribed  for  their  exorcism  ;  the 
draft,  the  bath,  aad  the  mixture  of  mellow  hock  with 
the  sparkling  aerated  waters.  Exercise,  dancings  the 
social  pleasures,  and  the  dangers  of  dissipation  are 
described;  and  the  melancholy  story  of  Theone  ter- 
minates these  didactic  hexameters. 

Some  original  letters  of  Dr.  Neubeck  are  preserved 
in  the  Biographic  Memoir  prefixed  to  Dr.  Sayers's 
Poetical  Warhs^  published  by  S.  Wilkin,  Nor wich^  in 
1828. 


Among  the  poetesses,  who  adorned  this  period  of 
German  literature,  may  be  enumerated  Die  Karscfainn, 
a  self-taught  artist,  the  daughter  of  a  publican,  atid  the 
wife  of  a  linen- weaver,  who  was  born  in  1722^  and 
who  published  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  which 
drew  attention  in  the  highest  circles,  and  procured  to 
her  for  a  time  genteel  introductions  at  Berlin.  These 
poems,  like  the  straws  and  flies  imbedded  in  amber, 
were  ciirious  rather  than  precious : 

The  things  themselves  are  neither  rich  nor  rare ; 
One  wonders  how  the  devil  they  came  there. 

More  celebrated  were  Sofia  Albert,  an  actress  as 
well  as  an  authoress,  born  at  Erfent ;  Eliza  von  der 
Recke ;  Emilia  von  Berlepsch  of  Gotha,  afterwards 
Harmes,  who  visited  Scotland  and  published  her 
tour  under  the  title  Caledonia;  and  Sofia  Brentano, 
who  edited  the  last  of  the  Gixttingen  Almanacs  of 
the  Muses,  and  was  allied  surely  to  the  Wieland 
family.    But  all  these  ladies  rather  resembled  those 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY,  117 

short-lived  flowers,  which  variegate  and  perfume  the 
garden-walks,  than  those  perennial  shrubs  and  trees^ 
which  encircle  and  overarch  the  alleys  of  the  orchard. 


118  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


§6. 


Literary  imposture — Forged  Sequel  to  Nathan  the  Wise — 
The  Monk  ofLibanon — Pf ranger  criticized. 

Literary  imposture  has  been  so  common  in  all  ages 
and  countries  of  the  world,  that  even  the  oldest  re- 
cords of  the  human  race,  and  the  most  valued  sources 
of  public  instruction,  include  instances  of  it.  The 
Jewish  scriptures  contain  a  Pseudo-Daniel  (see  Annual 
Review^  vol.  iv,  p.  119);  the  christian  scriptures  a 
Pseudo-Johannes  (see  Monthly  Magazine,  vol.  x,  p. 
407) ;  and  other  fragments  are  of  questionable  genu- 
ineness. 

In  European  Greece  similar  phaenomena  occur. 
The  poems  attributed  to  Homer  (see  p.  76)  are  pro- 
bably pseudonymous.  Among  the  tragedies  ascribed 
to  Euripides,  several  may  safely  be  regarded  as  the 
compositions  of  some  other  poet.  If  the  Hecuba  has 
every  internal  evidence  of  authenticity,  the  Trojan 
Dames,  which  dramatizes  the  same  theme,  and  gives 
a  different  locality  to  the  sacrifice  of  Polyxena,  can- 
not have  emanated  from  the  same  mind  (see  Monthly 
Review,  vol.  Ixxxi,  p.  121);  for  an  author  is  consist- 
ent even  in  his  fictions.  The  epistles  of  Phalaris, 
wherever  they  originated,  are  now  acknowledged  to 
be  spurious. 

At  Alexandria  in  Egypt,  the  mass  of  forgery,  exe- 
cuted in  the  names  of  the  European  greeks,  was  im- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  119 

mense.  When  the  professors  at  the  Serapeuin  in- 
vented a  new  and  cheaper  method  of  mahiplying 
manuscripts^  by  dictating  the  original  text,  line  by 
line,  to  seventy®  copyists  at  once ;  they  began  to  im- 
port at  any  price  from  Athens,  and  elsewhere,  the  best 
manoscripts  of  the  European  greek  classics,  and  al- 
most always  added  to  their  improved  editions  some 
suppositions  pieces,  which  claimed  to  be  written  by 
the  original  author.  Thus  they  contrived  to  sell  their 
own  fresh  manuscripts,  not  only  at  a  lower  rate,  but 
as  more  comprehensive  and  complete.  To  Homer's 
works  was  added  the  Batrachomyomachia,  which 
Scboll  ascribes  to  Pigres  of  Caria ;  to  Herodotus  was 
appended  a  life  of  Homer ;  to  Plato,  the  Timaeus ;  to 
Anacreon,  an  ode  to  the  rose,  and  others*  Hymns 
were  forged  in  the  name  of  Orpheus,  and  letters  of 
galantry  in  those  of  courtezans. 

Roman  literature  is  not  without  similar  instances. 
The  ^tna,  which  claims  to  be  a  poem  of  Virgil,  is 
by  some  authorities  ascribed  to  Cornelius  Severus. 
Among  Cicero's  correspondence,  there  are  letters 
of  doubtful  authority.  The  existence  of  Seneca  the 
tragedian  has  been  disputed :  and  it  is  thought  that 
the  plays  hearing  his  name  are  but  translations  from 
the  greek  by  various  hands.  A  spurious  set  of  epistles 
between  Seneca  the  philosopher  and  Saint  Paul,  once 
circulated  in  the  religious  world. 

All  the  modern  literatures  abound  with  pseudony- 
mous works ;  but  these  are  hardly  to  be  classed  among 
forgeries.  So  in  Italian,  II  Ricciardetto  appeared  un- 
der the  fictitious  name  of  Carteromacho.     Three  of 


8  From  the  letter  of  Aristeas  to  Philocrates,  it  may  be  conjectured,  that  this  me- 
thod of  transcription  was  first  applied  to  the  greek  version  of  the  Jewisli  Scriptures, 
hence  called  the  Septuagint. 


120  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  most  celebrated  French  writers  acquired  their  en- 
during reputations  under  assumed  names,  Moli^re, 
Voltaire,  and  Volney. 

The  more  conspicuous  forgeries  in^  our  domestic 
literature,  are  the  poems  attributed  to  Ossian,  by  Mac- 
pherson;  the  poems  attributed  to  Rowley,  by  Chatter- 
ton  ;  and  the  plays  attributed  to  Shakspeare,  by  Ire- 
land. 

Closely  akin  in  its  character  to  this  last  instance  of 
short-lived  deception,  is  the  forged  sequel  to  Nathan 
the  Wise,  which  soon  after  the  death  of  Lessing^ 
namely  in  1782,  made  its  appearance  at  Dessau,  under 
the  title  of  the  Monk  of  Libanon.  It  was  intended 
to  pass  for  a  sort  of  death-bed  recantation  of  the  poet, 
a  final  reconciliation  of  the  philosopher  to  Christianity* 
The  same  characters  reappear  on  the  stage;  with  the 
addition  of  a  brother  to  Saladin,  who  was  supposed  to 
have  been  killed  in  battle,  but  who  has  recovered 
from  his  wounds,  has  embraced  the  christian  religion, 
and  exhibits  in  the  most  trying  circumstances  the  sub- 
limest  beauties  of  the  christian  character,  A  heart- 
felt piety,  a  pure  philanthropy,  a  restless  beneficence, 
a  calm  resignation  under  afflictions  and  calumnies  the 
most  mortifying,  a  dignity  reposing  on  a  clear  con- 
science and  a  full  faith  in  the  God  of  retribution,  dis- 
tinguish the  excellent  Monk  of  Libanon,  and  place 
him  in  the  eyes  of  the  religious  world  above  the  phi<^ 
losophic  Nathan. 

As  the  whole  poem  has  much  merit  as  a  didactic 
drama,  much  merit  as  a  close  imiitation  of  the  manner 
of  Lessing  ;  and  as  it  is  but  equitable  to  contrast  the 
arguments  of  the  christian  schools  with  those  already 
borrowed  from  the  philosophic,  I  translate  the  poem 
entire.  Of  its  reception  and  of  its  author,  more  shall 
be  said  at  the  close  of  the  document. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  121 


Ci)e  i^otiii  o!  iMwm. 


A  SEQUEL  TO  NATHAN  THE  WISE. 


To/*;  Xo/^0%  ev  ira^a^oXotTg. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY. 

Saladin,  the  sultan.  Sittah,  his  sister.  Nathan,  a  rich  jew. 
The  Monk  of  Libanon.  A  Templar  and  Recha,  children  of 
Saladin's  brother.  Iezid,  an  imam.  Abdallah,  Osman,  and 
other  mamalukes,  ^. 

The  Scsnb  is  at  Damascus. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE.— The  Sick-room  of  Saladin. 

SALADIJ/  and  SITTAH. 

Soon  will  the  game  be  at  an  end,  my  sister, 
I  feel  check  upon  check — next  comes  check-mate. 
Death  's  a  keen  player^  Sittah,  knows  his  moves — 
But  do  not  weep — 

Sit.  My  brother — 

Sal.  What  of  this? 
Of  all  the  games  that  we  have  play'd  together, 
Have  we  left  one  unfinished  :  and  shall  death  ? 

Sit.  Not  that  indeed :  but  ofk  a  single  move 
Will  alter  a  whole  plan,  and  give  the  weaker 


122  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  upperband^    This  happens  now  perhaps : 
Thy  cheerfulness  may  be  this  lucky  movement. 

Sal.  I  doubt  it  much. 

Sit.  The  body  has  gain'd  greatly, 
When  the  mind  grows  more  sprightly.     The  connection 
Between  them  is  by  far  too  close  for  either 
Not  to  obey  the  other's  influence. 

Sal.  Yes,  while  the  strings  are  good,  my  dearest  Sittab. 
Happy  the  man  whom  nature  has  endow'd 
With  a  light  heart ;  for  every  thing  to  him 
Wears  smiles,  whenever  he  is  roving  thro* 
The  walks  of  God's  fair  garden.     Voice  and  words 
And  speech  and  gesture  catch  the  gay  impression ; 
And  e'en  on  death  he  gazes  with  a  smile^ 
Tho'  joy  be  not  the  inmate  of  his  soul. 
It  was  the  tongue,  my  Sittab,  not  the  heart. 

Sit.  And  thus  my  brother  from  his  hapless  Sittah 
Tears  the  last  ling'ring  ray  of  hope,  and  feels  not 
How  deep  the  poignard  searches  thro'  her  bosom. 
As  yet  thy  age  is  not  mature  for  death  ; 
Thine  eye  is  still  unfaded,  still  alive ; 
And  't  will  be  long  ere  Saladin  has  liv'd 
Enough  to  satisfy  his  noble  heart. 
Who  shall  do  good  henceforth  ?  Who  now  extend 
Protecting  wings  of  justice  and  of  love 
O'er  thy  wide  empire,  ever  provident 
From  danger  and  oppression  to  defend  it? 
With  a  fond  father's  hand  who  wipe  away 
Thy  subjects'  tears,  now  that  around  thy  grave 
Sweeps  the  death-angel  ?     Saladin  no  more — 
What  then  will  Sittah  be  ?    No,  no,  my  brother. 
Good  fruit  is  not  to  be  cut  off  untimely. 
Thou  mayst  not,  shalt  not  die,  thou  best  of  men. 

Sal.  My  dearest  Sittah,  come,  embrace  thy  brother, 
And  with  this  kiss,  and  with  these  tears,  receive 
My  thanks  for  all  thy  faithful  fond  affection. 
Thou  hast  been  much  to  me.    Believe  me,  Sittah, 
I  should  be  glad  to  spend  with  thee  another 
Such  life  of  joy  and  tenderness  as  this  was  ; 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  123 

But  Fate  has  set  th'  irrevocable  seal. 

Be  firm :  but  hide  not  from  the  wanderer 

The  coming  evening,  now  that  to  its  setting 

His  sun  approaches.    Yes,  there  would  be  much, 

Much  good  indeed  t*  accomplish  here  below, 

If  all  the  evil  that  a  man  has  done 

Was  here  to  be  again  aton'd  by  virtue. 

Sit.  Who  ever  did  more  good  than  Saladin  ? 

Sal.  Say  rather  who  more  evil?— Here,  alas. 
On  a  death-bed,  the  conscience  does  not  judge 
So  partially  as  those  who  watch  around  it. 
The  whole  life,  deed  by  deed,  then  stands  unveiFd 
To  the  mind's  eye.    'T  is  often  gloomy  with  me — 
I  've  need  of  comfort,  Sittah.    Go,  my  love, 
That  these  last  hours  at  least  be  n't  spent  in  vain. 
Command  that  christian,  musulman,  and  all 
Who  need  our  bounty,  should  receive  what  alms 
The  treasure  will  allow.    Perhaps  their  prayers 
Will  find  a  hearing  before  God !     Go,  Sittah. 

Sit.  Most  willingly,  my  Saladin.    May  God 
Look  graciously  on  the  glad  ofiering;    First 
I  had  to  tell  thee,  brother,  that  a  monk 
Is  come  from  Libanon — with  medicine. 

Sal.  With  medicine  for  the  soul,  can  he  heal  that? 

Sit.  Not  that,  but — 

Sal.  Then  he  cannot  help  the  body. 

Sit.  Who  knows  ? 

Sal.  Whoever  knows  what  passes  here — 

Sit.  Wilt  thou  not  speak  with  him  ? 

Sal.  Not  now,  not  now ; 
An  hour  of  slumber  were  more  welcome  to  me. 
And  then  I  want  to  talk  with  Nathan.     Send  him. 

Sit.  I  will.   Heaven  grant  I  find  thy  strength  improv'd ! 
[Saladin  alone — speaks  in  broken  sentences, 

Sal.  O  wo  is  him  thus  doom'd  in  labyrinths 
To  wander  at  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 
Where  a  clear  path  is  wanted  most  of  all. 
Yonder  in  life,  amid  a  bustling  world, 
Where  all  conspires  to  cheat  and  flatter  conscience, 


f 

124  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Where  for  a  purse  a  mamaliike  woriships  thee, 

'T  is  easy  to  forget  that  kings  are  men, 

And  God  their  judge.    There,  there,  the  heart  wiU  catch 

At  any  .tale  that  teems  with  specious  doubts, 

More  than  at  naked  triith  which  dissipates  them. 

The  wreath  of  flowers  then  will  hide  the  snare, 

In  which  well-pleas*d  we  tangle  our  rash  feet 

Unheeding.    If  the  judgement  hesitate. 

The  conscience  too  will  doubt,  and  from  this  doubt 

On  to  denial  is  a  little  step 

Soon  strid.     O  doubts,  doubts,  when  shall  ye  roll  by. 

And  truth  unclouded  shine  upon  my  soul? 

Where  stand  I?    Are  all  true — then  all  are  false. 

God  loves  them  all,  and  God  deceive  them  all. — 

O  Nathan,  whither  has  thy  tinsel  wisdom 

Misled  me — now,  how  impotent,  how  helpless! 

And  shall  the  sleep  of  death  check  fuvther  striving 

After  the  sight  of  truth  ? — God,  God,  conduct  me 

Thro'  the  dark  vale  to  light. — Forgive  me  too. — 

OSMAN  and  ABDALL AH. 

OsMAN  enters ^rst,  ctpprocushes  the  sultans  bed,  and  per- 
ceimng  that  he  is  asleep,  drops  a  curtain  before  him,  and 
comes  forward. 

He  sleeps :  a  languid  slumber !    Death  and  lif& 
Are  struggling  yet  for  victory.     How  pale. 
How  shrunk,  how  wither'd,  yes ;  death  gets  the  day. 
And  stretches  him,  whom  neither  sword,  nor  spear. 
Nor  horsemai;i  vanquished,  scornful  jn  the  dust. — 

f'j^-i       [SalafUn  sighs  audibly. 
Thou  sigh'st,  good  Saladin— Again — Once,  once, 
It  y^SLS  not  so :  in  battle,  #here  grim  Death 
Above  thy  head  his  bloody  banner  sway'd^ 
While  dying  foes  sunk  groaning  at  thy  feet. 
Not  so,  when  at  NureddinV  post  of  slaughter; 
Then  not  a  sigh  escap'd  the  hero's  breast. 
Still  less  when  Adhed  sprang  from  th'  only  horse 
Left  him  to  drag  about  his  fallen  greatness, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  125 

And  yielded  to  thy  hand  the  tear-wet  rein. 
Such  is  the  life  of  these  same  mad-:Oap  folks ; 
They  jostle,  plunder,  murder  one  another. 
And  rush  head-foremost  against  deatb  at  last. 
Run  on,  sirs,  we  shall  follow  in  our  turns, 
But  give  us  time  to  finish  first  the  banquet 
Which  you  have  tabled  for  us. — What,  I  wonder,  . 
Is  this  queer  thing  a  sultan  for  ?  ^  'T  is  true 
He  needs  must  be,  that  out  of  his  full  purses 
We  mamalukes  may  have  wherewith  to  sport. 
And  lead  a  merry  life,  while  he,  ppor  wight, 
Tosses  his  care-craz'd  head  on  silken  bolsters. 
As  for  you,  Saladin — Gold  we  must  have; 
Live  you,  or  die  you.    There  are  other  fi)ols : 
Gold — and  thou  shalt  be  caliph,  sultan,  all ! 
If  not:  the  mamaluke  has  got  a  sword. 
Has  got  a  dagger 

AbdalIiAH,  who  has  heard  the  last  worelsy  says  while 
enieringy  'T  is  a  very  pity, 

That  you  great  folks  can't  hear,  while  you  are  sleeping; 
Can't  hear  when  you  are  dead ! — that  once  at  least 
You  might  be  told  the  truth. 

OsMAN.  Was  it  to  me, 
Abdallah,  thou  wast  speaking  ? 

Abd.  Ay,  I  wanted. 
To  hear  how  't  is  with  Saladin — if  hope — 

OsMAM.  Hope  is  a  creature  that  has  many  tongues. 
Just  like  a  flatterer.    Hope,  Abdallah,  yes ; 
There  's  always  hope  at  court,  and  flatterers  too ; 
She  is  at  home  there,  and  a  cheating  wench 
She  mostly  proves.    Abdallah,  you  have  wooed  her 
A  fine  long  while* 

Abd.  How  canst  thou  joke,  my  Osman, 
Is  Saladin  recovering?  May  we  hope? 

OsMAN.  O  yes,  yes. 

Abd.  I  'm  rejoic'd.    Long  be  thy  life. 
Sultan,  a  joy  to  thee,  and  to  the  world. 

OsMAN.  Ay,  to  the  world,  say  I,. for  to  the  world 
Both  you  and  I  belong.    But  if  this  lasts, 


126  '    HISTORIC  SURVEY 

There  '11  not  be  much  joy  left  for  you  and  me, 

Out  of  these  works  of  mercy,  as  they  call  them. 

So  long  as  Saladin  is  in  good  health. 

He  thinks,  as  every  prudent  man  should  think. 

That  he  ought  not  be  waited  on  for  nothing, 

To  whom  so  many  heads  are  tributable. 

Then  purses  fly  about ;  a  mamaluke 

Is  a  brave  fellow ;  but  now  boney  Death 

Comes  griesly  stalking  on  his  fleshless  shanks, 

And  thrusts  his  sallow  face  and  empty  sockets 

Close  to  the  Sultan's  piUow,  what  ado ! 

There  's  such  a  running  to  and  fro,  such  spending 

Of  sums  and  sums  ;  but  not  upon  us,  no — ^ 

Who,  think  you,  gets  it  ? 

Abd.  Wliy,  no  doubt,  the  poor. 

OsMAN.  Ay  squandered  upon  beggars.  These  good  people 
Are  to  pray  down  from  heaven,  the  Lord  knows  what. 
Health  and  long  life ;  and  thus  the  treasury  empties, 
And  we  have  nothing  left. 

Abd.  You  are  too  bitter. 
My  Osman. 

OsMAN.   I? 

Abd.  Somewhat  ungrateful  too. 

OsMAN.  Ungrateful,  I?    Dost  recollect,  Abdallab, 
On  what  occasion  't  was  I  broke  this  limb  ? 

Abd.  Could  Saladin  then  help  it,  that  I  got 
Hither  before  thee,  that  thou  wast  ill-mounted  ? 
Sure  such  a  caravan  deserv'd  at  least 
The  best  horse  in  thy  stable. 

Osman.  Did  I  not 
Merit  a  recompense  as  well  as  you  ? 
I  fell,  and  almost  broke  my  neck ;  for  which 
You  had  the  purses,  I  a  broken  leg ; 
And  hardly  half  the  earnings :  your  gift  too — 
I  am  vastly  thankful  for  Abdallah's  bounty. 
He  knows  his  game.    This  generosity 
The  generous  Saladin  repaid  you  double. 
'T  is  fit  such  noble  actions  be  rewarded. 
Thou  parasite ! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  127 

Abd.  Be  not  unjust,  my  Osman, 
The  sultan's  pity  surely  was  worth  more 
To  you  than  twenty  purses  ? 

OsMAN.  That 's  a  coin 
I  kqow  not  how  to  change — his  pity,  psha ! 
Deeply  obliged,  indeed,  most  noble  sultan. 
Thy  purses  give  to  beggars !    Before  long, 
Things  will  go  otherwise. 

Abd.  Go  otherwise — 
And  is  there  then  no. hope  ? 

OsMAN.  Go,  ask  of  them, 
Smooth-worded  as  thyself,  dissembling  pick-purse. 
And  they  will  give  thee  hope.    Why  should  they  not  ? 
Wouldst  thou  not  hope,  if  in  his  place  ? 

Abd.  Yes,  churl, 
Hope  to  awake  once  more,  unless — 

OsMAN.  Unless — 

Abd.  Some  Osman  watch'd  too  long  beside  my  couch. 

OsMAN.  And  when  he  is  awake,  will  he  not  hope  ? 

Abd.  Yes,  oft  to  fall  asleep,  and  wake  again — 

OsMAN.  And  enough  too. 

Abd.  Be  plain  for  once,  speak  out. 
Are  there  good  grounds  for  still  indulging  hope  ? 

OsMAN.  And  is  hope  ever  groundless?  Grounds  of  hope 
Lie  in  ourselves,  and  in  futurity. 
All  is  the  slave  of  change.    What  is,  decays ; 
What  was  not,  starts  to  being.    He  has  not 
Been  always  the  great  Saladin ;  nor  will  he 
Always  remain  so.    He  was  once — 

Abd.  Was  what  ? 

OsMAN.  Thou  sly  smooth  courtier,  ask  me  yet  again. 
And  with  that  air  of  innocence,  who  knowst 
Better  than  L    Go  to  Nureddin's  tomb ; 
There  ask  the  dead  what  Saladin  once  was, 
A  servant  like  ourselves;  unthankful,  false 
Beyond  ourselves.    Have  I  with  robber-hand 
Tom  from  his  heir,  who  lifted  me  from  dust. 
His  father's  kingdom  ?  I  with  perjur'd  smile 


128  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Sent  in  the  bloom  of  life  the  noble  youth 
In  sorrow  to  the  ashes  of  his  sires  ? 
Have  I,  or  Saladin  ? 

Abd.  What  was  is  past. 
Let  us  not  make  th'  amended  man  a  sinner. 
'T  is  true  he  came  by  conquest  to  the  empire. 

OsMAN.  Conquest !  a  pretty  word  for  thieves  of  rank, 
A  courteous  gentle  word,  I  thank  the  inventor. 

Abd.  How  justly,  nobly,  mercifully,  he 
Has  ruVd  the  empire,  which  his  prudent  courage 
And  hero-virtues  won! 

OsMAN.  For  otherwise 
He  would  have  rul'd  it  very  little  while. 
The  worse  a  thing  has  been  obtain'd,  the  better 
It  must  be  us*d,  if  in  resentment's  bosom 
The  fire  is  to  go  out,  and  the  yok'd  slave 
To  bear,  and  not  to  cast  off  force,  by  force. 

Abd.  You  err,  my  Osman,  surely.     What  compelt'd 
Him  to  be  good^.  whom  no  law  overhung 
But  his  own  heart ;  him,  whom  no  punishment, 
No  judge  o'eraw'd. 

OsMAN.  Him  fear  could  overawe. 
Who  has  forgot  e'en  yet  Nureddin's  virtue  ? 
Set  up  a  thief  next  to  a  righteous  man, 
And  he  will  also  learn  to  play  the  righteous. 
And  veil  his  robbery  with  some  shining  deeds> 
Which  pass  for  virtue.    Then  the  world  begins 
To  praise  the  worthy  man ;  that  flatters  him ; 
He  must  preserve  his  name;  he  can't  go  back;. 
And  thus  becomes  the  hero  that  he  actekk 

Abd.  It  is  enough  for  me  that  he  is  such.     . 
Show  me  the  man,  who  decorate  a  throne 
Like  him;  who  so  protects' the  rich  by  justice,. 
Opens  the  hand  of  bounty  to  the  poor. 

OsMAN.  Ay,  ay,  give  me  the  world;  and,  by  my  beard, 
I  '11  give  thee  Mgyipt    I  should  buy  it  cheap ! 
Thou  hast  good  cause  to  praise  hkn.     I  like  dogs. 
Who  bring  the  hares,  they  catch,  to  me. 

Abd.  Am  I 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  129 

The  only  one,  whose  hand  he  fills,  and  were  it 
Not  gross  ingratitude — 

OsMAN.  To  speak  thy  thoughts  ? 
Yes  't  were  ingratitude,  't  were  blasphemy ! 
Thou  'rt  a  brave  spaniel.     When  his  deatth  sets  free 
Yon  flatterers'  tongues;  good  night,  ingratitude. 
And  Saladin.     Then,  if  we  meet,  Abdallah — 

Abd.  Thou  'rt  sharp,  friend  Osman,  but  indeed  his  death 
Will  draw  great  changes  after  't  thro'  the  empire. 
We  shall  have  need  of  unanimity 
Above  all  else ;  if  we  are  left  to  deal  with 
Those  herds  of  christians,  imams,  jews,  who  're  ever 
Stretching  the  hand  upon  the  public  helm. 
'T  is  true  they  do  get  gold  enough,  but  still 
A  man  of  brains  is  not  content  with  that. 
He  must  have  influence,  and  thereof,  my  Osman — 

OsBiAN.  Influence  ?  let  fools  fight  for  unsolid  food ! 
Affluence  for  me.    They,  that  can  most  bestow, 
Command  my  service.    Fare  thee  well,  Abdallah.    [Goes. 

Abd.  Thee  too,  firiend  Osman.    A  good  steady  block! 
We  11  lay  him  by  for  future  winter-evenings. 
When  the  sun  shines  no  longer.     Fools,  fools,  fools. 
The  world  is  not  so  sorry  as  you  think  it. 
But  sleight  there  needs  to  turn  it  to  account. — 
These  are  the  jailers,  who  secure  your  virtue. 
Ye  Saladins,  't  were  else  a  slippery  jade. 
Were  it  not  for  us  wise  ones,  who  stand  by 
Bowing  and  scraping,  comforting  and  praising, 
But  pointing  now  and  then  your  trembling  looks  , 
Athwart  the  grate,  where  awfiil  stands  without 
Truth  in  her  panoply,  her  sabre  bare. 
And  then  most  civilly  withdraw,  and  leave  you 
To  make  your  own  reflections.    Prudent  men 
Know  to  make  use  of  all  things,  even  truth. 
And  even  monks.    Come,  my  good  monk,  for  thee 
We  11  find  employment,  we  have  long  desir'd 
Some  such  a  tool.    Ha !  Nathan,  hush  !  perhaps 
He  too  shall  work  our  will. 

[Nathan  enters,  Abdallah  qoes  tatvard  him, 

VOL.  II.  K         . 


130  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Sincerely  welcome, 

]|^y  dearest  Nathan,  to  the  sultan  too 

Thou  surely  wilt  be  welcome ;  for  a  friend, 

A  bosom-friend  like  thee,  is  to  the  sick 

More  than  ten  Galens,  arm*d  with  all  the  virtues 

Of  healing  nature. 

Nath.  Yes,  at  times,  Abdallah, 
When  the  still  tear  of  sympathy  is  needed. 

Abd.  Who  does  not  need,  who  does  not  value  that  ? 

Nath.  Those  who  for  truth  and  friendship  have  no  soul 
.Often  prefer  the  flatterer  to  the  friend. 

Abd.  How  true ;  but  surely  with  our  Saladin 
That 's  not  the  case.    Who  can  have  known  him  better 
Than  Nathan,  and  whom  does  he  value  more  ? 

Nath.  No  doubt  the  better  man.    Tell  me,  Abdallah, 
Is  Saladin  composed  ?    I  hear  he  is  fearful 
He  has  not  long  to  live.    Of  such  a  man 
How  irreplaceable  would  be  the  loss 
To  all !     Do  the  physicians  augur  better  ? 

Abd.  They  seem  to  speak  with  more  alarm  than  hope. 
Still  there  's  no  trusting  what  such  people  say. 
They  have  to  make  a  merit  of  their  aid. 
And  personate  the  saviours  of  their  country. 
All  is  important  that  approaches  greatness. 
And  fortune  often  wins  the  praise  of  wisdom. 
For  wisdom,  Nathan,  is  a  gift  divine ; 
But  fortune,  fortune — thou  canst  understand  me. 

Nath.  Yes,  fortune  often  errs,  and  daily  makes. 
Stead  of  the  sage,  a  vizier  of  the  fool. 

Abd.  Most  truly  spoken,  else  would  many  a  — ^ 

[Salcuiin  talks  in  his  sleep  with  *  energy^ 

Sal.  Ah! 
God  and  his  prophet ! 

Nath.  What  is  that?  go  quick. 

Abd.  having  undraum  the  sultanas  curtain. 
He 's  still  asleep:  but  horror  and  amazement 
Lour  on  his  griesly-writhen  features.     Oh ! 
Nathan,  I  hope  my  fears  deceive  me,  but 
It  seems  the  inkling  of  approaching  death. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  l3l 

Nath.  Of  death,  Abdallah  ?  't  is  a  fever-dream. 
No  more.     The  fancy  heated  by  disease 
Conjures  wild  shapes  of  fear  and  horror  up, 
Sometimes  of  hope. 

Abd.  But  I,  I  have  my  fears. 
The  monk,  the  monk,  we  know  the  brood — 

Nath.  The  monk  ? 
What  do  you  mean,  Abdallah  ? 

Abd.  It  may  be 
That  treachery  lurks  behind — 

Nath.  How  ?  treachery  !  how  ? 

Abd.  The  patriarch,  thou  know'st  the  patriarch ! 

Nath.  And  what  of  him. 

Abd.  At  least  I  think  he  might 
Let  the  poor  sultan  die  in  peace.    It  is  not 
Worth  while  to  be  the  murderer  of  the  dying. 

Nath.  Does  he  intend  it  ? 

Abd.  I,  I  have  my  fears — 
Such  vipers  one  can*t  be  too  cautious  of. 
Particularly  now.    The  sultan  thinks 
That  he  shall  die,  and  is  so  strongly  anxious 
For  longer  life.    Good  men  are  full  of  trust : 
And  Saladin,  as  thou  well  know'st,  trusts  all 
Upon  whose  front  Hell  with  his  blackest  seal 
Has  not  impressed  in  undeceiving  lines 
Treason  and  murder.    Am  I  in  the  right  ? 

Nath.  HelFs  blackest  brand  is  stamp'd  upon  the  heart. 
\  The  thief  thinks  all  men  thieves;  the  murderer,  murderers; 
So  conscience  stains  the  glass  the  soul  looks  thro\ 
Who  disbelieves  in  virtue,  he  has  none. 

Abd.  In  virtue,  aye :  but,  but  in  patriarchs — 
In  monks — ^must  we  believe  in  them,  my  Nathan  ? 

Nath.  In  men  we  must  believe :  it  is  the  hood 
That  makes  the  monk,  the  heart  that  makes  the  man. 

Abd.  And  if  the  heart  be  hollow — 

Sal.  Nathan,  Nathan. 

Abd.  He  calls  thee. 

Nath.  Is  he  wak'd  ? 

Abd.  No. 


132  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Nath.  And  he  nam*d  me? 

Abd.  Yes,  in  his  sleep.     The  sweat  stands  on  his  brow : 
So  anxiously  he  slumbers. 

Nath.  Let  us  wake  him. 

Abd.  He  chose  to  sleep.     But  I  must  tell  thee,  Nathan, 
The  monk  dwells  upon  Libanon. 

Nath.  'T  is  well ; 
He  's  the  less  likely  to  mean  ill  to  th*  sultan. 

Abd.  Hear  me ;  he  how  is  here. 

Nath.  Indeed! 

Abd.  And  comes 
r  th'  name  of  all  the  christians  in  Jerusalem. 

Nath.  And  is — 

Abd.  To  cure  the  sultan,  so  he  says, 
To  give  him  health,  and  force,  and  life,  anew. 

Nath.  Good,  good! 

Abd.  All  with  the  help  of  God,  he  says. 
For  he  's  a  monk  all  over. 

Nath.  On  this  merely 
Thy  fears  are  grounded  ? 

Abd.  He  has  very  lately 
Been  at  Jerusalem,  where,  it  was  said. 
That  Saladin  was  dying.     He  is  famous 
For  knowing  efficacious  plants.    The  christians 
Have,  out  of  gratitude  for  Saladin's 
Protecting  sway,  sent  hither  this  same  monk. 
With  many  wishes  for  the  sultan's  life. 
To  be  physician  to  him. 

Nath.  This  tells  well. 

Abd.  What,  if  instead  of  medicine  he  brings  poison? 

Nath.  A  loyal  fervor  prompts  not  treachery. 

Abd.  Thou  know'st  how  very  grudgingly  the  christians 
Bow  to  the  yoke  of  mussulmen ;  thou  knowest 
The  patriarch's  pride,  the  cunning  of  the  monks. 
The  templars'  perfidy,  the  foolish  rage 
Of  all  the  Franks  to  get  the  sovereignty 
Over  Jerusalem— and  now,  a  monk 
Physician  to  the  sultan. 

Nath.  True,  Abdallah, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  133 

One  should  be  cautious:  and  I  must  acknowledge 
That  the  suspicion  seems  not  altogether 
Devoid  of  some  pretence. 

Abd.  No,  no,  most  surely ; 
If  once  this  monstrous  mass  of  empire,  which 
Was  under  Saladin  a  steadfast  whole, 
Proof  against  all  assault,  dissolved  and  crumbling 
Could  be  attacked. 

Nath.  Well— 

Abd.  Such  has  been  the  fate 
Of  all  great  empires  conquered  suddenly. 

Nath.  I  understand  thee. 

Abd.  Saladin,  alas. 
Trusts  but  too  much  the  honesty  of  christians. 

Nath.  Perhaps,  Abdallah,  his  own  noble  heart 
And  generosity  is  what  he  trusts  in. 

Abd.  A  monk  physician  to  him  too,  a  monk — 

Nath.  True. 

Abd.  Would  it  not  be  well  if  thou  couldst  mention 
The  danger  he  incurs,  couldst  hint  it  to  him, 
Before  the  monk  surprises  him  ? 

Nath.  But  first 
The  sultan's  sister  should  be  made  acquainted 
With  what  has  past — request  her  in  my  name — 

Sal.  God!  God! 

Abd.  The  sultan — 

Sal.  O  how  faint,  how  feeble. 

Abd.  Hail,  and  long  life  to  Saladin. 

Sal.  Abdallah, 
Come  nigh  and  wipe  my  forehead.     O  how  weary ! 

Abd.  It  seems  as  if  thy  slumbers  were  not  tranquil, 
Not  so  refreshing  as  we  wish'd.    Thy  dreams 
Have  harrow'd  off  thy  brow  the  peaceful  smoothness, 
Which  sleep  else  gives  the  weary. 

Sal.  I  have  been 
In  other  worlds — alas,  how  weak  I  feel ! 
Where  light  and  darkness  strove  more  horribly 
Than  life  and  death  within  my  soul.     Is  Nathan 
Come  yet,  Abdallah  ? 


134  Hisrmuc  survey 

Abd.  Yes,  my  Sahdin. 

Sal.  Then  let  him  enter. 

\AbdaBah  beekoms  Naiiam,  and  retires. 
We  are  now,  my  Nathan, 
Got  to  the  firontier.    Sit  thee  down,  I  pray ; 
Now  I  hare  slept,  I  hope  to  talk  with  thee 
More  calmly.    Thoa  art  soirowful,  my  Nathan — 

N ATH.  It  grieves  me,  Saladin — 

Sal.  Yes,  I  belieye  thee ; 
But  recollect  it  is  the  will  of  Grod, 
And  bow  to  it.    Nathan,  I  have  sent  for  thee 
To  give  my  breast  once  more  the  lost  repose 
Thy  wisdom  took  away. 

Nath.  I?  sultan,  I? 
Fromthee?    O  God  forbid! 

Sal.  Or  rather  say 
My  own  presumption,  Nathan.    O  how  direly 
Has  truth  revenged  upon  me  her  importance. 
It  was  at  bottom  but  a  sport  of  fancy, 
A  mere  amusive  levity ;  but  really 
Truth  is  too  high  to  sport  with,  too  important 
To  make  a  jest  of — 

Nath.  I  am  anxious,  sultan, 
To  understand  precisely  these  allusions. 

Sal.  The  ring,  th'  enchanted  opal  ring,  whose  glitter 
Drew  me  into  this  maze.    It  was  a  tale. 
That  slid  so  unexpectedly,  so  gently, 
Into  my  open  and  unguarded  soul. 
Shedding  so  much  forbearance  and  humaneness 
O'er  my  consenting  heart ;  it  seem'd  to  close 
At  once  the  mouth  of  each  priecipitate 
Intolerant  decider.   O  indeed 
Some  strength  of  mind  is  needful  to  withstand ; 
Particularly  when,  excuse  me,  Nathan, 
The  teacher  has  been  first  announced  to  us 
From  lips  of  praising  thousands  by  the  name 
Of  the  wise  man.    I  took  it  as  thou  gav'st  it. 
But  little  thought,  O  Nathan,  that  so  soon 
The  judge's  thousand  thousand  years  for  me 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  135 

Would  have  an  end.    Now  I  must  die.    And  then — 
In  this  uncertainty,  and  with  my  ring 
Alone,  am  summon'd  up  before  the  judge. — 
O  Nathan,  how,  if  I  have  been  deceived  ? 

Nath.  And,  sultan,  how,  if  all  have  been  deceived?. 

Sal.  There  lies  the  sting ;  so  would,  for  all  his  love. 
Thy  father  be  a  cheat,  have  given  for  truth 
To  his  own  son,  who  languish'd  after  light 
Mere  error,  Nathan :  how  can  God,  thy  father. 
Have  given  illusion,  error,  to  mankind. 

Nath.  What  if  his  creatures  had  not  strength  to  bear 
The  purest  rays  of  truth ;  what  if  illusion. 
Or  a  faint  morning-twilight  upon  earth, 
Were  for  the  human  faculties,  while  here. 
Their  utmost  scope;  and  on  yon  side  the  tomb 
First  the  untemper'd  noon  of  truth  broke  on  us. 
God  leads  us  step  by  step  unto  perfection, 
And  many  are  the  steps  and  shades  of  illusion 
Between  deep  night  and  the  broad  day  of  truth. 
Truth,  what  we  call  so,  is  but  man's  opinion. 
The  web  of  human  pride,  rash  notions  prated 
To  all-remembering  credulity 
By  old  tradition's  tongue.    Truth  lies  too  deep 
For  our  horizon  £ir.     God,  God,  is  truth. 
And  man  a  thing  that  errs  and  fails. 

Sal.  Must  err  ? 
Must  £siil  ?  if  so ;  thou  mayst  have  spoken  falsely, 
May  St  have  taught  error  to  me  'stead  of  truth. 

Nath.  I? 

Sal.  Thou,  unless  alone  of  all  mankind. 
Thou  art  excepted  from  the  lot  of  man ; 
Unless  thou  only  art  th'  infallible. 
The  wise.    Ye  sceptics,  is  there  nothing  true 
But  that  we  're  fools  ? 

Nath.  Be  calm,  have  patience,  sultan. 
And  take  man  as  he  is.    What  if  he  err. 
Can't  here  below  infallibly  decide. 
Earth  is  but  earth ;  a  dull  and  lightless  body. 

Sal.  Ay,  but  the  soul,  my  Nathan  ? 


136  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Nath.  Be  it  lights 
Or  what  you  will,  so  long  as  night  inwraps 
,  This  light ;  so  long  no  tone,  no  ray,  no  image, 
Comes  to  the  soul,  but  thro'  ear,  eye,  or  nerves, 
But  what  thro'  flesh,  or  bone,  or  wand'ring  juices. 
According  to  the  nature  and  arrangement 
Of  each  material  part,  is  modified 
Into  a  thought  for  thee,  and  thee  alone. 
Which  could  not  dwell  another  human  soul. 
So  long  must  feelings,  instincts,  passions,  form 
Opinion ;  error  be  each  mortal's  lot. 
And  what  seems  truth  to  one,  stand  with  another 
For  proven  falsehood. 

Sal.  No,  that  goes  too  far ; 
Then  would  each  image  to  himself  in  flower. 
Sun,  man,  a  di£Perent  something ;  because  each 
Sees  not  with  the  same  eyes.    But  do  we,  Nathan, 
Not  understand  each  other,  although  each 
Hears  with  his  own  ears  only  ?  Language  be 
My  pledge,  that  between  man  and  truth  at  least 
No  such  entire  antipathy  exists. 
As  thou  maintainest.    Many  as  our  words. 
So  many  commonly  consented  truths. 

Nath.  So  many  images  by  all  acknowledged^ 
Which  strike  on  one  more  strongly  than  another. 
And  uritate  in  different  degrees 
Our  several  passions.    Tell  me,  Saladin, 
Is  passion,  truth  ?  vice,  truth  ?  is  avarice. 
Is  tyranny,  or  sneaking  murder,  truth  ? 
Or  all  of  monstrous  that  the  human  wish 
By  images  of  sensuality 
Is  cheated  into  ? 

Sal.  Nathan,  O  beware. 
Least  with  thy  wisdom  thou  impair  thy  virtue ; 
Little  by  little,  one  short  footstep  more. 
And  lo !  we  all  are  rogues,  and  must  be  rogues ; 
And  my  good  worthy  Nathan — ^no,  to  think  it 
Were  blasphemy,  were  crime.    Man,  thy  conclusions 
Cannot  be  just ;  for  if  truth  be  illusion. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  137 

Then  so  is  virtue.    What  sayest  thou  ? 

Nath.  And  is  there 
Aught  more  dependent  upon  chance  than  it  ? 
It  is  the  circumstances  amid  which 
A  lucky  chance  has  plac'd  thee,  't  is  the  land 
Allotted  for  thy  country,  't  is  the  men 
With  whom  thou  dwellest,  't  is  thy  meat,  thy  drink. 
Nay  e'en  the  very  air  that  bathes  thy  brow. 
And  above  all  the  early  bending  given 
To  all  thy  tender  forces,  education, 
Paternal  prejudices,  and  the  first  thrust 
With  which  late  hurls  thee  into  life's  career : 
Hence  is  thy  virtue,  man !     Soil,  weather,  climate. 
These  shape  the  tree. 
Sal.  The  upshot  comes  of  course; 

We  have  at  worst  to  die,  and  all  is  over : 

Truth  's  but  a  dream,  virtue  an  accident. 
Troth,  Nathan,  thou  'rt  a  sage  indeed,  and  hast 
Nearly  philosophiz'd  me  into  madness. 

How !  grows  there  not  upon  the  self->same  soil. 

Beside  the  wholesome  stem,  the  crooked  dwarfling  ? 
Nath.  The  fault  perhaps  was  in  the  seed :  perhaps 

A  grub,  or  an  unheeded  gust  of  wind. 

Or  any  of  the  thousand  little  causes, 

Whose  action  and  reaction  hold  together 

This  goodly  frame  of  things. 
Sal.  But,  my  good  friend, 

Man  is  not  quite  a  block,  a  log  of  wood. 

Obeying  mere  external  laws.     Is  he 

Chained  to  the  earth  he  springs  from  ?     In  the  east 

Is  it  too  sultry  for  thy  virtue,  fly, 

Go  to  the  pole.    If  wine  provoke  thy  blood. 

Drink  water:  if  thy  neighbour,  seek  a  better. 

What  curbs  thy  freedom  does  not  therefore  exclude  it. 

Else  what  were  freedom  ? 
Nath.  A  mere  play  of  words, 

A  leading  string,  with  which  good  easy  man 

Believes  he  strays  alone,  yet  can't  advance 

Further  than  his  conductress,  Providence, 


138  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Permits.    T  is  if  you  will  a  whirling  car, 
We  boys  get  in,  and  shout  to  our  companions 
Proudly — "  how  fast  we  drive ;"  but  round  and  round 
Th*  eternal  measur*d  circle  of  the  world 
We  are  but  dragg'd. 

Sal.  Fie,  Nathan,  do  not  squander 
Upon  such  tales,  which  thou  thyself  believ*st  pot. 
Thy  ready  wit.     Thou  dost  not  talk  in  earnest ; 
For  how  couldst  thbu,  who  hast  a  thousand  times 
In  life  overcome  those  enemies  of  virtue. 
The  passions,  and  the  cravings  of  our  senses, 
With  one  sword-stroke  of  reason — thus  assert. 
Thou  art  but  seeking  artfully  to  keep 
Truth  out  of  sight ;  but,  Nathan,  disputation 
Is  now  no  longer  mine. 

Nath.  And  would  to  God 
It  never  had  been,  Saladin.    The  few 
Worthy  and  noble  souls  should  only  act, 
Live  after  truth,  and  leave  true  deeds  behind  them. 
All  disputation,  if  and  what  be  truth. 
Wastes  the  fair  hours  bestowed  so  sparingly 
Upon  the  wanderer,  who  for  his  journey 
Has  not  a  day  too  much.     The  lazy  man 
May^ing  himself  along  beneath  the  shade. 
And  with  his  fellow  weigh  and  ascertain 
How  far  he  has  to  go,  is  this  the  road. 
Are  you  gone  wrong — but  let  us  with  fresh  strides 
Haste  to  the  goal ;  we  then,  I  ween,  shall  know 
How  far  it  was,  and  if  I  have  not  chosen 
The  shortest  road,  my  industry  at  least 
Will  have  made  up  for  many  a  round-about. 

Sal.  My  pilgrimage  is  almost  at  an  end ; 
But,  friend,  its  goal  I  see  not.    Thou  'ast  confused  me. 
Live  after  truth,  say'st  thou,  and  yet  not  know 
What  truth  may  be,  nor  even  care  to  know  it. 
But  trudge  along  hap-hazard,  north  or  south. 

Nath.  Not  much  needs  there  of  truth  to  be  a  man ; 
*^  There  is  a  God ;  be  pious,  and  fear  him ; 
Trust  he  will  crown  thy  virtue,  scourge  thy  vice," 


of  GERMAN  POETRY.  139 

That  is  enough. 

Sal.  And  may  we  not  inquire 
What  is  this  God,  and  how  should  we  be  pious, 
How  act  to  win  his  favor,  how  he  scourges, 
And  how  rewards,  and  when  he  punishes. 

Whither  the  sinner  goes 

Nath.  Is  there  not 
Water  enough  to  cleanse  with  in  Damascus  ? 

Sal.  No  stream  can  cleanse  the  conscience  of  its  sin. 
No  flame  can  purify  the  sullied  heart. 
Before  the  sight  of  God.    How  can  I  know 
Whether,  if  God  is  just,  to  guilt  a  foe, 
I  too  shall  be  forgiven.    'T  is  that,  't  is  that, 
My  Nathan,  that  which  wounds  me,  which  impels  me 
To  make  the  dread  inquiry  now ;  and  not,  as  once, 
The  idle  love  of  disputation.    Death 
Itself  is  nothing,  a  mere  step  across 
A  narrow  threshold ;  but  a  troubled  moment. 
And  all  is  over.    The  intoxicated 
Will  dare  the  stride,  and  boldly  spring  avaunt, 
Fare  as  he  may  without ;  but  there  's  no  art 
Can  drug  the  conscience  into  bold  delirium, 
Seel  to  the  night  of  death  its  wakeful  eye, 
And  teach  it  at  futurity  to  sport. 
But,  with  a  sober  conscience,  Nathan — 

Nath.  Sultan, 
I  would  not  flatter,  but  can  God  above 
Be  found  less  just,  less  gracious  than  thyself? 

Sal.  That  is,  not  punish  with  severity. 
But  punish,  if  he  's  master  of  the  world. 
VfheX  would  become  of  kingdoms,  if  mankind 
Might  with  impunity  make  sport  of  law, 
Rob,  murder — 

Nath.  If  the  law  smites  but  the  guilty. 
What  has  the  good  to  fear  ? 

Sal.  The  good,  ay  he. 
What  should  the  good  man  fear?  but  criminals — 

Nath.  Abandon  to  the  sentence  of  their  judge. 
And  gaze  rejoicing  at  the  glorious  harvest, 


140  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

That  ripens  for  the  doings  of  the  just 

In  better  worlds.    The  more  the  soul  below 

Is  veiFd  in  darkness,  the  more  full  of  rapture 

Must  be  the  passage  to  the  sunny  day 

Of  shining  truth.    We  here  have  yet  to  wander 

Thro'  many  a  labyrinth  on  this  murky  earth ; 

From  thee  the  fetters  drop,  soon  thy  free  soul 

May  hail  yon  clearer  heaven,  and  eagle-wing'd 

Soar  to  her  God,  th'  eternal  only  source 

Of  light  and  truth.     O  might  I  follow,  sultan, 

God  be  thy  guide ! 

Sal.  afier  some  reflection.  No,  no,  that  cannot  be. 
That  were  unsuitable,  my  lot  is  other. 
Each  talks  but  as  he  feels ;  thou  canst  not  tell 
How  it  is  here  with  me.    Just,  pious,  good, 
Are  lovely  words ;  and  happy  who  can  speak  them. 
And  feel  no  dagger  digging  at  his  breast. 
Ah,  Nathan,  hast  thou  never  stain'd  thy  life — 
Not  with  one  crime  ? 

Nath.  Oh,  who  is  free  from  faults. 
My  dearest  sultan,  in  the  sight  of  God  ? 
Pure,  yet  a  man  ? — 

Sal.  Speak'st  thou  of  faults,  just  man? 
Away !  Come  not  to  sully  thy  white  virtue 
Beside  a  criminal !    Off!    dost  thou  know  me  ? 
Dost  thou  know  Saladin  ? 

Nath.  Who  knows  him  not  ? 
The  generous,  the  impartial,  and  the  just. 
The  tolerant  friend  of  man.    Who  knows  him  not^ 
The  pious  Saladin  ? 

Sal.  The  robber  too ; 
The  bloodhound,  Nathan,  too ;  know'st  thou  not  him. 
Who  has  spiird  more  of  unoffending  blood 
Than  thousand  murderers,  whom  the  sword  of  vengeance 
Refus'd  to  spare,  who  to  rapacious  wishes, 
To  wild  ambition,  sacrificed  his  duty. 
His  conscience,  all ! — Know'st  thou  not  him  ? 

Nath.  No,  sultan. 
Him  I  know  not. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  141 

Sal.  God  knows  him. 

Nath.  As  be  knows 
The  chaos,  from  whose  deep  the  light  arose : 
It  does  not  therefore  now  ezist.     Thou  art  not 
The  first,  whom  he  has  imperceptibly 
Allow'd  thro*  crimes  to  find  out  virtue's  path. 
What  boots  the  has  been,  so  the  is  he  right? 
God  win  not  ask  the  just  man's  virtue  to 
Atone  the  sinner's  trespass,  will  not  punish 
The  worthy,  for  the  &ulty,  Saladin. 

Sal.  Yet  not  unoften  the  amended  man 
Dies  of  his  sins. 

Nath.  Dies  of  some  law  of  nature. 

Sal.  What  is  this  fear  then?  what  this  inward  struggling? 
These  racking  tortures  of  avenging  conscience  ? 

Nath.  A  proof  of  tenderer  virtuous  feelings,  of 
Abhorrence  against  vice ;  it  is,  perhaps, 
The  working  of  thy  fever ;  of  strain'd  neryes 
And  hurried  spirits. 

Sal.  'T  is  no  doubtful  pang ; 
Obscure  and  imdefin'd,  but  clear,  perception 
That  I  have  not  liv'd  as  a  man  should  live ; 
It  is  the  palpitation  of  a  culprit 
Advancing  to  hb  judge.    Conscience,  my  Nathan, 
Is  no  disease. 

Nath.  Strive  not  against  thy  peace, 
Do  not  overlook  thy  virtues,  shove  not  from  thee 
The  consolations,  which  on  penitence 
God  has  bestow'd. 

Sal.  God !  where  has  he  bestow'd  it  ? 
How  am  I  sure  of  that  ?   And  is  not  God 
A friehd  to  order?    Values  he  no  longer 
The  laws  he  made  ?   No  longer  loves  his  creatures  ? 
Who  breaks  thro'  those,  or  sacrifices  these, 
Can  (rod  befriend  ?   Indeed  for  men,  like  us, 
MTiom  groping  after  truth  but  leaves  bewilder'd. 
Whom  virtue  fills  with  pride,  or  fills  with  doubt, 
Faith  is  a  precious  thing.     Beside  the  grave. 
Where  a  man  strays  alone,  where  other  souls 


1 

142  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Nq  longer  buoy  him  up  with  fellow-feelings, 
Where  all  is  changing,  and  between  to  be 
And  not  to  be,  the  dread  abyss  is  yawning, 
Where  all  that  seem'd  in  life  truth,  action,  fact, 
Dwines  to  a  lie,  where  even  reason's  torch, 
Amid  the  wide  and  vacant  gulf,  is  quench'd, — 
O  Nathan,  Nathan,  faith  is  precious  there. 

Nath.  Who  takes  it  from  thee,  my  good  Saladin, 
Why  may'st  thou  not  believe  whate'er  thou  wilt  ? 

Sal.  No  longer,  Nathan,  now ;  no  longer  now. 

Nath.  Does  not  thy  prophet  teach  thee,  like  mine  me. 
That  God  is  merciful,  that  he  forgives  ? 

Sal.  Keep  for  thyself  thy  talismanic  ring, 
And  do  not  mock  at  the  poor  trodden  worm 
E*en  in  the  dust ! 

Nath.  For  God's  sake,  no,  no,  no ; 
Sultan,  if  with  my  blood  I  could  procure  thee 
Rest,  O  how  willingly ! 

Sal.  Give,  give  conviction ! 
In  certainty  is  plac'd  the  might  of  truth ; 
Doubt  is  its  foe :  a  fatal  grub,  that  bores 
Deeper  and  deeper  to  the  pith  o'  the  root. 
Until  the  fair  flower  sinks :  yes,  it  is  shrivel'd. 
Faded  for  me,  and  round-about  me  lie 
The  fallow  petals  scatter'd :  all  their  power. 
The  fragrance  they  once  shed  across  my  soul. 
Is  gone.    Then  die,  die  Saladin !  thy  lot 
Be  heaven  or  hell,  or  everlasting  nothing. 
Die,  die,  for  here  't  is  darkness  all.    Thy  road 
Is  yonder,  over  graves — o'er  slaughter-fields. 
Thick  sown  with  skulls  of  men — well  moisten'd  too 
With  human  gore. — Who  was  the  sower  here  ? 
Who  with  his  sabre  plough'd  the  reeking  soil. 
Who? 

Nath.  Saladin,  what  ails  thee,  Saladin  ? 

Sal.  I,  I,  't  was  I,  the  valorous  Saladin, 
*T  was  I  who  mow'd  these  heaps  of  dead — 

Nath.  My  sultan, 
Do  recollect  thyself. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  143 

Sal.  Ha !  now  I  stand 
In  blood  up  to  my  girdle.    'T  was  well  fought; 
My  warriorsi  nobly  slaugter'd — Bury  them. 
For  fear  their  God  should  see  them,  and  revenge 
On  us  their  blood. 

Nath.  Dost  thou  know  me  no  longer? 
God  God  have  pity  on  him ! 

Sal.  What  of  pity?— 
Behold  in  me  the  mighty  Saladin, 
The  conqueror  of  the  world.    The  east  is  his. 
Down  with  your  arms,  or  die ! 

Nath.  Canst  thou  not  know 
Thy  Nathan  any  longer? 

Sal.  Get  thee  gone. — 
I  will  not  deal  with  thee,  jew,  usurer,  cheat ; 
Hence  with  thy  ware,  't  is  trash  !  sell,  sell  to  fools- — 
Avaunt!  why  dost  thou  weep?  what  wouldst  thou  have? 

Nath.  O  this  is  horrible. 

Sal.  Ay  horrible ! 
I  did  not  kill  them.     Dost  thou  claim  of  me 
Thy  children? 

Nath.  God! 

Sal.  Do  bury  them  still  deeper ; 
Look,  there  peeps  out  a  skull ;  in  with  it ! 

Nath.  Oh 
What  a  delirium  this ! 

Sal.  Up !  up !  we  storm  it — 
Forward,  my  brothers,  brisk,  and  down  with  them — 
The  dogs  are  yielding !  On,  on,  we  shall  have  it : 
Mme  is  Jerusalem !  Damascus  mine ! 
Mine  is  all  Syria ! 

Nath.  Teach  me.  Lord,  to  think 
That  I  must  die. 

Sal.  What's  all  yon  howling  for? 
Give  quarter  now;  and  ofier  up  to  Gt>d 
A  tenth  of  all  the  booty.    There  a  mosk. 
And  here  a  school,  and  there  an  hospital 
Shall  be  erected.    We  shall  need  them — 

[Sittah  comes  in. 


144  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Nath.  Sittah! 
O  my  dear  Sittah  I 

Sal.  Will  she  not,  she  shaQ. 
Will  Richard  not,  he  must — 

Sit.  What  means  this^  Nathan  ? 

Nath.  Alas,  thou  hear'st  thy  brother  is  delirious. 

Sit.  My  Saladin  delirious  ?  God ! 

Sal.  Keep  back — 
Along  this  narrow  foot-path  climbs  the  way 
Into  the  fortress.    They  are  all  asleep, 
Hush !  follow  me  in  stillness,  we  shall  manage 
To  take  it  by  surprise — hush ! 

Sit.-  also  gently.  Saladin 

Is  for  to-day  too  weary  for  new  toil. 

What  if  he  would  repose  a  little  hour 

Under  the  shade,  and  then  with  fresher  strength 

-Assail  the  fortress? 

Sal.  Ay,  I  will,  I  will : 
Keep  watch  upon  your  posts,  my  comrades  all. 

Least  they  should  fall  upon  us. 
Sit.  We  are  going. 
Sal.  Mind,  in  an  hour  or  so,  I  shall  be  waking. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE. — A  spacious  Bower  in  the  Palace-garden, 

The  MONK  and  the  TEMPLAR  are  sitting  confidentiaUy 

together  on  a  bank  of  turf. 

Monk.  Your  father  then  is  dead? 

Temp.  At  Askalon 
He  fell  in  battle. 

Monk.  And  your  sister  ? 

Temp.  Her 
Our  father  sent,  shortly  before  his  death. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  145 

To  the  jew  Nathan^  who  has  brought  her  up. 

They  had  been  friends,  fast  friends,  such  as  there  are 

But  few  of. 

Monk.  He,  I  'm  told,  is  here  at  present. . 

Temp.  He  cannot  live  without  the  maid,  so  fond 
Of  her  he  's  grown.    Neither  can  Saladin 
Live  without  him.    This  Nathan  is,  for  all 
His  being  a  jew,  a  man  of  real  worth. 

Monk.  The  maid  then  will  not  have  been  ill  brought  up? 

Temp.  Most  excellently. 

Monk,  trying  to  hide  his  tears,  and  in  some  embarras^ 

ment.  See,  thou  noble  youth. 
Thy  history  has  so  affected  me. 
That  all  which  may  concern  thee  is  become 
Most  precious  to  my  heart.     God  bless  thy  youth. 
My  dearest  Assad ! 

Temp.  Thou  good  monk,  my  breast 
To  this  thy  friendship  corresponds.    Monks  us*d  not 
To  be  my  favourites ;  but,  I  don't  know  how, 
I  'd  scarsely  seen  thee,  ere  I  learnt  to  love  thee ! 
Thou  art,  I  dare  be  sworn,  not  of  those  men 
Who  hide  the  wolf  beneath  sheep's  clothing. 

Monk,  imde.    That, 
Good  Assad,  may  have  been — 

Temp.  Let  us  thank  heaven. 
That  among  all  conditions  and  all  nations 
Men  may  be  found.    Now,  good  old  man,  continue 
To  reconcile  me  to  thy  order.    I 
Admire  thy  venerable  open  aspect. 

Monk.  Then 
So  should  my  heart  be  likewise ;  with  that  feature 
Nature  the  least  plays  false.    And  has  the  sister 
The  noble  spirit  of  her  brother  ?    She 
DoubtlesB  was  bred  a  Jewess? 

Temp.  Yes,  good  father. 
But  such  a  Jewess ;  only  see  her  once — 
Monk.  That  I  would  gladly — 
Temp.  I  will  bring  her  to  thee. 
Stay  for  us  here.         [The  Monk,  abme,  falls  on  Ids  knees, 

VOL.  II.  L 


146  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

I  wiD.    Down  on  the  earth, 

While  yet  my  heart  glows  warm  with  gratitude 

For  blessings  showered  in  fulness.    O  my  God, 

This  rapture  is  too  great;  indeed  thy  servant 

Is  all  unworthy  of  the  good  thou  givest. 

Praise,  glory,  and  eternal  thanks,  to  thee, 

All-mercifiil,  all-bounteous,  be  henceforth 

My  morning,  evening  sacrifice.    And  hast  thou 

Raised  from  his  bed  of  dust  this  hapless  clay 

To  see  such  hours — to  pluck  these  blooms  of  joy 

Before  I  die.    When  I  forsook  the  world, 

I  vow'd  to  thee,  no  more  for  aught  to  seek. 

That  once  this  heart  held  dear.    Mysterious  heaven ! 

To  what  full  fount  of  joy  thy  guiding  hand 

Has  tum'd  the  weary  pilgrim's  narrow  path. 

Once  more  to  quaff  of,  ere  he  sinks.    O  God ! 

But  what  are  these  weak  thanks,  what  this  lip-ofiering? 

Does  not  the  voice  of  every  living  thing 

Praise  thee  in  mountain,  vale,  and  grove?    Shall  man 

But  lisp  the  echo  of  the  mighty  deeds. 

Done  by  thy  hand  omnipotent  on  earth  ? 

Lord,  ^ve  me  also  force  to  be,  like  thee. 

Good ;  and  like  thee,  to  love,  to  benefit. 

Whatever  thou  hast  created.    Soon  perhaps 

The  evening  comes :  then  let  me  labour  now. 

While  yet  *t  is  day :  and  be  my  faith  a  torch 

To  light  me  through  the  shadow,  that  in  vain, 

I  may  not  have  been  ransom'd  from  the  kingdom 

Of  darkness,  to  the  kingdom  of  thy  Son. 

Him  to  acknowledge  be  my  joy  and  duty ; 

Him  by  good  deeds  to  honour  my  delight ; 

Through  him  be  hallow'd.  Lord,  thb  day  unto  me. 

[Recha  and  the  Templar  entering. 
Rec.  O  Assad,  that  he  were  but  not  a  monk ! 
To  me  these  people  now  are  so  disgusting. 
Who  choose  to  wear  their  virtue  uppermost. 
On  the  outside,  as  if  there  were  a  risk 
It  should  escape  our  notice.    Hast  not  thou 
Some  sueh  a  feeling  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  147 

Temp.  Time  was,  when  I  had  it ; 

Rec.  For  if  the  in»de  be  but  what  it  ought. 
What  boots  the  cloak,  the  hood,  the  name?    Without 
An  that 't  will  be  discem'd. 

Temp.  Yes. 

Reg.  Then  their  vices. 
Their  malice — 

Temp.  Have  at  all  times  injured  more 
Than  serv'd  the  christian  cause. 

Rec.  Ay,  or  the  world. 
Work;  spake  the  God  who  made  us.    To  be  good 
At  other's  cost  is  imposition,  sin* 

Temp.  That 's  true  my  Recha;  but  thy  sentence  ought 
not 
To  pass  without  exception.    There  may  be, 
Among  the  number,  many  a  noble  spirit ; 
Indeed  in  all  large  bodies  there  must  be. 

Reg.  According  to  my  Daya's  pious  stories 
They  are  all  angels,  saints,  and  wonder-workers, 
By  means  of  whose  more  than  sufficient  virtue 
The  sinner  may  be  sav'd — the  rich  one  namely. 
Nathan  once  ask'd  her,  **  My  good  Daya,  tell  me 
How  much  of  cloister-virtue  would  this  purse 
Purchase?"    Since  then  she  talks  no  more  about  it. 

Temp.  'T  is  so  with  all  that 's  more  than  duly  prais'd. 
The  heart,  which  by  a  secret  consciousness 
Perceives  the  man  at  every  step  so  clearly, 
Uneasily  believes  in  the  assertion 
That  others  can  be  gods.    What  are  they  then  ? — 
What,  answers  Reason,  mere  men,  like  ourselves, 
But  a  few  shades  at  most  better  or  worse. 
While  Passion,  in  her  vengeance,  still  outstrips 
The  middle  path,  and  hurls  the  angel  headlong 
Down  into  the  abyss. 

Rec.  True ;  and  perhaps 
The  monk  bad  never  seem'd  to  me  so  odious. 
Had  not  her  over-weening  praise  provok'd 
Resentful  opposition. 

Temp.  Therefore,  Recha, 

L3 


148  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Let  us  be  cautious  :  where  excessive  praise 
Is  shower'd  by  some,  excessive  blame  by' others. 
We  ought  the  rather  look  to  find  mankind 
What  on  the  average  he  is.    * 

Rec.  And  yet 
This  self-denial  leagued  with  idleness — 
The  beggar's  garment,  with  profound  respect — 
The  world  renounc'd,  yet  counsell'd — ^^these  are  things 
That  hang  not  well  together. 

Temp.  So  it  seems. 
Still,  with  this  man,  such  contradictions  dwell  not. 
He  has  not  always  been  what  he  now  is. 
His  garment  hides  perhaps  his  station,  but 
Not  any  vice  most  surely.     He  forsook  not 
The  world  before  he  knew  it :  nor  despises 
The  good  that  it  contains :  nor  does  he  sit, 
For  all  his  hoary  head,  in  idleness 
Still  in  his  cell,  nor  lives  he  on  his  garb 
And  breviary.    He  's  useful  to  the  world. 
As  a  physician.     Who  can  tell,  but  God 
Have  sent  this  man  to  save  our  Saladin 
From  death. 

Rec.  O  such  be  heaven's  blessed  will ! 

Temp.  Perhaps  the  time  will  come,  when  the  monastic 
Life  shall  be  only  evening-holiday 
To  the  tir'd  wretch,  who  long  has  dragg'd  about 
The  load  of  life,  a  refuge  to  the  sufferer. 
An  aim  for  really  needy.     Then  indeed 
'T  would  be  a  benefit,  not  a  misfortune. 
How  oftien  does  the  fainting  pilgrim  look 
About  him  for  the  shade,  beneath  whose  coolness 
He  may  repose,  and  finds  none.     This  perhaps 
Was  what  our  monk  beneath  his  convent  sought. 
And  found. 

Rec.  Perhaps  so ;  but  where  is  he  ? 

Temp.  Yonder 
Within  the  arbour.     Look  how  nobly  pious, 
In  awful  thinkings  sunk. 

Rec.  Come  lead  me  to  him. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  149 

Temp.  Here,  my  good  monk,  here  is  she,  my  dear  Recba. 
\The  Monk  approaches  them,  and,  toward  the  end  of 
the  scene,  Abdallah. 

Rec.  Good  father,  thou  wouldst  save  our  Saladin — 
May  God  reward  thee  for  it ! 

Monk.  I  would,  my  daughter. 
So  it  be  his  holy  will,  whose  hand  unlocks 
The  gates  of  life  or  death. 
[He  takes  her  by  the  hand,  and  after  regarding  her  closely, 
continues  with  emotion.  How  blest  would  be 
Thy  father,  who  had  to  leave  thee  in  thy  childhood. 
Were  he  now  here,  and  held  thee,  like  myself. 
Thus  by  the  hand.     Dear  girl — 

Rec.  You  knew  my  father  ? 
Ass^d  was  telling  me  you  did — 

Monk.  I  knew  him 
Well,  as  myself;  and  we  were  friends,  my  daughter. 
As  close  as  soul  and  body. 

Rec.  Ay ! 

Monk..  Together, 
We  Ve  done  some  good,  some  not  ignoble,  deeds. 
And  he  would  thank  me,  if  he  liv*d,  that  now 
A  tear  of  joy,  my  child,  upon  thy  hand 
Dropt  from  me.     O  be  glad,  my  darling  childrep, 
That  one  day  ye  again  will  find  him  yonder. 
Where  all  good  men,  from  every  nation  cuU'd, 
Shall  meet  before  God's  throne.    Then  't  will  seem  to  you. 
As  if  ye  had  already  seen  him  once. 
Here  in  this  world. 

Rec.  You  do  not  know  as  yet 
That  I  am  not  of  his  faith. 

Temp.  O  yes,  he  knows  it. 

Rec  Then  you  must  think,  good  father,  that  a.  Jewess 
Too  in  your  paradise,  may  find  a  comer. 
Do  you  think  so  in  earnest  ? 

Monk.  A  good  Jewess — 
Why  not? 

Rec  And  you  're  a  christian,  and  a  monk? 
You  christians  are  not  over-bountiful. 


150  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

In  general,  with  your  heaven,  rince  holy  Peter 
Opens  and  shuts  it. 

Monk.  On  this  very  day 
I  would  renounce  my  faith,  in  case  the  gospel 
Denied  to  me  thu  hope,  this  joy,  this  bfiss : 
If  that  which  ought  to  teach  the  love  of  man. 
Taught  me  such  hate.    No,  Recha,  holy  Peter 
Is  not  in  fiiult,  if  men  will  thrust  their  brethren 
Out  into  helL    He  knew,  that  of  each  people. 
Whoe'er  acts  right,  and  lives  a  godly  life. 
Pleases  the  Lord. 

Rec.  Acts  right — ^believes  aright — 
That  is  their  phrase ;  and  those  who  won't  believe. 
They  extirpate,  as  though  they  were  appointed, 
By  Qod  the  judge,  vice-gerents.    Men  they  are  not. 
But  christians  only. 

Monk.  Christians  not ;  men  only. 
Men,  rude  untutor'd  men,  they  are,  my  Recha, 
And  they  profane  what  is  most  pure  and  holy, 
To  doak  their  plundering  murderous  purposes. 
They  do  not  know  what  Jesus  did,  not  know 
What  Jesus  taught,  and  they  believe  in  men. 
And  not  in  Qod,  or  in  his  son. 

Temp.  I  think  so. 
How  many  a  one  has  at  an  army's  head 
As  leader  strutted  proudly  forth,  whom  Peter, 
For  all  his  cross,  would  not  have  reckon'd  worthy 
To  loose  his  fetters  firom  him.    Judge  not,  sister. 
The  value  of  the  doctrine  by  their  actions, 
Who  only  bear  its  name,  and  know  but  that. 
And  are  by  so  much  worse,  because  it  lay 
With  them  to  have  been  better. 

Rbc.  Then  by  what? 
How  can  a  doctrine,  if  it  leave  the  heart 
So  bad,  be  good?    How  can  the  source  be  pure 
Whence  flow  such  troubled  waters  ? 

Tsiip.  And  why  not? 
If  *t  18  a  muddy  channel  which  they  flow  through? 

Monk.  What  have  the  pro^iets  ever  more  com 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  161 

Among  the  people^  than  idolatry  ? 

Was  Moses^  therefore,  an  idolater  ? 

Was  Jesus,  therefore,  not  the  friend  of  man, 

Because  his  noble  purpose  was  mistaken? 

And  hast  thou  never  drawn  from  this  pure  well, 

My  Recha,  never  read  how  Jesus  liv'd. 

And  what  he  taught,  and  how  he  lov'd  mankind. 

How  he  built  all  upon  the  love  of  God, 

That  every  heart  with  mutual  love  might  glow. 

Hast  thou  not  read  all  this,  my  dearest  Recha  ? 

Reg.  Never.    My  Daya  told  me  very  little 
Of  him,  but  much  about  her  saints.    And  reading 
Is  not  to  Nathan's  taste.    Experience, 
And  knowledge  of  mankind,  he  says,  not  books. 
Give  the  right  turn  to  minds. 

Monk.  O  read  it,  read  it. 
And  you  will  love  him,  Recha,  truly  love  him. 
The  man,  who  glow'd  with  ardor  so  divine 
To  see  his  fellow-men  all  happy,  who 
To  scatter  blessings  was  so  ready,  who 
Oppos'd  himself  precisely  to  the  proud 
Presumptuous  nationality  of  spirit. 
Seeking  to  gather  with  one  pastoral  staff 
All  nations,  and  the  jews ;  that  unto  all, 
One  Gt)d  should  heairken,  aiid  one  heaven  expand. 
Yes,  thou  wilt  love  him,  to  his  virtues  cling 
With  melting  bosom,  hang  upon  his  step 
With  eager  gladness,  when  he  wanders  round 
Among  his  people,  mighty  as  a  god. 
To  teach  and  bless.    And  when  the  noble  creature 
Is  taken  in  the  toils,  is  dragg'd  to  death, 
And  dying  prays  for  blessings  on  his  murderers. 
Then  will  my  Recha  press  against  his  cross 
Beside  his  mother,  and  will  pour  her  tears. 
And  sadly  turn  to  look  if  yet  on  earth 
There  dwell  liot  some  one  like  him,  and  find  none. 
Read  it,  my  Recha. 

Rec.  Really,  my  good  monk. 
You  are  impassioned  for  your  hero. 


152  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Monk.  Yes, 
Most  warmly.    Who  that  knows  him  would  deny  it? 

Rec.  'T  is  very  natural — thou  art  a  christian. 
Must  I  too  not  be  like  you  ?    Must  not  Moses 
Be  unto  me  as  dear,  as  Christ  to  you  ? 

Temp.  There  lies  the  knot,  my  friend;  she  is  not  as  we — 
How  can  she  look  oh  both  with  the  same  eyes 
As  we  behold  them.    Moses  is  to  her. 
What  Jesus  is  to  us. 

Rec.  If  him  your  fathers. 
Your  teachers,  bade  you  love ;  my  father  Nathan 
Taught  me  to  love  the  other.     Whom  believe  ? 

Monk.  The  truth,  my  Recha.    Read,  and  then  decide. 
To  me  my  fathers  taught  not  this  belief. 
No  more  than,  unto  Paul,  Gamaliel, 
Or  unto  the  first  christians,  their  forefathers. 

Temp.  You  were  not  bom  a  christian  ? 

Monk.  Assad,  no ; 
As  little  as  thy  father. 

Temp.  And  what  then  ? 
Amoslem? 

Monk.  About  that  inquire  no  further. 
Sufiice  it  I  am  a  christian ;  and  thank  God 
He  gave  me  to  become  so;  and  I  would  not 
For  all  the  good  things  of  this  world,  not  even 
For  life  itself,  exchange  that  happiness. 

Rec.  But  early  prejudices  cling  as  close 
And  as  inseparably  to  our  bosoms. 
As  to  yon  tree  the  early  bent  bestow'd 
By  the  gardener's  faithful  hand.    Can  I  renounce 
What  the  wise  Nathan  taught  to  me  for  truth  ? 

Monk.  Why  not  ? 

Rec.  Believe,  what  he,  as  mere  illusion, 
Held  out  to  me  so  strongly  ? 

Monk.  And  why  not, 
When  thy  experience  teaches  something  better  ? 
Thy  Nathan,  Recha,  now  believes  not  half. 
Of  what  his  parents  taught  him,  in  his  childhood.  . 
Rec.  May-be  in  things  of  this  world. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  153 

Temp.  Else  in  truth 
He  had  not  become  the  Wise. 

Monk.  Recha  was  saying 
In  things  of  this  world,  why  of  this  alone  ? 
Shall  not  a  man,  in  subjects  so  important 
As  his  own  soul,  his  life,  in  that  which  teaches 
To  use  the  good  things  of  this  world  with  prudence. 
And  if  they  are  taken  from  him,  which  exalts 
EUs  mind  above  things  earthly,  and  assists  him 
To  bear  his  sufferings  cheerfully,  by  planting 
Upon  his  grave  the  hope  of  future  bliss ; 
In  subjects  such  as  these,  shall  man  not  learn  ? 
Only  in  things  of  this  world  grow  the  wiser? 
O  read  it. 

Rec.  If  what  I  believe  be  truth. 
What  boots  the  teacher  whom  I  have  it  from, 
Moses,  or  Christ,  how  can  it  signify  ?  . 

Monk.    Yes,  very  much. . 

Rec.  There  spoke  the  monk,  good  father ; 
Thou  art  not  now  for  shutting  heaven  against  me, 
Wliich  thou  so  lovingly  didst  open? 

Monk.  No. 
But  hear  me,  Recha;  when  the  needy  man 
Receives  a  boon,  think'st  thou  the  giver  boots  not, 
Sultan,  or  emir,  is  it  all  one  to  him  ? 

Rec.  No,  not  all  one. 

Monk*  Why  not  ? 

Rec.  Because  the  one 
Gives  not,  as  gives  the  other.    Who  prefers  not 
Having  a  purse  bestow'd  him  by  the  sultan. 
To  picking  up  a  dinar  of  the  emir's  ? 
But  what  connection  has  that  with  my  faith  ? 

Monk.  If  Moses  were  the  emir,  Christ  the  sultan — 

Rec.  Well— 

Temp.  Would  you  rather  relish  to  receive, 
If  so,  the  sultan's  blessing,  than  the  emir's? 

Rec.  If  so,  I  should :  but  what,  if  both  of  them 
Were  but  the  sultan's  messengers  ? 

Monk.  E'en  then   »  ,  *  ' 


154  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  prudent  beggar  at  both  doors  would  knock ; 
To  hinij  who  most  bestows,  give  thanks  the  most, 
Afid  love  him  best.    Go,  ask  of  him,  my  daughter, 
He  will  not  send  thee  from  the  door  unblest. 

Rec.  But  what  would  Moses  say  to  that,  good  &thert 

Monk.  Maid,  is  thy  Moses  envious  ?   Would  he  not 
Rejoice  to  find,  that  by  his  first  instructions. 
His  pupil  were  become  so  sage  and  prudent, 
As  with  advantage  to  intrust  herself 
To  higher  teachers  ? 

Rec.  Sav*d  the  Jewess  may  be ; 
Wherefore  turn  christian  first? 

Monk.  And  might  we  not 
As  brutes  be  happy,  wherefore  then  be  men  ? 
Give  answer  to  thyself. 

Rec.  Why,  because  God 
Has  made  us  men.  ' 

Monk.  Recha,  is  human  nature 
Not  a  kind  gift  of  God,  because  he  also 
Lets  grass  grow  in  the  wilderness  for  brutes  ? 

Rec.  a  gift  most  kind. 

Temp.  Yes,  and  which  claims  of  us 
The  warmest  thanks? 

Monk.  In  its  own  sphere  each  being, 
So  it  has  been  ordain'd,  can  be  made  happy 
By  the  incomprehensibly  good  father 
Of  all.    But  the  more  nigh  you  draw,  in  powers. 
And  in  their  tendency  and  fit  employment. 
In  truth,  in  inward  peace,  and  virtuous  effort. 
To  the  Creator,  the  more  highly  rises 
Your  own  enjoyment.    And  this  happiness. 
My  dearest  children,  is  a  gift  of  God, 
Which,  for  the  sake  of  hb  dear  Son,  who  bore 
The  sins  of  all  men,  who,  by  his  instruction 
And  his  example,  taught  us,  like  to  God, 
To  think  and  act,  he  on  good  men  bestows 
In  part,  on  earth;  above,  in  all  its  fulness. 

Rec.  To  good  men — for  the  sake  of  his  dear  Son — 
Why  not  to  all,  if  he  redeem'd  them  all  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  155 

Monk.  Dear  girl,  behold  how  youth  with  all  its  charms 
Has  deck'd  thee — ^how^  with  living  bloom,  thy  cheeks — 

Rec.  So  courteous,  all  at  once ! 

Temp.  Quite  the  young  knight — 

Monk.  Hear  me.    A  lovely  form  is  not  an  empty 
Hut,  not  a  vacant  hermitage ;  thou  hast. 
As  I  perceive,  a  soul  too.    Thou  hast  wit, 
Hast  understanding,  dheerfulness,  a  precious 
Present  in  life ;  and  fortune  has  moreover 
Not  left  thee  unremember'd  in  her  favors. 

Rec.  Do  all  those  in  thy  cloister  argue  thus  ? 

Temp.  He  has  no  doubt  some  gentle  message.    Monk, 
Shorten  these  taking  prologues,  which  already 
Have  disappointed  many  a  girl's  warm  hopes : 
Come  to  the  point  at  once. 

Monk.  Do  hearken  to  me. 
With  all  this  excellence,  how  happy  were 
The  youth  whom  Recha  chose.    Thyself  thou  canst  not 
But  feel  how  capable  thou  art  of  blessing. 

Temp.  I  too,  I  too,  have  felt  it. 

Rec.  Well,  what  fiirther? 

Monk.  Yet  canst  thou  therefore  think,  that  every  one. 
In  the  enjoyment  of  these  real  goods. 
Were  alike  happy ;  each  without  distinction — 

Rec.  No. 

Monk.  Would  his  disappointment  be  your  fault? 

Rec.  Not  mine. 

Monk.  And  who  woidd  be  least  happy  with  you? 

Rec.  He  on  whose  breast  the  good  thou  findest  in  me 
Made  least  impression. 

Temp.  Truly  said,  my  sister. 
Thou  wouldst  be  for  the  fool  too  clever — too 
Cheerful  for  the  morose — too  beautiful 
For  envious  jealousy :  the  prodigal 
Would  think  thee  poor ;  and  every  son  of  vice 
Too  pure,  too  perfect,  Recha. 

Monk.  How  can  God  then 
Render  the  evil  happy,  like  the  good  ? 
With  all  his  loving-kindness,  all  the  bliss 


156  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

And  all  the  joy  and  happiness  of  heaven. 
How  make  the  evil  happy,  like  the  good. 
If  still  their  evil  bosoms  doat  on  vice, 
And  cannot  joy  in  good  ?     Where  there  is  sin. 
There  hell  is,  children. 

Rec.  kissing  his  hand.  O  my  worthy  father. 
Thou  hast  my  heart.     Thy  cowl  no  longer  seems 
So  horrible,  now  I  have  heard  thee  speak. 

Monk,  weeping.  I  thank  thee,  child. 

Temp.  Well,  Recha,  was  not  all 
I  told  you  true  ? 

Rec.  No  word  too  much,  my  Assad.; 
Oh,  what  a  comfort  to  the  heart  it  is 
To  have  been  disappointed  in  its  fears. 
And  find  one  good  man  more  upon  the  earth. 
Where  they  are  scarse.     Oh,  if  thy  Jesus  thought 
As  nobly  as  thyself — 

Monk.  As  I,  my  daughter  ? 
Do  not  blaspheme,  nor  take  the  feeble  outline 
Of  a  mere  shade  for  the  high  Being*s  self — 
As  I  ?  no,  child — as  God,  as  God,  so  nobly. — 

Rec.  How,  then,  shall  I  resist  the  fond  temptation 
To  love  this  noble  man  ? 

Monk.  Read,  read,  and  love  him ; 
Thy  heart  is  worthy  his. 

Temp.  Here  comes  Abdallah. 

Abd.  The  sultan  is  awake,  and  Sittah  sends  me 
To  seek  thee,  my  good  monk,  that  thou  may'st  see  him. 

Monk.  Friend,  I  obey ;  meanwhile  farewell,  my  children. 

Rec.  Come,  Assad,  let 's  go  with  him. 

Temp.  'T  was  my  wish ; 
If  you  will  take  us  also. 

Abd.  Holy  man, 
God  prosper  thee  in  this. 

Monk.  I  thank  you — come.  [They  go. 

Abd'.  cdone.  How  they  all  cling  to  him :  and  Sittah  too 
Is  prepossest  in  his  behalf,  and  even 
The  cautious  Nathan.    How  his  flattery  wins 
This  giaour  brood,  these  favourites  of  the  sultan. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  157 

He  seems  to  know  his  trade.    The  little  Jewess 

Just  now  must  kiss  his  hand — the  monk^  a  Jewess^ 

Charming !     Who  knows  what  lurks  beneath  a  cowl — > 

Sometimes  a  pimp,  a  deep  experienced  stager. 

Fit  for  a  Nathan's,  or  a  Sittah's  purpose, 

She  has  not  else  been  wont  to  like  the  christians. 

Would  but  the  imam  come — the  lure  is  ready. 

Thy  muddy  pate  is  just  the  thing  for  me, 

A  proper  bulwark  to  conceal  its  man : 

And  when  the  breach  is  made,  I  warrant  thee 

To  manage  for  myself  a  safe  retreat. 

Come,  my  good  Imam,  something  more  than  common 

Must  spring  of  this — be  bold,  Abdallah,  bold ; 

Show  thou  hast  head-piece.    Virtue — 't  is  a  farce, 

An  empty  name.     To  work  one's  own  advantage 

Is  the  true  virtue — and  with  grace  and  smoothness 

So  to  be  virtuous,  the  true  art  of  life. 

Therein,  Abdallah,  if  affairs  one  day 

Should  take  the  proper  turn,  display  thyself 

In  all  thy  greatness.     Such  a  man  as  thou  art, 

Cast  off,  put  by,  and  for  a  jew  too — ^ha ! 

Or  for  an  imam — even  for  a  monk, 

This  yet  was  wanting.     A  good  natur'd  man, 

Like  Saladin,  who  gives  just  as  it  comes. 

Aiming  by  all  this  bustle  of  munificence 

To  bribe  the  world,  is  easily  drawn  in 

By  any  snare :  and  be  it  so.     Who  knows 

To  what  he  may  exalt  this  monk,  in  case 

Their  scheme  succeeds.    He  would  not  be  the  first 

Who  firom  a  dervis  has  been  metamorphosed 

Into  a  servant  of  the  crown.     A  jew 

His  treasurer — well  hit  off— most  admirably — 

Go  on  then.    Hush !  be  cautious !  here  's  the  imam. 

You  are  come  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  sultan. 

Jez.  I  am,  is  he  asleep  still  ? 

Abd.  No  :  not  now. 

Jez.  Why,  I  was  told  so. 

Abd.  That  I  can  believe — 
<  Told  so^to  send  thee  gone,  my  dearest  imam. 


158  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Jez.  To  send  me-gone  ?  me  ? — 

Abd,  Thy  own  self. 

Jez.  Me?  me? 
That  is  not  possible :  you  err,  Abdallah — 
The  sultan  must  be  sleeping. 

Abd.  When  he  wakes, 
He  will  send  for  you :  was  not  that  their  phrase? 

Jez.  And  very  proper. 

Abd.  Proper  or  improper 
Is  not  the  question  now^  my  reverend  imam. 

Jez.  What  then  ? 

Abd.  What  then! — does  the  monk  think  it  proper? 
He  will  send  for  you.    That  amuses  me. 
You  may  wait  long  before  he  wakes,  my  firiend; 
I  question  if  he  '11  be  awake  to-day. 

Jez.  That 's  a  bad  symptom,  lethargy ! 

Abd.  Yes,  bad. 
Imam,  for  you,  ha!  ha!  for  you,  my  grave  one. 

Jez.  Art  laughing  at  me,  mamaluke?  take  care; 
A  man  of  my  condition  does  not  bear 
Such  things  quite  coolly. 

Abd.  Ha !  who  would  not  laugh  ? 
You  are  a  pious  honest  man.    I  say 
No  more.    Throughout  aU  Syria  't  is  known 
That  in  the  law  your  equal  is  not  found. 
Not  to  distress  your  modesty,  I  say 
No  more. 

Jez.  Abdallab,  't  is  our  duty 
To  hear,  as  *t  is  to  speak,  the  truth,  at  all  times ; 
Even  when  it  pains  us. 

Abd.  So  it  is,  my  Jezid, 
For  self-denial  is  the  crowning  virtue. 

Jez.  How  is  that  meant  ?  am  I  denying  aught  ? 
Truth  should  not  be  denied.    You  talk  unciearly. 

Abd.  Oh,  if  you  come  to  disputation,  Jezid, 
I  must  be  off:  for  who  would  break  a  lance 
In  argument  with  Jezid  ?  not  Abdallab. 

Jez.  So  I  should  think ;  now  laugh  again,  Abdallab. 

Abd.  No,  not  just  now.  Shall  you  succeed,  do  you  thiol^) 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  169 

b  curing  Saladin  ? 

Jez*  And  is  there  aughjt 
To  blame  in  my  prescription  ? 

Abd.  Not  that  I  know. 

Jez.  Theui  fellow,  hold  your  tongue ;  nor  talk  of  things 
You  cannot  understand.    Talk  of  your  sabre. 
But  not  of  science ;  leave  such  things  to  us. 

Abd.  Forgive. 

Jez.  This  fever  can  't  be  vanquished  quickly ; 
Disease  so  rooted  needs  a  remedy 
Of  more  than  vulgar  efficacy. 

Abd.  Yes, 
My  dearest  imam,  but  not  you,  I  fear. 
Will  have  to  administer. 

Jez.  Who  then  ?  who  then  ? 

Abd.  a  monk,  a  christian  monk. 

Jez.  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Can  you  so  underrate  my  science  as — 

Abd.  I  underrate  your  science,  my  good  imam  ? 
Who  feels  it,  trusts  it,  more  than  your  Abdallah  ? 
Hippocrates  and  Galen,  in  my  eyes. 
Hardly  deserve  to  weigh  your  drugs. 

Jez.  Well,  well. 
What  do  you  hint  at  then? 

Abd.  Be  patient,  patient — ' 
It  vexes  me  too. 

Jez.  Vexes  thee — what  vexes  ? 

Abd.  To  see  such  merit,  and  such  science — 

Jez.  What? 

Abd.  Mistaken,  overlook'd,  despised — 

Jez.  By  whom  ? 

Abd.  By  Saladin,  as  it  should  seem,  despised. 

Jez.  The  sultan  despise  Jezid — that  is  false. 

Abd.  Here  comes  a  monk  whom  no  one  knows — 

Jez.  For  what? 

Abd.  Comes  from  Jerusalem — 

Jez.  For  what,  I  say  ? 

Abd.  This  monk  of  Libanon,  they  call  him,  comes — 

Jez.  Provoking  man,  do  tell  me  what  he  comes  for. 


160  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Abd.  He  *8  a  physician,  and  intends — 

Jez  Intends? 

Abd.  To  cure — 

Jez.  Cure  whom  ? 

Abd.  The  sultan,  Saladin : 
Our  own  sick  sultan :  do  you  know  him,  imam  ? 

Jez.  Cure  him?  cure  him?  and  will  he  let  himself 
Be  cur'd  by  such  a  one,  a  christian  monk  ? 
I  scorn  him.     What  can  he  know  about  curing  ? 
Bring  him  to  me,  I  '11  teach  him  how  to  cure ; 
Bring  him  to  me. 

Abd.  He  now  is  with  the  sultan. 

Jez.  Who  knows  like  me  the  changes  of  a  fever. 
The  genus,  symptoms,  predisposing  causes. 
At  the  first  glance,  to  class  and  to  appretiate. 

Abd.  Oh,  no  one,  no  one. 

Jez.  Thstt  is  known,  I  think — 

Abd.  To  the  whole  world. 

Jez.  Yet  Saladin — 

Abd.  So  wont 
To  argue  and  dispute  with  his  dear  Jezid ; 
Who  seem'd  to  play  at  chess  with  none  so  gladly 
As  his  dear  Jezid — 

Jez.  Ay! 

Abd.  But  times  will  alter. 

Jez.  Go  fetch  him  here,  this  monk,  this  hooded  doctor. 

Abd.  Now  ? — he  is  with  the  sultan. 

Jez.  No  :  thou  liest. 
Accursed  mamaluke. 

Abd.  Look — ^here  comes  Nathan 
And  Sittah — {aside  very  opportunely) — now, 
Enquire  of  them,  and  hear  with  your  own  ears. 
If  all  are  prejudiced  in  this  monk's  favor. 
If  your  own  fame  for  science  still  retains 
Its  rank  at  court,  or  has  declin'd. 

Jez.  I  stifle: 
The  blood  seems  starting  through  my  very  eye-balls. — 
A  monk !  a  christian  dog ! 
Abd.  Be  calm,  my  friend ; 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  161 

And  curb  awhile  this  honourable  pride. 
This  feir  ambition.     Bear  what  can't  be  alter'd, 
Display  your  natural  forbearance,  your 
Command  of  temper,  your  inimitable 
Disdain  of  envy, 

Jez.  Lend  me  but  a  sword, 
I  'd  smite  him  in  the  presence  of  the  sultan. 

Abd.  Hush!  they  are  coming:  let  us  in  the  arbour 
Remain  unseen ;  they  will  be  talking  of  him, 
I  warrant  you.     Such  is  the  expectation 
To-day  of  the  result  of  his  prescriptions, 
All  mouths  are  full  of  him,  there  is  not  leisure, 
Even  at  court,  to  ask  what  weather  't  is. 

[AbdaUah  draws  Jezid  into  the  bower. 

SITTAH  and  NATHAN. 

Sit.  You  really  think  so  ? 

Nath.  Sittah,  I  've  received 
More  than  one  letter  from  Jerusalem 
Through  trusty  hands — an  universal  mourning 
There  seizes  every  heart ;  so  much  they  feel 
The  sultan's  worth ;  all  pray  but  for  his  life. 

Sit.  God  hearken  to  their  prayers. 

Nath.  E'en  the  needy 
Forgo  their  pressing  wants,  and  give  their  alms 
To  needier  still,  that  heaven  may  hear  their  prayers. 

Sit.  That  is  affecting !    What  proud  monument, 
What  panegyric  e'er  in  thy  behalf, 
O  virtue,  spoke  so  eloquently.     But 
What  learn  you  of  the  monk  ? 

Nath.  He  has  done  wonders, 
Has  not  his  equal. 

Sit.  Oh,  should  he  but  save  him — 

Nath.  As  to  his  heart,  't  is  good.  To  him  too,  christian, 
Jew,  mussulman,  (firm  as  his  own  faith  is) 
Are  weigh'd  and  valued  at  their  real  worth  : 
Where  help  is  wanted,  all  are  neighbours  to  him. 
Unless  requir'd  to  do  so,  he  converses 

VOL.  II.  M 


162  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Little  about  religion. 

Sit.  Acts  the  more. 
I  cannot  fancy  those,  who  make  believing 
In  God  and  virtue,  their  pretext  for  spending 
Superfluous  breath  a  little  decently* 

Nath.  And  yet  he  seems  to  me  a  man,  who  never 
Shuns  any  step,  where  virtue  and  where  truth 
Claim  his  support.   My  hopes  in  him  are  fervent. 

Sit.  How  I  rejoice  that  we  have  been  relieved 
From  our  mistrust. 

Nath.  My  heart  reproach'd  me  for  it. 

Sit.  Yet  thy  precautions  were  but  right. 

Nath.  May  be. 
'T  is  well  to  see  and  hear,  and  to  examine. 
Before  one  sits  in  judgement.    That  sly  courtier. 
As  is  the  way  of  such,  would  fain  have  utter'd 
Something  important,  not  indifferent 
To  his  advancement,  his  insinuations 
Aim'd  but  at  flattery — 

Sit.  That 's  a  wretched  mirror 
To  real  merit,  Nathan;  't  is  the  glass 
Without  the  silvering.    The  imam  too 
Appears  to  me  none  of  the  best  of  men. 

Nath.  Still  less  so  of  physicians.    I  have  wonder'd 
How  Saladin  can  bear  him  so  perpetually. 

Sit.  Not  from  regard.    By  his  proud  forwardness, 
And  shameless  zeal,  he  has  contrived  to  acquire 
The  favor  of  the  many ;  with  the  people 
He  has  authority ;  and  in  a  court 
'T  is  pleasantest  to  fool  away  the  time 
"With  shallow  fellows,  easily  seen  through. 
The  sultan  too  is  fond  of  disputation : 
But  who  is  wilUng  to  dispute  with  sultans : 
The  prudent  man  avoids  it :  and  the  flatterer 
Lets  him  be  right.    Whom  could  he  fix  upon. 
As  laughable  as  is  his  stupid  pride. 
As  troublesome  as  is  his  hasty  anger, 
Jezid  is  still  the  very  man  to  amuse  him. 
The  making  choice  of  men  is  not  the  slightest 
Of  difiiculties. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  163 

Nath.  For  the  powerful. 

Sit.  Not  long  since^  they  were  walking  here  together 
More  confidentially  than  usual.    Sure 
Abdallah  must  have  need  of  him ;  for  mostly 
A  civil  irony  is  all  he  deigns 
To  waste  upon  the  imam. 

Nath.  Not  impossible ! 
Two  well-match'd  beings.    Wind  and  water — yet 
Likely  enough  to  gender  storms  between  them. 
Perhaps  without  his  remedies,  the  sultan 
Might  have  been  well  by  thb  time.    A  prim'd  booby. 
Who  knows  his  dialectics  all  by  heart, 
And  loves  to  puzzle ;  but  with  all  his  dulness 
More  dangerous  than  the  other.    Without  men 
Of  that  description,  this  Abdallah  would  not 
Dare  aught  ambs  ;  he  must  have  l?ow-loops  whence 
To  shoot  in  safety.    I  am  much  mistaken, 
If  the  sly  flatterer  has  not  just  been  placing 
An  arrow  firom  his  quiver. 

Sit.  That  may  be ; 
But  now  the  mark  can  be  no  longer  hit. 
Let  us  go  in ;  't  is  time  for  me  to  hear 
If  Saladin  be  sleeping — ^if  ^wake. 
Whether  this  sad  delirium  has  retum'd. 

[Abdallah  and  Jesaid  quit  the  bower. 

Abd.  How  fare  ;^ou,  Jezid  ?  did  I  tell  you  fables  ? 
You  must  have  bath'd  in  praise. 

Jez.  What !  how !  must  I, 
I  hear  all  this,  and  firom  a  jew,  and  bear  it; 
And  from  a  woman  too.    Mark'd  you  the  fellow  ?    . 
Yes,  he  is  damned,  that  jew !     Oh,  I  could  tear 
His  heart  out  of  his  body ;  such  a  brood 
Of  unbeUeving  dogs!     I,  a  prim'd  booby- 
It  boils.    I  '11  have  revenge.    I  swear,  I  will — 
As  true  as  I  am  Jezid,  that  I  vow  you, 
Jew,  by  the  koran ! 

Abd.  And  what  will  you  do  ? 

Jez.  I?  I? 

Abd.  Ay,  you,  my  imam. 

Ms 


164  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Jez.  I  '11 — 

Abd.  Will  what? 
The  understanding  is  a  very  calm 
And  patient  husband ;  who  soon  walks  away 
When  passion,  his  fierce  wife,  begins  to  storm. 
Nor  comes  again  till  the  noise  ceases. 

Jez.  1 11— 

Abd.  So  long  as  you  are  angry,  I  was  saying. 
Your  understanding  will  be  roaming  forth. 
And  take  no  cognizance  of  what 's  at  home. 
The  sage  is  master  of  his  passions. 

Jez.  What! 
Lessons  to  me — the  imam  ? 

Abd.  Lessons,  no : 
Offers  of  humble  aid  in  thy  revenge. 
To  see  a  man,  like  you,  so  injured,  scorn'd. 
Pierces  my  very  soul,  a  man  like  you. 

Jez.  Injur'd  and  scorn'd — shall  such  a  one  as  be 
Scorn  me  unpunish'd  ?    Speak  it  not  again : 
I  have  two  fists. 

Abd.  Ay,  so  I  see. 

Jez.  1 11  show  you. 

Abd.  Me,  my  brave  imam  ?   Let  your  injurers  feel — 
I  could  have  counsell'd  you. 

Jez.  Do  I  need  counsel  ? 

Abd.  How  to  avenge  yourself;  (as  if  going)  remember 
this. 
That  once  a  friend  was  ready  to  advise  you, 
That  to  his  love  you  then  turn'd  a  deaf  ear. 
And  if  hereafter  you  should  wish  for  one, — 
May  you  look  round  in  vain.    Jezid,  I  am  going. 
Abandon  thee  to  all  this  shame.    Take  vent. 
And  rage  thyself  to  death.    The  monk  will  better 
Know  how  to  use  advice. 

Jez.  Who,  who,  the  monk? 
And  wilt  thou  too  desert  to  my  worst  foes. 
Curst  mamaluke  ? 

Abd.  Jezid — to  thy  worst  foes ; 
Since  thou  hasfr  not  an  ear  for  thy  best  friend. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  165 

Nor  value  for  his  counsel. 

Jez.  What  can  that  be  ? 

Abd.  I  should  have  much  to  say^  if  you  could  listen. 

Jez.  Well,  let  us  hear. 

Abd.  a  secret  were  ill  lodged, 
Where  all  is  in  such  ferment.    Fare  thee  well. 

Jez.  staying  him.  Stay — let  me  hear ;  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Abd.  Do?  do? 
You  urge  me  then  to  speak  ? 

Jez.  Ay,  speak. 

Abd.  Beware^ 
Least  this  mad  anger  get  the  upperhand 
Once  more,  and  do  not  interject  a  word, 
A  syllable,  between  my  sayings ;  else 
I  am  off— 

Jez.  Well,  speak  then ;  I  am  calm. 

Abd.  You  have  been  scorn'd,  despised. 

Jez.  Would  you  insult  me ! 
Don't  I  know  that  already  ? 

Abd.  Fare  thee  well. 

Jez.  No,  speak. 

Abd.  How  should  I?    Yes  or  no — if  not 
It  is  all  done  with. 

Jez.  Well. 

Abd.  Thou  hast  been  injured — 

Jez.  Granted. 

Abd.  And  would  have  vengeance  ? 

Jez.  Yes! 

Abd.  On  whom  ? 

Jez.  Is  that  a  question  ? 

Abd.  Briefly  say  on  whom. 

Jez.  On  Sittah,  on  the  jew. 

Abd.  How? 

Jez.  How,  I  know  not. 

Abd.  Then  hear:  in  their  own  net  they  might  be  caught. 

Jez.  In  their  own  net — where  's  that  ? 

Abd.  That  is — ^the  monk. 
And  his  high-vaunted  cure. 

Jez.  Catch  them  in  that? 


166  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

I  understand  thee  not. 

Abd.  Well,  then,  be  told — 
How,  if  he  thought  of  poisoning  the  sultan  ? 

Jez.  'T  would  serve  him  right. 

Abd.  But  that  he  is  not  plotting. 

Jez.  You  think  him — ^not  a  monk? 

Abd.  He  is  too  honest. 

Jez.  Who  knows  all  that?  ' 

Abd.  Whoever  knows  mankind. 
But  what  if  he  could  now  be  brought  to  own 
That,  'stead  of  medicine,  he  had  given  poison — 

Jez.  I  do  not  see — 

Abd.  Hush,  Jezid,  some  one  comes ; 
Withdraw  with  me,  and  hear  the  plan  I  've  form'd.      [Go. 

SALADIN,  home  on  a  Palanquin,  SITTAH,  NATHAN, 

and  cffterwards  the  MONK. 

Sal.  Now  set  me  down  awhile.    Oh,  how  much  freeer 
The  heart  feels  here !    'T  is  a  delight  to  breathe. 
Amid  the  open  lofty  halls  of  nature. 
An  air  so  fresh  and  strengthening.    How  reviving 
Is  the  whole  prospect  round !    Green,  full  of  life. 
All  things  about  us  breathing  joy  and  love ! 
And  this  magnificently  vaulted  sky. 
So  clear  and  blue,  immeasurable,  where 
No  eye  can  penetrate,  yet  none  discern 
A  dark  and  frightful  deep,  a  gloomy  chasm. 
There  too  dweUs  joy,  and  future  bliss  iot  man, 
Tho'  what  he  gazes  on  be  yet  unknown. 
'T  is  from  that  very  deep  that  blazes  forth 
The  light,  which  serves  to  show  his  present  way 
To  the  poor  earthly  pilgrim.    Sittah,  see, 
'T  is  from  that  deep  the  light  flows  on  us  mortals. 
Know'st  thou  how  far  't  is  thither,  to  the  slource 
Whence,  through  the  tnighty  space  of  God's  creations, 
The  glowing  stream  of  life  expands,  and  pours 
Bliss  into  our  faint  bosoms  ? 

Sit.  Who  can  tell. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  167 

My  Saladin^  it  is  enough  for  us 
That  we  behold  it. 

Sal.  Soon  perhaps,  my  Sittah, 
l^y  dearest  Sittah,  I  from  yonder  sun 
With  boundless  and  delighted  glance  shall  look 
Down  on  this  bower,  and  see  my  Sittah  stray  there 
And  weep  there  for  her  friend  who  fell  asleep. 
Weep  not  too  much  for  me,  my  dearest  sister, 
When  by  the  brooks  of  paradise,  beneath 
Groves  redolent  of  ever-blooming  spring 
Thy  faithful  Saladin  shall  wander  with 
Daughters  of  immortality,  and  from 
The  silver  source  of  life  eternal  quaff 
Fulness  of  joy.    No,  Sittah,  trouble  not 
The  bliss  I  then  shall  taste  with  tears  like  these. 
To-day  I  am  otherwise  than  yesterday. 

Nath.  Thanks  to  the  God,  who  gives  thee  comfort, 
sultan. 

Sal.  Yes,  thanks  to  him,  pure  thanks.   How  well  I  feel ; 
Now  I  shall  meet  the  tomb,  and  meet  the  judge, 
With  willing  soul.    I  saw  him  smile,  and  look 
Forgiveness  on  the  outcast.    No ;  Ufe,  life, 
With  all  its  blessings,  is  a  very  nothiQg 
To  that  blest  look  of  pardon,  which  infuses 
Into  the  weary  soul  of  the  poor  sinner 
Eternal  consolation.    No,  my  dear  ones, 
Life  weigh'd  with  this  is  nothing.    I  must  tell  you 
How  blest  a  vision  I  beheld  while  sleeping. 

Nath.  If  speaking  will  not  flurry  you  too  much. 
As  it  did  yesterday* 

Sit.  Do  spare  yourself. 
My  best  one ;  you,  perhaps,  are  not  aware 
That  you  grew  half  delirious  with  talking. 
It  frighten'd  us  most  dreadfully,  my  brother. 
Be  calm,  for  God's  sake ! 

Sal.  That  I  shall,  my  sister. 
And  that  I  may  be  so,  I  must  be  heard  ; 
For  joy  needs  sympathy  no  less  than  grief. 
Else  it  oppresses.    Ob,  I  went  through  griesly 


168  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

And  fearful  scenes,  whose  very  recollection 
Shatters  my  soul  into  the  grave. 

Sit.  I  pray  thee 
Load  not  thy  heart  and  ours  again. 

Sal.  No,  no, 
Let  me  but  speak.    Enough,  I  died. — It  felt 
So  cool  within  the  grave,  so  still  and  calm — 
No  voice  of  friend  or  kindred  there  was  heard, 
And  every  power,  at  pause  in  empty  space. 
Kept  the  dread  sabbath  of  the  dead.    At  rest 
Was  nature's  every  pulse,  and  darkness  all. 
At  once,  as  lightning  flashes,  't  was  uptom ! — 
I  liv'd. — I  swam  amid  a  thousand  suns. 
Saw  aD,  saw  nothing — God,  how  felt  I  there ! 
The  portals  of  Kaaba  roU'd  asunder. 
A  frowning  form,  whose  bare  arm  streak'd  with  blood, 
Brandish'd  a  warrior's  sword,  whose  eye  glar'd  wrath, 
Whose  left  hand,  wide  across  the  nations  stretch'd. 
Upheld  large  leaves  unrolling :  fierce  he  stood 
A  conqueror's  ghost — around  him  corse-strown  fields 
In  endless  desolation.    On  my  face 
I  fell  and  pray'd :  **  God,  to  us  both  be  gracious. 
To  him  and  me,  both  of  us  have  spilled  blood." 
But,  when  I  rose  again,  the  dream  was  gone. 
And  a  huge  mountain  was  uprais'd  before  me. 
Whose  summit  storms  involv'd,  and  lightnings  flash'd 
Through  the  dense  smoak.    A  man,  his  visage  shining. 
As  came  he  firom  the  presence  of  the  Almighty, 
Stepp'd  through  the  thundering  clouds,  on  his  right  arm 
The  tables  of  the  law — thy  Moses,  Nathan. 

Nath.  Ay — I  perceive  it. 

Sal.  Then  methought  I  kneel'd 
And  pray'd :  "  Have  pity  on  me,  man  of  God ;" 
When  lo !  the  glory  on  his  forehead  vanish'd, 
I  saw  but  the  mere  man.     Canst  thou,  said  he. 
With  blood  of  sacrifices  wash  out  sin  ? 
**  No,  Moses,  no :  not  animals  I  slay'd, 
But  men,  who  were  my  brethren,  living  men." 
Then  fled  this  vision,  and  a  lower  hill 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  169 

Lay  stretch'd  before  me.    On  a  cross  there  hung 
A  bleeding  man  in  torture^  nigh  to  death : 
I  look'd  on  him.  .  No  sin  was  in  his  face, 
But  patience  under  suffering,  and  much  pity, 
Much  tender  mercy  there.     He  looked  around, 
As  if  be  sought  for  men  to  take  with  him 
Up  to  God*s  throne.     And  many  came,  all  poor 
And  wretched  sinners.     And  along  with  them 
I  flung  myself  upon  the  ground,  quite  melted 
By  his  kind  look,  and  I  besought  him :  "  Lord 
Have  pity  too  on  me."    O  Sittah,  Nathan, 
How  my  soul  felt !'    Toward  me  the  dying  man 
Inclined  his  head,  and  mildly  spake :  "  To-day 
Thou  too  shalt  be  with  me  in  paradise." 
Like  God's  creative  breath  it  swell'd  my  heart. 
My  paird  and  languid  heart,  with  novel  life. 
I  woke,  and  felt  new  made.    To-day,  to-day, 
Still  rings  within  my  ear.     Who  knows  ere  night 
What  yet  may  come  to  pass. 

Nath.  'T  is  but  a  dream, 
My  sultan. 

Sal.  But  a  dream  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  besides. 
Let  me  dream  on,  don't  make  my  joy  to  water, 
I  am  not  perhaps  the  first  who,  when  he  sleeps, 
Thinks  soundest.     Who  shall  to  eternal  love 
Prescribe  the  way  in  which  to  comfort  man  ? 
He  best  must  understand  the  road  to  the  heart, 
Surely,  who  made  it.    While  we  are  broad  awake, 
We  may  dispute  ourselves  to  fools,  and  then 
A  dream  can  set  all  right  again.     Be  proud 
Of  thy  vdn  wisdom,  man — and  die ! 

Sit.  But  wherefore 
Talk  so  repeatedly  of  death,  my  brother. 
You  must  not  die. 

Sal.  To-day,  to-day !    No  longer 
Is  the  thought  drest  in  terror.    Have  I  not 
Already  once  been  dying  ?    While  we  live, 
Let  us  however  think  of  doing  good. 


170  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Don*t  spare  the  treasure — ^it  is  plundered  wealth — 
While  it  lasts^  give — the  best  end  it  can  come  to — 
And  when  I  die^  display  my  shroud  to  the  people. 
And  say :  "  Behold  what  Saladin  retains 
Of  all  his  conquests !" 

Sit.  beckoning  the  monk,  who  appears  in  the  dUiance. 
God  forbid  thy  Sittah 
Should  ever  have  any  such  monument 
To  build  up  to  thy  virtues !    Now,  my  brother. 
Be  thoughtful  of  thy  life.    Behold  the  man. 
Whom  God  perhaps  has  sent  for  thy  salvation. 

Sal.  Come  nearer,  friend,  you  are  welcome ;  take  my 
thanks, 
Both  to  your  people  and  yourself. 

Monk.  I  bring  thee. 
Sultan,  from  them  a  thousand  prayers  and  wishes 
For  thy  long  life,  and  thanks — 

Sal.  To  me  from  them ! 

Monk.  Thanks  well  deserv'd. 

Sal.  That  I  have  been  no  tiger. 
Have  been  a  man ;  and,  if  they  paid  me  tribute. 
Left  them  their  lives — that  often  in  a  day 
I  Ve  squander'd  more  in  indiscriminate  bounty 
Than  might  have  gladden'd  thousands  for  a  year. 

Monk.  Accept  instead  of  thanks,  thou  worthy  man. 
These  tears,  and  long  long  live  to  bless  thy  people. 

Sal.  That  rests  with  God.    What  think  you,  friend. 
Of  my  complaint  ?   Have  not  my  friends  inform'd  you? — 

MoNK.y!?e&  his  puke.  Yes :  but  I  wish  myself  to  ascertain 
The  fever's  violence. 

Sal.  while  offering  his  wrist.  Here — how  is  it  now? 

Monk.  How?  tolerable! 

Sal.  So  it  feels  to  me. 

Monk.  That  this  good  hour  may  not  be  lost,  allow 
Me  to  retire  awhile. 

Sal.  Go  then,  my  friend. 

Monk.  The  sun  is  climbing — 't  would  be  well  perhaps 
To  pass  back  to  your  chamber. 

Sal.  to  the  palanquin-bearers.  Take  me  back. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRr.  171 


ACT  III. 

SCENE, — Saladin'g  Sick-room. 
SALADIN,  SITTAH,  RECHA,  and  ABDALLAH. 

Sal.  The  man  delights  me^  children ;  he  is  no  prater, 
Nor  fiiller  of  his  promise  than  performance : 
His  draught  has  been  instilling  a  new  life 
Thro'  all  my  frame. 

Reg.  Most  certainly,  if  he 
Knows  but  as  well  to  work  upon  the  body 
As  he  does  on  the  heart,  he  '11  put  to  flight 
Grim  Death  and  all  his  host. 

Sit.  The  heart,  my  Recha, 
Can  he  speak  to  the  heart  ? 

Rec.  Most  potently. 

Sal.  And  is  a  monk,  an  aged  monk?    Why,  girl. 
Lurks  waggery  beneath  his  cowl  ? 

Abd.  taking  Sittah  cmde.  One  word — 

[After  a  short  conversation^  he  withdraws, 

Rec.  Nay,  understand  me,  sultan,  I  myself 
Put  him  upon  it. 

Sal.  Fie!  that  is  not  pretty ; 
Recha  in  love,  and  not  to  mention  it. 
We  could  have  help'd  her  to  a  husband,  surely. 

Rec.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  this  one,  could  you  ? 

Sal.  No: 
And  therefore  do  not  be  ^ddy. 

Rec.  My  kind  sultan, 
I  can  't  deny  it ;  I  do  really  love  him. 

Sit.  Impossible,  my  Recha ;  I  was  fancying 
This  monk  is  weak  of  wit — a  fond  old  man. 

Sal.  Who,  Sittah  ? 

Sit.  Then  Abdallah  has  been  saying — 


172  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Rec.  What  was  he  telling  you  ? 
Sit.  That  he  was  sure 
This  monk  is  but  a  go-between,  a — 

Sal.  What? 

Sit.  That  Recha  kist  his  hands. 

Sal.  How,  how  has  Recha — 

Rec.  Oh,  't  is  all  true,  I  love  him  from  my  heart ; 
And  still  more  yon,  whom  he  believes  in.     He 
Described  him  to  me  in  so  fair  a  light, 
Drew  him  so  amiable,  as  the  wooer 
Would  paint  his  object  to  the  maiden's  heart. 
So  much  truth  shone  thro*  each  expression :  such 
Unacted  warmth  of  feeling  glow'd  his  lips : 
That,  while  he  spake,  I  could  not  have  forborne 
To  kiss  his  hand  for  it. 

Sal.  pleased.  My  dearest  Recha, 
God  pardon  thee  the  sin !     Why  play  upon  us 
Thus  ?    It  was  then  of  Christianity 
You  were  conversing  ? 

Rec.  Sultan,  yes :  but  not 
With  that  proud  violence  and  angry  zeal, 
Fit  to  take  heaven  by  storm,  as  we  are  taught 
To  think  these  people  come. 

Sit.  And  Recha  listened 
So  patiently  the  while;  Recha  who  holds 
Her  faith  so  dear. 

Rec.  E'en  Sittah  would  have  listen'd. 

Sal.  Do  let  him  come ;  I  fain  would  hear  him  too. 
Go  for  him,  daughter,  bring  him. 

Rec.  And  will  Saladin 
Allow  us — 

Sal.  To  be  present  ?  Yes,  yes,  go.  [Recha  goes. 

Sit.  I  scarsely  can  help  laughing  at  Abdallah. 

Sal.  He 's  always  so  officious. 

Sit.  And  mysterious. 
As  if  he  had  miracles  to  tell  us  of. 

Sal.  Sheer  malice. 

Sit.  For  one  cannot  but  perceive 
He  is  not  friendly  to  the  monk. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  173 

Sal.  You  think  so. 

Sit.  Surely ;  and  even  he  had  very  nearly 
Outwitted  Nathan. 

Sal.  Ohy  I  know  him  well ; 
A  studied^  practised,  rascal,  who  conceals 
Beneath  the  sugar  of  his  flatteries 
Nothing  but  poison.    Mind  his  little  eyes. 
Lurking  as  if  in  ambush,  never  open. 
Like  thieves  beneath  the  eyelids  of  the  night 
Crawling  for  shelter,  least  the  glare  of  dawn 
Should  track  their  guilty  steps,  and  stay  their  flight. 
And  drag  them  to  the  judgement-seat  of  day. 
Askant,  unsteady,  never  meeting  you 
Full  in  the  black  of  the  eye ;  I  hate  his  looks. — 
Then  round  about  his  mouth,  those  feverish,  swift. 
Convulsive,  movements — 't  is  a  villain's  face, 

[The  monk  and  Recha  approach. 
But  there  behold  simplicity  and  truth. 
An  honest  countenance. 
Rec.  Here,  here  he  is. 

Sal.  to  the  monk.  You  are  accused  of  having  won  this 
maid's 
Affections,  monk.     By  what  forbidden  arts, 
What  wicked  witchcraft,  who  can  say  ?    She  loves  you. 
Does  she* not? 

Monk.  So  it  seems — at  least  I  wish  it 
Most  earnestly,  my  sultan ;  for  I  love 
Her  as  a  daughter. 

Rec.  I  him,  as  a  father. 
My  Conrade  and  thy  Assad,  sultan,  also 
Loves  him  not  less :  e'en  Nathan  is  his  friend. 
Sal.  And  yet  we  have  been  told  you  are  a  seducer. 
Monk.  Thank  God  that  Saladin  is  grown  so  cheerful — 
I  am  fain  to  answer  yes.    I  have  endeavour'd. 
So  far  as  in  me  lay,  to  draw  aside 
Mankind  from  ways  of  sin;   to  win  them  over 
To  the  pure  love  of  him,  who  fills  this  bosom, 
h  dearer  to  me  than  my  very  life. — 
If  you  call  this  seduction,  Saladin^ 


174  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

I  must  plead  guilty. 

Sal.  That  you  must  indeed : 
But  by  what  talisman  ? 

Monk.  O  Sultan,  ask  not ; 
If  you  would  punish  using  spells  like  mine. 
On  you  first  falls  the  penalty.    I  love  you — 
The  heart  that 's  heartily  given  buys  the  heart. 
And  I  have  seldom  found  that  talisman 
Unable  to  evoke  affection,  where 
The  soul  is  nncorrupt. 

Sal.  But  you  are  seeking 
To  draw  them  over  to  your  faith,  why  that? 

Monk.  Because  I  love  them. 

Sal.  Are  the  rest  of  us 
Then  to  be  damn'd  ?    What  say  you  ? 

Monk.  Jesus  Christ 
Has  no  where  taught  me  to  decide  on  that; 
God  only  knows  who  merits  hell,  and  who 
Is  capable  of  heaven.    To  us  expressly 
It  is  forbid  to  judge — but  not  to  love — 
Love  one  another  is  the  great  behest. 

Sal.  How  canst  thou  be  quite  certain  of  thy  faith, 
K I  with  mine  may  also  hope  for  bliss  ? 

Monk.  Whether  thy  faith  bestows  pure  bliss  upon  thee, 
Enables  thee  to  think  of  God  with  joy. 
Strengthens  and  comforts  thee  in  doing  good, 
Heals  up  the  wounds  of  conscience,  teaches  thee 
Calmly  to  wait  for  death,  and  furnishes 
Firm  ground  of  everlasting  hope — ^not  I, 
Thou  canst  best  feel — for  know  it  no  man  can. 
Meanwhile,  although  thy  subjects  be  both  rich 
And  happy,  cannot  Saladin  be  richer 
And  happier  than  they  are?    Infinite 
Both  here  and  yonder  are  the  steps  of  bliss. 
Where  is  truth  measured  out  in  equal  portions? 
Which  are  endow'd  with  equal  powers  to  know 
And  use  it?    Where  are  there  two  several  men. 
Whose  will  and  whose  opinions  coincide 
Completely?     Look  on  high  and  count  the  stars, 


OP  GERMAN  POETRT.  176 

And  say  if  any  two  display  a  disk 
Of  equal  brightness:  yet  no  one  of  thein 
Is  wholly  bald  of  light.    T  is  a  sad  heaven 
That 's  built  upon  the  woe  of  many  millions. 

Sit.  Ay,  a  sad  heaven  indeed — to  which  I  own 
I  don't  aspire — a  fairy  iland^  where 
Spring  for  the  dancing  pleasures  ever  spreads 
A  flowery  carpet^  while  around  it  watch 
A  thousand  dragons,  leopards,  jealous-eyed, 
And  storms  unending — where  th'  inhabitants 
Daily  behold  along  their  coasts  the  corses 
Of  such  as  fain  had  landed  on  the  shore, 
Ship-wreck'd,  or  torn  by  monsters.    Such  a  heaven ; 
No,  my  good  monk,  we  are  better  off  on  earth. 

Monk.  You  think  exactly  as  all  those  must  think, 
Who  scantly  oversee  the[mighty  plans 
Of  God.     If  he  can  make  all  happjr,  then 
Most  surely,  Sittah,  he  will  do  it.    We 
Are  bound  to  wish  and  hope  it,  and  as  far 
As  in  us  lies,  to  further  this  great  end : 
But  to  set  limits  to  the  judge's  office. 
To  claim  that  he  should  ne'er  condemn,  transcends 
A  mortal's  right. 

Sal.  after  pondering.  My  friend,  to  speak  the  truth, 
I  think  there  's  contradiction  in  your  speeches : 
If  your  belief  and  mine  are  not  the  same, 
Truth,  monk — 

Monk.  Is  not  the  invention  of  mankind ; 
But,  like  the  other  goods  of  life,  a  gift 
Of  Grod  ?    On  one  man  birth  bestows  the  blessing. 
And  on  another  his  own  honest  toil. 
He  who  is  bom  poor,  who  from  his  forefathers 
Heirs  empty  chests,  by  dint  of  industry 
May  gradually  fill  them. 

Sit.  Very  true. 

Monk.  May  by  exertion  of  his  powers  grow  rich, 
And  being  rich,  grow  mighty. 

Sit.  But  the  man 
Who  has  not  means,  bom  amid  rocks  and  deserts — 


176  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Monk.  On  him  the  sultan  would  take  pity,  nor 
Require  the  tribute  of  a  palace  from 
A  cottage.    Honest  stewardship  the  judge 
May  well  require,  but  nothing  else,  the  talents 
Himself  distributed. 

Sal.  Then  every  doctrine 
May  be  divine,  and  each  religion — 

Monk.  Is 
The  situation  to  which  God  appoints  us. 
Which  on  our  souls  has  stamped  the  earliest  bent 
To  thought  and  action,  not  the  steel,  with  which 
The  great  Creator  of  all  truth  bestows 
On  the  dead  tinder  of  futurity, 
The  first  live  sparklet?    Is  the  flame  too  faint. 
Blow  on  it. 

Sal.  Yet  the  christian  's  often  worse 
Than  many  a  mussulman — than  many  a  jew. 

Monk.  Add  too — than  many  a  heathen — so  my  teacher 
Was  wont  himself  to  say. 

Sal.  How  then  ? 

Monk.  Should  this 
Surprise  ?     Oft  times  the  poor  man's  single  acre 
Produces  more  than  many  a  hide  of  land. 
Which  the  rich  man  neglects,  and  thus  becomes 
A  loser  by  his  very  wealth. 

Sal,  Does  error 
Then  serve  as  well  as  truth  ?    Are  there  no  odds 
'Tween  light  and  darkness  ? 

Monk.  There  is  not  a  nation 
Whose  faith  is  wholly  void  of  truth.    Admit 
There  is  a  God — 't  is  ground  enough  to  heed  him : 
The  more  this  notion  is  evolv'd,  the  better 
Is  the  religion. 

Sal.  What  think  you,  my  Sittah, 
Speaks  he  the  truth  ? 

Sit.  Much  may  be  well  objected ; 
If  Jesus'  doctrine  be  the  only  true  one. 
How  can  God  sufier  that  so  many  err  ? 

Monk.  And  is  existence  then  no  benefit, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  177 

Because  so  many  perish  in  the  blossom  ? 

Is  reason  therefore  not  a  gift  of  God^ 

Because  so  many  nations  live  uncultured  ? 

These  are  unfathomable  depths  to  man. 

As  yet — still  let  us  thank  the  giver — nor 

Exclaim :  ^^  Why  hast  thou  then  not  given  us  more  V* 

Sit.  E'en  you  are  not  agreed  precisely  what 
Is  the  right  faith.    Your  teachers  damn  each  other. 
Is  Christ  then  two-fold^  greek  and  Utin  both, 
Andy  like  his  followers,  full  of  contradictions  ? 
The  romish  church  will  anathematize 
The  greekish,  this  the  other. 

Monk.  Is  Mahomet 
Persic  and  arable  ?    Must  all  abuse 
Be  charg'd  upon  the  teacher  ?    Not  religion — 
Man  is  herein  to  blame. 

Sit.  How  should  the  layman 
Decide  where  patriarchs  are  not  agreed  ? 

Monk.  The  countryman,  dear  Sittah,  does  not  need 
The  reckoning  of  th'  astronomer  to  know 
When  the  sun  sets  or  rises :  he  can  read  it 
With  his  own  eyes  in  nature's  book.    At  dawn 
He  is  awake  to  welcome  its  approach, 
To  drink  its  early  beam,  and  when  it  sinks 
He  heeds  the  call,  and  also  sinks  to  rest. 
But  the  deep  studied  man  who  sleeps  all  day, 
Dreams  learnedly  all  night  beside  his  lamp : 
How  should  he  know,  unless  from  almanacks? 
No  wonder  if  their  reckonings  ill  assort. 
But  little  common  sense  is  requisite 
To  feel  what 's  in  a  book,  and  what  is  not. 

Sit.  Yet  from  the  earliest  times  the  christians  never 
Have  been  united. 

Monk.  Such  too  commonly 
Has  been,  alas !  the  lot  of  man.    But  seldom 
Is  there  a  hut  so  peaceful  that  it  holds 
Not  one  strife-stirrer. 

Sit.  Hast  thou  heard  the  tale 
Ofthe  three  rings? 

VOL.  il.  N 


178  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Monk.  How  could  I  pass  a  day 
Here,  and  not  learn  it? 

Sit.  a  bewitching  tale. 
Made  for  the  court's  meridian — I  assure  you 
It  forms  an  epocha. 

Sal.  Till  superseded 
By  some  new  tale,  which  some  new  tongue  will  tell. 
Such  is  the  fashion  of  the  polish*d  world, 
It  likes  a  honeyed  story,  swallow'd  smoothly. 
Which  does  not  stick  i'  the  throat — leaves  unassail'd 
The  understanding. 

Monk.  Understood  aright. 
And  well  digested. 

Sit.  Who,  in  all  the  world. 
Can't  comprehend  a  tale? 

Monk.  Those  only,  Sittah, 
Who  misconceive  the  purpose  of  the  teller. 

Sit.  Is  that  not  clear  ? 

Sal.  What  is  it  then  ?  let 's  hear. 

Sit.  I  am  dull  of  apprehension,  or  it  is : 
"  Believe,  just  as  you  like,  no  matter  what." 
That  is  the  meaning,  Saladin. 

Monk.  L  honour 
The  teller  of  the  story.    For  his  sake 
I  wish  his  well-nieant  aim  well  understood. 
His  noble  heart,  his  penetrating  mind. 
Surely  meant  not  to  teach  that  the  rude  heathen,  • 
Before  his  idol  reeking  with  the  blood 
Of  human  sacrifice^  can  be,  or  can  become. 
As  blest  as  you  and  I.    That  Nathan  meant  not : 
He  only  meant  to  teach  us  toleration. 
Love  for  each  other,  and  that  all  should  learn 
To  bear  like  brethren  with  one  another. 
Who  own  one  common  father,  whom  one  God 
Created,  one  preserves,  and  one  shall  judge,. 
However  different  be  their  several  creeds. 

Sal.  Well,  Sittah,  now  what  think  you  ? 

Sit.  Where  is  Nathan  ? 
He  must  know  best. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  179 

Sal.  Undoubtedly.    But,  friend, 
It  seems  as  if  you  thought  of  tales  but  lightly. 

Monk.  Far  from  it,  sultan,  e'en  my  teacher  loy*d 
That  method  of  instruction  much. 

Rec.  Can't  you  too 
Relate  us  one. 

Monk.  If 't  were  enough,  my  Recha, 
To  tell  one  in  my  homely  cloister-guise, 
Perhaps  I  could. 

Sal.  Begin  without  add. 

Monk.  To  the  mere  multitude  of  every  nation, 
Religion  has  in  all  times  been  a  charm, 
An  amulet,  which,  without  further  trouble, 
Crave  to  its  owner  an  unguestion'd  right 
Here  to  God's  favor,  and  to  heaven  hereafter. 
'T  was  but  a  name,  consisted  in  the  idol. 
The  temple,  nothing  else.    But  to  the  wise, 
His  fiedth  is  nothing  but  the  instrument 
To  his  eternal  happiness. 

Sit.  The  tale ; 
Come,  to  the  tale. 

Sal.  Give  him  his  way,  my  Sittah. 

Monk.  'T  is  with  religion  as  with  husbandry ; 
Since  it  began,  things  have  much  alter'd.    First 
Necessity,  then  art,  then  science,  taught  it. 
The  earliest  man  received  immediately 
From  God's  own  hand  the  fruits  of  earth  in  Eden ; 
But  this  calm  garden-life  was  not  for  man. 
His  senses,  blunted  by  satiety, 
His  intellects  in  one  unbroken  train 
Of  pleasing  contemplation  grown  enervate, 
FeU  from  their  pristine  dignity. 

Rec.  And  would  you 
Not  rather  wander  in  the  fragrant  shades 
Of  paradise,  than  thorny  wildernesses? 

Monk.  No,  Recha;  unremitting  tides  of  pleasure 
Draw  after  them  presumption,  sensuality. 
And  sloth  of  soul.    It  is  for  children  only. 
That  have  not  learnt  as  yet  to  guide  themselves, 

N» 


180  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

To  have  the  nurse  or  teacher  always  by. 
When  the  first  pair  were  grown  to  years  of  ripeness. 
And  learn'd  to  feel  their  powers,  God  drove  them  forth ; 
And,  with  the  cherub's  flaming  sword,  he  singed 
Their  garden  to  a  waste. 

Sit.  That 's  history ; 
You  seem,  my  friend,  no  adept  at  a  tale. 

\_Saladin  motions  him  to  go  on. 

Monk.  But  the  young  world  had  not  been  launched 
abroad 
Bereft  of  fruitful  trees  and  nurturing  plants, 
The  exiles  tasted  still  the  Maker's  blessings, 
Ate  of  his  gifts  without  too  hard  a  toil. 
'T  is  true  they  had  to  seek,  to  try,  compare. 
Learn,  what  was  wholesome.     By  and  by  mankind 
Were  multiplied,  and  what  the  teeming  earth 
Yielded  unaskt,  was  not  enough  for  all. 
Now  they  began  to  plant,  perhaps  not  what 
Gave  the  best  food,  but  what  had  pleas'd  their  sense. 
Or  grew  most  easily.    Not  long  was  each 
Content  to  labour  for  himself:  one  seiz'd 
His  neighbour's  hoard :  then  nations  join'd 
To  plunder  others,  stroll'd  abroad  and  seiz'd 
Whate'er  they  met  with,  hovels,  fields,  and  gods. 

Sal.  And  with  the  gods  religion  too  ?  ha,  monk. 

Monk.  Thus  could  no  people  civilize.    At  length 
Some  arts  were  thought  of,  and  one  man  invented 
The  spade :  he  show'd  his  nation  how  to  dig 
Their  fields,  and  bank  them  in  against  intruders* 

Sal.  a  service  truly  great  to  human  kind 
In  such  an  age,  but  real  patriots  seldom 
Reap  the  reward  they  earn.    How  was  it  here  ? 

Monk.  Us'd  to  another's  goods,  they  much  mistook 
Th'  inventer's  purpose,  prais'd,  but  us'd  it  not. 
And  thought  they  did  his  instrument  great  honor 
By  shrining  it  within  a  golden  temple. 

Sal.  Man-like,  in  troths 

Monk.  Thq  land  remain'd  undug;   . 
They  made  incursions  over  heathenish  land» 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  181 

And  liv'd  at  times  on  feasts  of  sacrifice. 

Yet  here  and  there  were  found  just  men,  who  knew 

To  value  the  invention,  who  would  labour 

Instead  of  plundering,  and  who  shortly  showed, 

That  by  the  mean  of  this  scom*d  instrument, 

The  earth  all  rugged  as  its  surface  was. 

Might  become  richly  yielding.    Still  the  toil, 

The  sweat  of  brow,  was  grudg'd.     At  length  another 

Thought  on  the  subject  still  more  deeply,  and 

Found  out  the  plow. 

Sal.  And  what  became  of  him? 

Monk.  As  oft  befalls  the  wiser  than  their  neighbours. 
As  far'd  the  very  founder  of  my  faith — 
The  spade,  all  feebly  usefiil  as  it  was, 
Remain'd  the  nation's  idol.    They  abus'd, 
Blasphem'd,  seiz'd,  persecuted,  and  then  slew. 
The  noble  man.    In  short  he  soon  became 
The  martyr  of  his  art.    Yet  he  bequeath'd 
To  some  well-meaning  men  the  fine  invention. 
Who  sought,  when  he  was  gone,  to  spread  its  use 
Thro'  all  the  world.    And  many  gladly  leam'd. 
The  crops  began  to  flourish  mightily. 
The  land  bore  two-fold,  and  the  hardest  heath 
Was  conquer'd  to  fertility. 

Sal.  For  long  ? 

Monk.  Soon  industry  gave  place  to  vice  and  folly, 
For  some  the  instrument  was  still  too  slow. 
They  tum'd  it  topsy-turvy,  gallop'd  glibly 
Athwart  the  field,  and  bawl'd  triumphantly 
To  those  who  loiter'd  long  in  deep-cut  furrows, 
^'  See  we  are  ready."    But  the  harvest  came 
And  punish'd  their  presumption.     Others  plow'd 
Too  shallow  ridges,  and  the  weeds  got  up. 
Stifling  the  better  seed.     Some  evil-minded. 
Drove  with  their  plows  into  their  neighbour's  vineyard. 
And  cut  the  climbing  pampers  at  the  root. 
Others,  instead  of  using  the  invention, 
Wish'd  to  invent  themselves;  they  took  the  plow 
To  pieces,  and  began  to  calculate, 


182  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

How  such  an  instrument  could  so  perfonn — 
Thought  of  improvements,  threw  by  this  and  that. 
And  join'd  the  rest  afresh  as  each  thought  fit. 
Then  each  began  to  vaunt  his  own  new  plow, 
To  hate  his  neighbour  who  gainsaid  its  praise, 
And  thus  in  quarrel  fled  the  idle  summer, 
And  the  fields  lay  untili'd,  the  vineyards  ruin'd, 
And  nothing  of  the  plow  remain'd  in  being, 
But  the  mere  iron. 

Sal.  What  of  that — the  iron? 

Monk.  Here  let  me  finish,  sultan. 

Sal.  No;  there  wants 
To  Recha's  Moses,  to  thy  Jesus,  yet 
A  third. 

Monk.  Whom  thou  knows't  better,  sure,  than  I. 

Sal.  No,  speak !  the  iron — 

Monk.  At  thy  bidding  then — 
'T  was  found  by  a  hot-headed  man  who  thought 
This  thing  is  sharp,  't  will  hack  and  hew.    He  chang'd 
The  plough-share  to  a  sword,  and  with  it  stroll'd 
From  land  to  land,  and  slew ;  and  at  each  blow 
Shouted  aloud ;  Lo»  fools,  this  is  religion ! 

Sal.  Ay,  by  Mahomet,  thou  hast  spoken  justly, 
'T  was  so,  I  saw  him  yesternight  in  vision. 

Monk,  feeling  his  pulse.  But  we  forget  what  fails  tbee. 
Give  me  leave — 
How  is  it  with  you,  Sultan  ? 

Sal.  Better,  better. 
In  soul  and  body.    Hadst  thou  but  come  sooner — 

Monk.  Thank  God,  not  me.    He  and  not  man  coDfer'd 
On  plants  their  powers.    I  'U  make  thee  up  a  draught. 

Sal.  Do  so,  my  fiiend,  and  then  we  '11  listen  fiu*ther. 

[The  monk  retires  and  RechafoUov^* 
What  think  you,  Sittah,  is  not  this  a  man  ?. 

Sit.  He  may  be  honest,  brother,  but  for  court 
He  's  not  fil'd  smooth  enough ;  he  's  not  a  Nathan, 
Out  of  the  way  of  truth,  that 's  in  the  way, 
To  hitch  with  prudent  bows  and  scrapes,  and  leave 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  183 

Those  whom  we  rngve  unjostled — this  is  not 
The  monk's  acquirement. 

Sal.  And  is  smoothness,  Sittah, 
Always  a  virtue  ? 

Sit.  Call  it  as  you  will, 
A  quality,  a  knack,  't  is  to  be  wish'd  for, 
And  wins  the  heart.    And  what  can  this  man  mean 
By  all  his  prate  about  religion  ?     Be 
Each  what  he  is,  and  let  his  neighbour  rest. 
T  was  hardly  in  good  manners  to  blurt  out 
Before  one's  face. 

Sal.  What  one  is  ask'd  to  say, 
Why  not,  my  Sittah  ;  but  our  tickled  ears 
Get  wont  at  court  to  treacherous  flattery ; 
And  truths,  which  it  might  profit  us  to  hear. 
Are  husht  least  they  should  wound.   Hence  apes  and  liars 
Swarm  in  a  court.    How  should  an  honest  man 
Care  for  the  favor  which  will  grin  a  smile 
On  every  knave  ?    The  open  man  speaks  out 
When  patience  listens :  but  where  lies  are  welcome. 
There  truth  is  dumb,  save  when  the  smooth-tongued 

courtier 
Laughs  at  the  fond  credulity  he  gulls. 

Sit.  If  he  but  save  thee,  rude  or  smooth,  I  '11  love  him. 
His  cowl  shaln't  scare  away  my  gratitude. 

Sal,  Nathan  is  coming — I  thought  long  to  see  you. 

Nath.  I  've  done  as  you  commanded,  and  exchang'd 
Your  precious  things  for  money. 

Sal.  That  is  well, — 
My  capital  once  plac'd  in  worthy  hands, 
The  interest  boots  not. 

Nath.  True ;  if  so  thy  life 
Were  to  be  sav'd. 

Sal.  And  any  way,  methinks, 
I  am  much  better  since  the  monk  prescribes. 

Nath.  God  grant  that  no  deception  lurks  behinds — 

Sal.  None  can. 

Sit.  Has  Nathan  then  ground  to  suspect  ? 

Nath.  A  letter  had  been  brought  me — 


184  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Sit.  Whence?  I  pray. 

Nath.  'T  is  dated  from  Jerusalem^  and  hints — 

Sit.  What? 

Nath.  That  this  monk  b  the  sly  patriarch's  friend. 
Oft  closeted  with  him,  who  *t  is  suspected 
Has  thoughts  of  hurrying  Recha  to  a  convent ; 
f^or  he  has  news  of  all^  and  wanting  force^ 
His  malice  uses  cunning. 

Sal.  No  such  plots 
Is  the  monk  weaving :  you  weU  knew  my  Assad : 
Don't  you  detect  a  strong  resemblance  to  him 
In  this  same  monk  ? 

Nath.  In  &ctj  I  do  remark  it. 
He  looks  an  honest  man ;  and  yet»  we  know. 
Appearance  is  deceitful^  and  he  meddles 
Somewhat  too  much  with  Recha.    Yesterday 
I  saw  her  going  with  him  to  his  cell. 

Sal.  So— that  is  half  suspicious — and  I  know 
She  is  strangely  taken  with  this  man. 

Sit.  And  wishes 
She  had  been  long  ago  of  his  religion. 

Nath.  How? 

Sit.  She  has  told  me  that  she  loves  his  Christ 
Still  more  than  him ;  and  yet  on  him  she  doats 
As  on  a  father.    Conrade  too  is  won. 

Nath.  He  's  trying  then  to  draw  them  to  his  faith? 

SiT.  He  paints  his  hero  to  her,  as  she  says. 
More  lovely  than  a  wooer  paints  the  bridegroom 
To  a  coy  virgin. 

Nath.  That 's  in  character 
With  these  same  cloister-brethren. 

Sal.  I  could  wish 
I  had  not  learnt  all  this.    Here  comes  another 
Of  his  good  friends. 

[AbdaUah  enters^  and  speaks  astde^  eying  Nathan. 

Abd.  Bravo^  he  's  there — now  let  us  ferret  out 
How  this  has  operated. 

Sal.  Well,  AbdaUah, 
Bring  you  good  news  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  185 

Abd.  Yes,  very  good  indeed* 

Sit.  Out  with  it  quickly. 

Abd.  News,  that  well  deserves 
A  better  fee,  than  were  it  a  caravan 
From  Egypt. 

Sal.  Well,  be  short. 

Abd.  That  Saladin 
Is  more  than  half  recovered.    Is  not  that 
Better  than  any  caravan? 

Sit.  Oh,  yes. 

Abd.  And  yet 't  is  news  for  which  we  long  had  hop'd 
With  anxious  tears  in  vain.    Blest  be  the  man 
Whom  God  selected  to  preserve  from  death 
Our  valued  sult&n. 

Sit.  Says  Abdallah  that  ? 

Abd.  Yes. 

Sit.  Yet  a  while  ago  your  words  were  other. 

Abd.  Forgive  me.    Men  may  err:  especially 
When  the  heart 's  full,  like  mine,  of  anxious  cares : 
Then  all  excites  suspicion :  wiser  men 
By  such  appearances  have  been  deceived. 

Nath.  To  what  appearances  do  you  allude  ? 

Abd.  Trifles  at  bottom — now  I  know  him  better 
They  don't  deserve  the  mention. 

Nath.. Can  I  learn  them? 

Abd.  Why  not  ?    And  yet  I  really  feel  asham*d 
To  have  misconceiv'd  so  excellent  a  man. 

Sit.  Abdallah  saw  your  Recha  with  the  monk 
In  inendly  converse,  sitting  'neath  a  bower. 

Abd.  The  sweet  good  creature!  how  should  she  not  love 
Whom  every  body  loves. 

Nath.  Whence  do  you  gather 
That  she  must  love  him  ? 

Sit.  Oh,  she  kiss'd  his  hands. 

Abd.  'T  was  that  and  nothing  further.    At  a  distance 
I  saw  this  passing — and  I  thought  it  odd. 
For  monks  in  general  are  not  trustworthy, 
And  my  full  heart  began  its  commentary. 
A  trifle  seems  important  to  the  feelings 


186  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Of  one,  who  prizes  Saladin  as  I  do. 
Nath.  And  were  they  long  together,  and  alone  ? 
Abd.  Alone  I  cannot  say.    I  saw  none  else. 
All  this  is  natural.    Curiosity 
May  lead  a  girl  to  listen  to  a  monk. 
Who  knows  what  pretty  stories  of  his  cloister 
Or  of  his  faith  he  told.     I  'II  answer  for  it 
'T  was  all  well  meant,  and  very  innocent, 
Whether  he  laboured  to  recruit  the  faith. 
Or  the  finances,  of  his  monastery. 
I  trust  the  man.    If  of  a  thousand  monks, 
Nine  hundred  ninety  nine  be  sly  designing 
Wheedling  impostors — still  may  not  the  thousandth 
Be  good  and  honest? 

Sal.  Do  you  speak  in  earnest  ? 

Abd.  Yes,  noble  sultan ;  could  this  man  already 
Have  won  the  love,  the  trust  of  the  whole  court. 
If  he  did  not  deserve  it?    Though  indeed 
The  general  love,  which,  from  the  loyal  bosom 
Of  all  your  faithful  servants,  pours  to  heaven 
Its  prayers  for  you,  O  sultan,  does  contribute 
To  fasten  on  this  man,  from  whom  it  hopes 
Fulfilment  of  its  wish,  the  public  favor. 
Yet  his  kind  nature,  his  benignant  smile. 
His  winning  eloquence,  his  feeling  heart. 
Deserve  esteem  firom  all.    E'en  the  proud  imam. 
Though  envy  seem'd  to  arm  that  soul  against  him, 
Now  feels  subdued. 

Nath.  The  imam  too  his  friend  ? 

Abd.  Yes,  angry  he  had  been  and  furiously ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  monk,  talked  with  the  monk, 
His  anger  cool'd,  like  the  wild  horse's  shyness 
When  the  known  rider  pats  him.    And  he  means. 
With  humble  zeal,  to  company  the  monk 
When  he  brings  Saladin  the  promis'd  potion. 
Heaven  give  its  blessing  to  the  healing  draught ! 

Sal.  That 's  strange  indeed. 

Abd.  It  is  so.  [Osman  enters. 

Sal.  What  brings  Osman  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  187 

OsMAN.  Here  is  a  letter. 

Sal.  And  from  whom  ? 

OsMAN.  I  know  not. 

Sal.  Who  brought  it  hither  ? 

OsMAN.  'T  was  a  courier  pigeon. 

Sal.  It  must  be  pressing  surely.     Give  it  me. 

[Osman  delivers  the  letter  to  the  sultan,  and  retires. 
Abd.  God  grant  it  brings  good  news. 
[  While  the  sultan  is  reading  the  letter,  which  he  com- 
municates to  Sittah,  AbdaUah  converses  with  Natfuzn, 
without  ceasing  to  observe  the  sultan. 
Sal.  Go  to  the  monk^ 
And  tell  him  to  await  our  further  orders. 
Abd.  aside.  Good,  good,  this  works.    Now  we  Ve 
outwitted  Nathan ; 
If  there  's  no  fool  on  earth  without  his  rival, 
There  's  no  wise  man  whose  prudence  can't  be  matched. 

SALADIN,  SITTAH,  and  NATHAN. 

Sit.  handing  the  letter  to  Nathan. 
For  God's  sake  look  at  this,  and  sharply,  Nathan ; 
AH  is  not  right,  I  fear. 

Sal.  I  did  not  like  it 
When  Nathan  faulter'd  in  his  good  opinion. 
That  all  these  people  are  become  his  friends 
Is  more  alarming  still.    Whom  such  men  love 
Can  not  be  of  the  best.    And  now  the  letter. 
I  am  puzzled :  yet  his  countenance,  his  converse, 
His  unaffected  calm  behaviour,  speak 
Volumes  in  his  behalf.    He  a  deceiver ! — 
And  of  the  blackest,  most  unprincipled — 
A  traitor,  an  assassin  ?    No,  no,  no. 
This  fearless  look,  this  free  and  noble  carriage. 
Alike  remote  from  flattery  or  presumption, 
A  countenance  where  God  has  stamp'd  the  seal 
Of  virtue  unmistakeably — were  this 
The  mask  of  treachery — Satan  is  not  black. 
Nor  hell  in  the  abyss. 


188  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Nath.  T  is  not  incredible 
That  malice  is  at  work  against  this  man; 
He  is  a  stranger^  is  a  christian  monk, — 
Grounds  to  be  on  one's  guard  against  the  courtiers. 

Sal.  True. 

Sit.  But  the  letter,  Saladin,  the  letter. 

Nath.  Let  us,  if  possible,  impartially 
Weigh  what 's  before  us.     Fear  begets  suspicion ; 
Suspicion,  hatred ;  hatred  prompts  injustice. 

Sal.  Well  said,  my  Nathan. 

Nath.  Is  the  writing  clearly 
Your  father's  hand  ? 

!Sal«  Surely. 

Nath.  The  seal  too  his  ? 

Sal.  Also. 

Nath.  Yet 't  is  not  quite  impossible 
The  seal  and  the  hand-writing  may  be  forg'd. 

Sal.  That  would  be  villainy  incomparable. 

Nath.  Less  so  than  treason  and  assassination. 
'T  is  fairer  to  suspect  the  smaller  crime. 
The  greater  any  villainy,  the  slower  ^ 

Should  come  the  imputation.  For  my  Recha 
I  fear  less  than  before.  Who  knows  but  both 
The  letters  have  been  iram'd  by  the  same  pen. 

Sit.  What  if  we  yet  once  more  conversed  awhile 
With  Recha,  and  with  Assad. 

Sal.  Ay,  so  be  it,  » 

Nathan,  perhaps  you  '11  seek  to  bring  them  hither. 

INathan  goes. 
Doubt,  doubts,  how  cruelly  you  persecute  me. 
Ye  foes  to  peace,  to  happiness,  to  virtue. 
Firm  faith,  bold  confidence  in  principle. 
Is  healing,  both  to  body  and  to  soul ; 
Where  this  is  wanting  stalks  the  foot  of  death. 
Oh  how  my  bosom  throbs !  my  heart  beats  loud. 
And  every  pulse  is  torment.    Something  awful 
Hangs  over  us. 

Sit.  I  tremble  at  thy  trembling. 

Nath.  returns.  The  alarm  is  after  all,  without  foundation, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  189 

What  kills  a  man  kills  other  animals, 
The  trial  may  be  made  with  ease. 

Sit.  That 's  true. 
Oh  do  not  harbour  this  solicitude, 
If  apprehension  poison  not  your  life, 
It  wiU  not  be  the  monk.    They  are  returning, 
Our  cherished  pair.  [Assad  and  Recha  enter. 

Rec.  Impatient  to  be  told 
What  Saladin  commands. 

Sal.  I  feel  much  weaker ; 
Nathan,  do  you  speak  for  me  ? 

Nath.  to  Recha.  I  am  told 
You  Ve  confidential  converse  with  this  monk. 

Rec.  I  have,  my  father,  and  on  that  account 
Hope  not  to  be  less  worthy  of  thee.    'T  was 
Of  old  your  maxim,  that  the  company 
Of  a  good  man  is  the  best  school  of  virtue. 

Sal.  He  is  all  that,  my  daughter. 

Nath.  'T  is  our  question 
Whether  he  be  so. 

Assad.  We  're  not  all  in  error ; 
Once  you  too  felt  he  was. 

Nath.  Unless,  my  children. 
He  were  the  darkest  traitor. 

Rec.  Calumny! 
Can  Nathan  so  mistake  the  heart  of  man  ? 

Nath.  Whereby  does  Recha  judge  that  he  is  worthy  ? 

Rec.  Just  as  he  bad  me  judge  about  his  faith; 
Recha^  said  he,  do  read  it,  and  I  read 
And  found  it  excellent.    Behold  the  man. 
Hear  him,  and  in  his  sayings  read  his  heart. 
HiB  thought  and  action  is  indeed  a  book 
Of  more  than  common  tenour. 

Nath.  Why  so  eager 
To  mtermeddle  with  religious  points  ? 

Assad.  That  must  have  been  our  fault,  and  not  his  own. 

Sit.  Were  you  then  with  our  Recha  in  the  bower? 

Assad.  Yes,  Sittah. 

Nath.  Did  Abdallah  see  you  ? 


190  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

•     Assad.  Yes. 

He  came  to  summons  out  the  monk  to  the  sultan. 
Who  was  awake,  he  said,  and  asking  for  him; 
But  when  we  came  't  was  otherwise. 

Sal.  Abdallah 
Is  false,  malicious.    Did  he  not  declare 
He  saw  no  one  but  Recha  ? 

Nath.  Yes  indeed. 

Assad.  He  saw  us  both  together  with  the  monk. 

Nath.  Has  he  said  much  about  his  cloister  to  you  ? 

R£C.  Hardly  a  word.    'T  was  as  my  father's  friend 
That  he  addressed  me,  with  such  warm  afiection. 
The  burning  tear-drop  fell  against  his  will 
Upon  my  hand,  which  he  was  holding.    How 
Thy  father  will  rejoice  some  future  day 
To  meet  thee  at  the  footstool  of  God's  throne, 
As  we  are  met  to-day.    I,  who  had  never 
Heard  or  thought  thus  of  monks,  was  inly  mov'd. 
E'en  when  he  dwelt  on  his  warm  love  for  Assad, 
And  of  your  care  to  rear  his  only  daughter 
As  were  she  quite  your  owq,  his  melting  eyes 
Were  bath'd  in  tears,  his  heart  so  full  of  feeling 
It  choak'd  the  voice  of  utterance.    Yonder,  said  he. 
Will  God,  who  recompenses,  all  good  deeds. 
Reward  the  generous  Nathan  for  all  this. 

Nath.  And  of  his  cloister,  nothing? 

Rec.  Not  a  word ; 
He  is  little  in  it ;  Uke  his  darling  teacher, 
He  wanders  much  about  to  help  the,  sufferer. 
And  to  relieve  the  sick.    For  health  and  life 
We  cannot  better  thank  the  God  who  gives  them, 
He  said,  than  to  convey  them  to  our  brethren. 
In  youth,  he  was,  he  said,  a  warrior. 
And  not  unskilful  in  that  art :  but  once 
Preserv'd  almost  by  miracle  from  death. 
He  vow'd  thenceforth  to  consecrate  bis  being 
To  help  his  brother-men.    O  my  dear  girl. 
How  will  the  thanks  of  thousands  climb  to  heaven, 
If  I  preserve  the  sultan.:  't  were  a  bliss 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  191 

To  feel  among  the  angels  round  God's  throne. 

Nath.  What  think  you,  Saladin  ? 

Sal.  He  is  truly  pious. 

Sit.  If  he  is  trustworthy. 

Rec.  Pious — not  trustworthy — 
How  should  a  man  who  loves  his  God,  like  him. 
Be  otherwise  than  kindmost  to  his  fellows. 

Sal.  Not  that  he  cannot. 

Nath.  I  am  quite  convinced. 

Sal.  Then  let  him  come  again.    I  am  now  resolv'd. 
Whoever  't  is,  the  traitor  shall  be  punish'd — 
But  let  him  come  again,  and  tell  him,  children, 
That  Saladin  feels  weaker  than  before. 

SALADIN  and  SITTAH. 

Sal.  Give  me  the  letter. 

Sit.  No,  my  brother,  no ; 
Forget  it,  it  unhinges  you  too  much. 

Sal.  Forget  it !    Can  I  ?    This  calumnious  letter 
Written  with  viper's  venom— Give  it  me, 
It  is  my  doom  of  death.    I  feel  already 
His  cold  hand  reaching  at  me. 

Sit.  Here  it  is. 
But  I  conjure  you — 

Sal.  Read  it  once  again ; 
We  may  perhaps  discover — 

Sit.  I  obey : 
*'  My  son,  the  anxious  tidings  of  your  sickness 
Have  bow'd  me  to  the  earth.    Our  God  forbid 
That  I,  long  aged,  should  survive  thy  death." 

Sal.  Ay — my  good  father,  but  you  '11  have  to  do  it. 
This  is  his  loving  tone.    If  there  's  deception. 
That,  that  at  least,  he  wrote. 

Sit.  Is  he  still  able  ? 

Sal.  He  felt :  I  should  have  said.    Go  on,  my  Sittah. 

Sit.  "  O  could  I  but  be  near  thee ;  I  perhaps 
Might  somewhat  ease  thy  mind." 

Sal.  And  so  he  would. 


192  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Andy  if  I  die,  it  would  be  welcome  to  me 
To  breathe  in  grateful  kiss  upon  his  lips 
My  latest  sigh — to  thank  him  for  his  love. 
His  counsels,  and  his  service. 

Sit.  "  My  dear  son, 
I  felt  alarm'd,  when  first  I  understood 
That  a  bad  man — the  Monk  of  Libanon 
He  calls  himself— was  sent  as  a  physician 
By  people  in  Jerusalem,  to  heal  you. 
If  he  has  not  yet  minister'd  unto  you — 
Not  yet  cut  short  the  frail  thread  of  your  life — " 

Sal.  Thank  God !  he  has  not — but  the  letter  may. 

Sit.  "  If  timely  be  my  warning,  trust  him  not. 
There  's  poison  in  his  cup.    May  God  preserve  thee, 
Thy  faithful  father." 

Sal.  Oh  accursed  hand. 
Which  dares  employ  the  holy  name  of  father 
To  veil  the  malice  of  its  perfidy! — 
Perish  the  traitor's  hand,  who  thus  abuses 
The  tenderest  name  that  man  can  give  to  God. 

Sit.  The  monk  is  coming. 

Sal.  God  forgive  my  weakness. 
In  doubting  for  a  moment  one  who  loves  me. 

l^The  monk  brings  a  silver  beaker  in  his  hand:  Nathah 
Jexidy  AbdaUahyfoUow;  and  toward  the  close  ofik 
scene  Osman  comes  in. 

Sal.  anxiously.  Welcome,  good  monk ;  we  've  kept 
you  waiting  long. 
But  pressing  business  trod  upon  my  leisure. 

[The  monk  feels  the  pulse  ofSaladin,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  surprise  and  sorrow. 

Monk.  May  God  be  with  us !    Anxious  were  the  cares 
Which  have  to  this  degree  increased  your  fever. 

Sit.  a  painful  message  reached  us  from  our  father. 

Monk.  He  is  not  dead — ^your  father  ? 

Sit.  No,  not  that. 

Sal.  And  do  you  know  him? 

Monk.  Sultan,  yes ;  and  well. 
God  bless  the  good,  kind-hearted,  noble,  man! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  193 

But  *t  is  not  now  the  time  to  talk  about  him. 
We  have  to  act.    My  sultan.  Oh,  be  calm, 
Your  fever  else  may  pass  into  delirium. 

Abd.  Come,  my  good  father,  help  the  sultan  up. 
That  you  physicians  gentlier  do,  than  we. 
Monk.  So  be  it. 

[He  places  tJie  beaker  on  a  sicte-table,  and  assists  to 
raise  Saladin.  Meanwhile  Jezid  excJianges  the  beaker 
for  another^  and  withdraws  morosely  from  the  apart- 
ment. 
Monk.  How  you  tremble,  my  good  sultan ; 
What  ails  you? 
Sal.  Ah! 

Monk.  Your  paleness  is  excessive. 
Sal.  'T  is  nothing. 

Monk,  taking  the  beaker*  Where  's  the  draught  ? 
Sal.  Stay,  stay,  a  little. 
An  instant  will  recruit  me.    Can  a  man 
Of  evil  purpose  wear  this  calm  composure? 
What  hast  thou  in  thy  beaker  ?    Give  it  me 
If  drugg'd  for  life  or  death. 
Monk,  with  intrepid  but  pitying  expression.  'T  is  the 
same  mixture 
You  took  before  with  good  effect,  but  strengthened. 
Sal.  taking  the  cup^  and  looking  into  it.  How  oft  within 
thy  golden  rim  has  joy 
In  hours  of  revelry  leapt  to  my  lips ; 
If  now  death  lurks  within  thee — speak.     No,  no. 
He  's  silent — 't  is  not  poison — I  shall  trust  thee. 

\The  Monkf  rendered  attentive  by  these  words,  looks 
pryingly  into  the  cup,  and  snatcJies  it  hastily  out  of 
Saladin^s  hand. 
Monk.  For  God's  sake,  stop:  it  may  be  fatal  to  thee, 
T  is  not  my  mixture — may-be  it  is  poison — 
It  effervesces,  acts  upon  the  metal — 
Abd.  hud.  Assassination !  treason ! 
Osman,  rushing  in.  What  has  happened  ? 
Abd.  a  secret  murderer,  poison ! 

Sit.  Monk,  beware. 
VOL.  n.  o 


194  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

How  pale  the  sultan  is. 

Monk,  Be  calm,  my  sultan. 

OsMAN  draws  a  sabre,  and  offers  to  kill  the  monk. 
Traitor,  take  this,  and  perish  by  my  hand. 

Nath.  preventing  him.  Off,  Osman,  off! 

Sal.  And  I  command  thee,  Osman, 
On  pain  of  my  deliberate  anger,  go. 

Monk.  What  can  I  say  ?     Here  's  poison  in  my  hand, 
I  brought  it  not — ^by  God,  I  brought  it  not. 

Sal.  giving  him  the  letter.  Read  this. 

Abd.  There  stands  this  dark  and  shameless  traitor, 
As  impurturbable — 

Nath.  No  hasty  charges. 

Sal.  Silence,  Abdallah,  not  another  word. 

Monk.  Our  father  wrote  not  this — but  some  foul  foe. 
I  am  betray'd,  my  sultan,  and  not  you. 
May  but  the  poignard  leveU'd  at  my  life 
Not  also  bring  some  danger  to  your  own. 
I  stand  before  my  God — ^if  't  is  his  will 
He  can  clear  up  my  conduct.    I  fear  not 
Investigation,  nor  your  judgement,  sultan. 

Nath.  Where  is  this  Jezid?  did  not  he  come  in? 

Monk.  Yes,  Nathan. 

Abd.  Angrily  he  went  away. 
Because  the  sultan  ne'er  vouchsafed  a  look. 

Sal.  We  must  give  further  hearing  to  this  case ; 
Meanwhile  't  is  fitting  you  be  under  guard. 

[Guards  enter,  and  lead  away  the  Monk.     The  scene 
closes. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  195 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE. — A  prison-touser. 

ABDALLAH^  o^  on  guards  is  pacing  to  and  fro  before 

it,  and  sings. 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 
Walkt  forth  to  tell  his  beads — 

Abd.  Sit  in  your  cage,  my  monk^  and  to  the  trees 
Whistle  the  story  of  your  martyrdom. — 
*T  was  neatly  done^  Abdallah^  worthy  of  you. — 
We  'U  one  by  one  remove  some  other  people. 
Who  stand  between  us  and  the  highest  place 
In  favor.    Nathan  must  be  shaken  next ; 
He  will  be  hankering  after  this  same  monk. 
Consult  his  Urim,  and  decide  to  save  him. 
"No  hasty  charges."    That  was  all  his  wit 
Could  then  oppose  to  strong  appearances. — 
With  time  comes  thought  and  opportunity. 

ABDALLAH  and  JEZID. 

Abd.  Ah,  my  dear  Jezid,  whence  so  hastily? 

Jez.  You  are  grown  familial^  on  a  sudden,  sure; 
How  lorfg  have  we  been  on  such  easy  terms  ? 

Abd.  Since  yesterday  at  least. 

Jez.  Since  yesterday  ? 

Abd.  You  push  the  joke  too  far,  Sir  Consequence, 
Had  we  been  both  twin-born,  and  suck'd  together 
At  the  same  breast,  we  could  not  have  been  job'd 
In  closer  links  than  just  since  yesterday. 

Jez.  What  links  me  to  a  rascal  ? 

02 


196  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Abd.  Well  said^  imam. 
Rascality.    There  's  nothing  in  the  world 
Which  binds  so  close  as  that.    Not  even  virtue. 
Virtue  has  not  a  secret  that  the  world 
Might  not  be  told  of — but  rascality — 
Oh^  't  was  a  capital  knave's  trick  of  yours ! 

Jez.  Of  mine?    Hush!  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Abd.  Such  villainy 
Binds  the  accomplices  in  lasting  bonds, 
Which  only  death  can  sever. 

Jez.  You  may  hang  for  it^ 
Unless  you  hold  your  tongue. 

Abd.  Ar'n't  we  alone  ? 
And  if  I  may  not  talk  with  you  about  it. 
With  whom,  pray  ? 

Jez.  What  know  I  of  all  this  matter  ? 
You  were  the  grand  contriver. 

Abd.  No  small  glory 
In  such  society  to  have  been  so. 
I  was  about  to  praise  you. 

Jez.  Who  forbids  ? 

Abd.  You,  you. 

Jez.  Speak  on. 

Abd.  It  must  be  fairly  own'd 
You  play'd  your  part  delightfully. 

Jez.  My  part? 
A  man  like  me  has  never  parts  to  play. 

Abd.  I  mean  that  when  you  smuggled  this  same  poison 
Into  the  poor  monk's  hands,  no  being  saw  you, 
Except  Qod  and  the  devil. 

Jez.  terrified^  irresolute^  at  last  wild.  I?  I?  poison? 
Traitor,  I  will  deny  it  to  your  face. 
'T  was  you  that  would  have  poison'd  Saladin, 
And  he  shall  learn  it  too.    You  yet  may  feel 
That  I  've  some  influence. 

Abd.  Jezid,  are  you  crazy? 

Jez.  It  may  be  so.    Who  dares  impute  to  me 
Such  crimes  ?  As  truly  as  I  carry  this  .      [showing  a  ring, 
Mark  of  the  sultan's  favor  on  my  finger, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  197 

You  've  called  perdition  on  your  head. 

Abd.  In  fact, 
This  is  the  sultan's  signet-ring. 

Jez.  I  think  so. 

Abd.  aside.  How  has  he  come  by  it  ?   I  must  sift  the 
mystery  ? 
To  Jezid.  The  sultan  gave  you  this  ? 

Jez.  Who  else  could  give  it? 

Abd.  Just  now  ?    Not  long  ago  he  had  it  on. 

Jez.  Men  learn  to  know  their  friends  in  time  of  danger. 

Abd.  Yes,  yes.    Aside,    The  hypocrite ! 

Jez.  And  learn  to  prize  them. 
Who  could  have  sav'd  his  life  had  I  not  done  it  ? 

Abd.  And  't  was  to  reconcile  you  that  he  gave 
This  precious  ring  ? 

Jez.  To  reconcile — do  I 
Not  know  how  to  forgive  mistaken  slights  ? 

Abd.  I  must  confess — 

Jez.  You  know  the  monk  was  treacherous. 

Abd.  aside.  Abdallah,  you  are  an  angel  to  this  fellow ! 

Jez.  'T  was  thought  the  sultan  of  the  shock  would  die. 
What  could  be  done  ? 

Abd.  No  doubt  consult  the  imam : 
Who  waver'd — 

Jez.  No  :  one  must  not  be  implacable. 
I  had  in  my  possession  a  good  medicine. 
I  took  it  to  him.    It  has  done  its  office. 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave  it  would  have  rais'd  him. 

Abd.  He  's  better  then  ? 

Jez.  And  would  have  been  quite  well, 
Had  not  the  quackeries  of  this  strange  monk 
Put  off  the  cure. 

Abd.  That  must  have  been  true  cordial, 
Which  he  rewards  with  such  a  ring  as  this. 

Jez.  At  present  nothing  else  could  be  bestowed, 
'T  was  the  sole  precious  thing  that  Nathan's  care 
Left  him  possessed  of.     The  rapacious  jew 
Has  drain'd  him  dry. 
Abd.  aside.  Let  us  remember  this ! 


198  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Jez.  And  I  have  Airther  hopes :  if  now  my  art 
Again  succeeds^  what  shall  prevent  my  having 
The  caliphate  of  Syria  ? 

Abd.  Has  he  promis'd  ? 

Jez.  YeSj  that  he  has. 

Abd.  I  give  you  joy,  my  lord. 
What 's  to  become  of  this  poor  wretch  in  prison  ? 

Jez.  The  traitor  must  expect  the  penalty 
Of  all  his  treasons.    What  is  that  to  me  ?  *       [Goes. 

ABDALLAH,  alone. 

Abd.  Now,  Satan,  die ;  this  imam  could  replace  you. — 
And  is  it  true,  or  have  I  dreamt  it  all, 
That  I  suggested  first  this  hellish  deed, 
Taught  the  proud  priest  the  work  he  was  to  do, 
Tutored  him  like  a  scholar,  forc'd  the  monk 
By  my  officiousness  to  place  the  beaker 
Where  Jezid  could  exchange  it,  saw  alone 
One  cup  remov'd,  the  other  in  its  stead — 
It  must  have  been  a  dream !     This  imam  knows 
No  jot  about  the  matter.     Villainy, 
I  could  forswear  thy  service  for  this  trick. 
Where  's  now  the  recompense  of  all  my  crimes, 
Which  the  internal  flatterer  promis'd  me? 
This  blockhead  wins  the  wages  of  my  wit. 
And  with  the  stolen  draught  of  the  poor  monk. 
Has  earn'd  the  sultan's  favor,  wealth,  and  honor. 
I  '11  be  reveng'd.    But  how  I    The  draught,  the  draught. 
Make  that  a  second  time !     'T  is  call'd  for,  imam.     [Goes. 

RECHA,  and  the  TEMPLAR. 

Rec.  Come,  my  dear  Assad,  let  us  go  and  see  him. 
And  hear  him.     Is  he  still  as  firm  as  ever 
In  his  pure  faith,  in  suffering  still  as  like 
The  holy  man  he  worships  ? — Then  we  '11  go. 
And  clasp  the  sultan's  feet,  and  he  shall  grant  us 
The  life,  the  liberty,  of  him  we  love. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  199 

Temp.  Oh,  that  I  knew  the  traitor  in  this  business; 
These  hands,  which  snatcht  thee  from  the  flames,  should 

steep  him 
In  fires,  e'en  sevenfold  fiercer,  and  applaud 
The  deed  in  heaven's  broad  eye. 

[He  knocks  at  the  prisonrdoor^  showing  a  pass:  they 
enter.  ' 

Gaoler,  with  leave. 

SCENE.— Inside  of  the  Prison. 

RECHA,  the  TEMPLAR,  and  the  MONK. 

Monk.  Welcome,  my  Assad  and  my  Recha,  welcome 
A  thousand  times.     This  close  and  dark  abode 
Represses  not  your  love  from  following  me. 
I  thank  you,  children.    Why  is  Assad  angry? 

Temp.  Ought  anger  not  to  rise  against  the  traitor — 
The  would-be  murderer  of  Saladin  i 

Monk.  He,  I  am  not,  brave  Assad. 

Temp.  To  believe  you 
Requires  credulity. 

Reg.  At  least  suspicious 
Appearances  as  yet  are  not  cleared  up. 

Monk.  She  too. — My  God ! — ^That  weighs  far  heavier 
on  me 
Than  all  my  bonds,  by  good  men  to  be  doubted. — 
But  calm  thyself,  my  heart.    He  sufiTer'd  too 
With  resignation ;  for  it  was  God's  will. 

Temp.  I  wish  not  to  mistake. 

Rec.  No,  nor  to  doubt. 

Monk.  Were  it  a  wonder,  if  all  worthy  men 
Conspir'd  against  me  ?    Is  the  deed  not  clear? 
Did  not  the  sultan  from  these  hands  receive 
A  poison'd  chalice  ? 

Temp.  At  first  sight  it  seem'd  so. 
And  yet  the  guilt 's  another's,  and  not  thine. 
Would  you  have  snatcht,  with  such  well-acted  terror, 
The  cup  away,  if  you  had  mixt  the  bane  ? 


200  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Monk.  My  dearest  Assad,  courts  have  cunning  culprits. 
And  this  plan  was  well-weigh'd.    The  sultan's  mind 
Was  wrought  up  to  suspicion  by  a  letter 
Fram'd  with  much  art.     Hq  trembled  at  the  potion^ 
Grew  pale  as  death,  and  yet  his  noble  spirit, 
Trusting  in  virtue,  was  prepared  to  drink  it. 
I  shudder  still — it  thrills  athwart  my  heart. 
How  nearly  I  might  not  have  been  attentive. 
Nor  cast  a  searching  eye  into  the  beaker. 
Not  snatch'd  in  time  the  potion  from  his  lips. — 
Conscience  is  oftentimes  undisciplin'd, 
Returns  too  suddenly.     CaUght  in  the  fact, 
Was  not  the  safest  course  the  backing  out? 
Could  I  have  hop'd  for  life,  if  he  had  perish'd  ? 
My  chUdren,  it  is  very  hard  to  judge 
Our  fellow-mortals'  deeds.     All-seeing  God 
Alone  can  weigh  them  justly.    A  short  instant 
Suffices  often  to  discolour  truth. 

Reg.  'T  was  a  short  instant  which  drew  doubt  upon  you, 
The  while  Abdallah  mov'd  you  to  set  down 
The  cup. 

Monk.  Was  that  observ'd  ?    I  did  not  think  it. 
Nor  would  I  have  aUow'd  myself  to  use 
This  point  to  clear  myself. 

Temp.  Why  not? 

Monk.  I  own 
The  struggle  cost  me  effort ;  but,  thank  God  ! 
The  victory  was  achiev'd. 

Reg.  Why  should  you  not, 
To  clear  yourself,  point  out  the  circumstances 
Which  would  allow  a  new  interpretation. 

Monk.  I  point  suspicion,  which  alas  too  often 
Strikes  at  the  guiltless  head,  against  my  neighbour  ? 
Expose  to  suffering,  innocence  ?     If  so. 
Would  not  these  bonds  be  merited  ? 

Temp,  clasping  his  hand.  Nobly  felt ! 
God  will  deliver  thee.     'T  is  terrible. 
Beneath  this  weight  of  chains,  that  innocence 
Should  linger  here.    Go,  Recha,  to  the  sultan, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  201 

And  teil  him  what  we  feel  to  be  the  truth. 

Monk.  No.    Hasten  not  away^  my  dearest  children ; 
Deprive  me  not  of  this  sweet  consolation^ 
As  you  care  for  me.    I  would  fain  embrace  you. 
But  for  these  bonds^  my  son,  and  on  your  cheek 
Weep  tears  of  joy  and  thank,  thou  good  young  man. 

Temp.  Yes,  call  me  son ;  my  heart  reechoes  father. 
[  The  templar  embraces  him ;  and  Recha  kisses  his  hand. 

Monk.  Good  God,  if  hours  like  these,  so  sweeter  far 
Than  the  loose  joys  of  life,  can  enter  here. 
And  to  the  sufferer  more  than  compensate 
All  his  past  woes  below-*-and  heaven  in  prospect — 
Who  would  repine  for  virtue's  sake  to  suffer? 
What  have  these  walls  of  hateful,  while  within 
God  still  is  present  with  his  consolations. 
While  here  a  conscience  with  itself  at  peace 
Resides — no  solitude  has  any  terrors, 
I  have  already  been  well  known  to  sorrows. 
Though  not  to  this ;  but 't  is  another  scope 
To  exercise  my  faith. 

Rec.  That 's  easy  to  you. 

Monk.  When  the  blow  fell,  I  was  awhile  dismay'd ; 
But  soon  my  heart  took  comfort :  God  has  done  it. 

Temp.  God  ?  God  ?    Profane  not  so  his  holy  name. 
Traitors  have  done  it. 

Monk.  That  is  not  a  comfort. 
Be  it  they  libel  me — it  had  been  kinder 
To  end  my  being !    Men  are  always  sinning. 
But  God  directs  their  actions  to  his  ends. 
Without  the  Father's  will  no  single  hair 
Falls  to  the  ground,  the  holy  teacher  said. 
That  thought  shed  peace  and  calm  submission  o'er  me, 
And  soon  consol'd  me.    When  they  brought  me  hither. 
They  gave  me  time  to  meditate.     Our  Christ 
Suffer'd  yet  more  in  the  pure  cause  of  virtue. 

Rec.  And  with  like  resignation. 

Monk.  Hast  thou  read  it  ? 

Rec.  Read?  yes ;  and  wept  upon  the  good  one's  sufferings, 
With  many  a  pious  sob  accompanied 


202  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

His  footsteps  to  the  cross,  and  mixt  my  tears 
With  the  last  sigh  that  broke  his  mortal  heart. 

Monk,  Then  praise  the  Lord  that  he  is  now  alive. 
Who  once  has  felt  the  weight  he  had  to  bear, 
How  worthy  of  distinguished  recompense 
His  generous,  his  divine,  devoteinent  was, 
He  must  rejoice  that  God  within  the  grave 
Left  him  not  long.     How  happy  thou  wouldst  feel, 
If  from  my  hands  these  fetters  dropt ;  if  now 
The  sultan  said :  Be  free. 

Rec.  Oh,  on  mv  knees 
I  'd  thank  him  for  it. 

Monk.  Well,  then,  thank  thy  God 
That  he  has  not  allow'd  his  darling  son 
To  be  the  martyr  of  the  ill-intention'd 
Without  reward,  and  has  at  length  reveaVd, 
Through  this  great  man's  instructions,  words  and  deeds. 
How  on  yon  side  the  grave  each  complex  knot 
Shall  be  untied,  and  virtue  float  triumphant  i 

Through  everlasting  ages  of  reward. 

Rec.  And  yet  this  rests  on  miracle,  good  father; 
That  is  a  point  where  caution  is  behoof. 
Almost  I  let  my  Assad  perish  by 
Trusting  iU-timedly  in  mu-acle. 

Monk.  That  would  have  been  his  fault,  not  thine ;  for 
Daya, 
You  told  me,  called  him  often. 

Temp.  Oftener  far 
Than  to  myself  was  welcome. 

Monk.  Wherefore,  then. 
Would  he  not  come?    My  daughter,  we  may  sin. 
Not  only  against  man,  but  against  God. 
No  man,  no  angel,  rescues  from  the  grave 
The  might  of  God  alone. 

Rec.  You  christians  surely 
Don't  quite  think  so,  when  every  day  an  image 
Can  do  as  much. 

Monk.  What  idols  can  effect 
Is  not  our  question  now.    You  did  not  find 


p  \ 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  203 

Aught  in  his  life  of  images  and  idols. 

Rec.  No,  not  a  syllable. 

Monk.  But  much  of  God, 
To  whom  no  effort  is  miraculous, 
Whose  energy,  which  first  created  all. 
Preserves  all  being,  or  recalls  to  life 
With  equal  ease.    If  he  had  to  await 
Our  faith  to  interfere,  where  were  the  world? 

Rec.  And  yet  the  fact,  that  one  so  put  to  death 
Should  be  alive  again,  is  soUtary, 
Unparallel'd,  unheard  of. 

Monk.  Solitary 
Is  every  case  that  happens  in  the  world ; 
Each  but  a  thought  of  God's,  on  which  his  power 
Bestows  reality. 

Temp.  Clearer,  if  you  please. 

Monk.  What  man  is  wholly  like  his  fellow-man  ? 
Who  lives,  thinks,  dies,  exactly  like  the  other  ? 
If  thousands  suffer,  yet  no  two  perhaps 
In  the  same  manner.     God  preserves  them  all, 
And  still  for  each  provides  distinct  protection : 
His  thoughts  are  infinite,  each  new,  each  single. 
Man  comprehends  not  all ;  his  narrow  sphere 
Sees  but  in  detail,  traces  this  resemblance. 
That  difference ;  but  when  God  performs  his  wonders. 
He  only  draws  in  large,  that  man  may  see. 
If  God  decrees  to  recompense  the  good, 
Must  he  ask  us  the  how  ? 

Rec.  Not  that  indeed  ; 
And  yet  he  asks  faith  of  us,  when  he  works 
By  miracle.     We  're  used  but  to  the  natural. 

Monk.  Therefore  it  strikes  us  less.    The  natural 
Still  requires  faith,  at  least  as  much  as  wonders. 

Temp.  Can  you  prove  that  ? 

Monk.  Methinks  the  proof  is  easy. 
Of  each  effect,  the  fundamental  cause 
Lies  in  the  will  of  God.    He  wills ;  it  is. 
Is  this  to  you  so  inconceivable. 
Where  will  and  deed  have  not  to  call  in  action, 


204  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

An  intermediate  machinery  ? 
But^  in  the  course  of  nature,  God  conducts 
By  slow  degrees  from  its  incipient  germ      . 
The  last  result  of  his  predestination. 
Fancy  yourselves  a  moment  on  the  Nile — 
There  swims  an  ark  of  bulrushes,  yet  pregnant 
With  human  destinies,  of  various  nations. 
For  full  three  thousand  years. 

Temp,  after  a  'pause.  If  it  had  sunk. — 

Rec.  My  understanding  were  not  then  so  near 
Sinking  as  't  is. 

Temp.  Or  had  there  not  been  nigh 
A  daughter  of  the  king,  to  save  the  infant. — 
But  we  are  wasting  here  the  time  for  action. 

Rec.  Leave  me.   These  bonds  speak  more  than  voice 
or  books. 

Temp.  Stay  then.    I  '11  seek  the  sultan. 

Monk.  Do  not  grieve 
To  have  listened  for  awhile  to  solemn  things. 

\Tem'plar  goet, 

RECHA  and  the  MONK. 

Monk.  I  feel  his  truth  of  life  with  lively  love, 
As  I  ne'er  felt  it  in  the  halls  of  joy. 
Just  so  was  he  surrounded — prison-towers. 
And  chains,  and  threatened  death — and  such  kind  souls 
To  share  his  sorrows  and  to  learn  his  comforts. 
May-be  some  Jewish  maiden,  who  first  learnt 
In  dungeons  to  believe  on  miracles, 
Although  her  Moses  had  performed  so  many. 

Rec.  The  miracles  of  Moses  prove  themselves. 

Monk.  How  so  ? 

Rec.  From  their  effects,  like  the  creation. 
Who  that  has  eyes  to  see  can  question  this  ? 

Monk.  Not  using  them,  he  may.    Who  will  deny. 
Would  do  it,  had  he  seen  the  first-created 
Evolve  himself  from  dust.    Does  the  effect 
Prove  less  for  me,  my  Recha,  than  for  you  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  205 

\ 

Rec.  I  cannot  tell. 

Monk.  Your  Moses  gave  his  miracles^ 
By  hopes  held  out  about  the  promised  land. 
An  artificial  weight,  which  aided  faith ; 
But  Christ  to  the  cupidity  of  man 
Offer'd  no  bribe ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
Required  the  sacrifice  of  all  terrestrial ; 
Requir'd  self-denial,  patient  suffering, 
And,  if 't  was  needfiil,  painful  shameful  death. — 
Yet  they  believ'd,  confess'd,  and  perish'd  joyful. 

Reg.  I  own  it  always  seem'd  to  me  surprizing. 
So  many  should  so  satisfactorily 
Have  died  a  death  of  torment  for  a  falsehood ; 
Have  borne  in  life  privation,  misery. 
And  climb'd  the  scaffold  with  a  conscious  joy. 
But  Nathan  us*d  to  answer,  my  dear  Recha, 
Men  have  in  all  times  died  for  their  opinions. 
For  falsehood,  as  for  truth.     The  mussulman 
Rivals  the  christian  in  his  self-devotement. 
And  perishes  for  what  he  calls  the  truth. 

Monk.  They  must  at  least  have  thought  the  dead  one 
living. 

Rec.  No  doubt. 

Monk.  Whose  death  they  had  beheld,  they  imaged 
To  their  own  minds  as  risen  again  indeed. 
T  was  a  strange  dream  for  all  to  dream,  and  die  for ; 
To  sacrifice  their  country,  their  religion. 
And  make  themselves,  for  Christ's  sake,  fools  on  earth. 
Which  were  the  greater  miracle,  that  all 
Should  thus  concur  in  dreaming  that  which  was  not. 
Or  that  he  really  rose  ?    Were  I  to  say, 
Recha,  thy  father  lives. 

Rec.  That  were  deceiving. 

Monk.  You  are  too  hasty. 

Rec.  Is  that  possible  ? 

Monk.  Why  not  ? 

Rec  Because  no  miracles  occur. 

Monk.  Would  that  require  a  miracle  ?    May  not  he 
Have  been  but  slightly  wounded,  lain  awhile 


206  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

In  swoon  unconscious  with  the  other  dead^ 
Have  been  unburied  from  the  di^ifted  sand. 
And  have  recoveKd'  all  his  active  powers  ? 

Rec.  Would  it  were  true ! 

Monk.  If  further,  I  ntaintain'd 
I  Ve  seen  him,  I  myself,  and  yesterday. 
And  would  stake  life  upon  it. 

Rec.  I  'd  believe  yoii  ; 
But  that  might  happen  naturaDy. 

Monk.  If 
I  thus  deceived  you ;  still  the  imposition 
Were  less  important,  the  error  not  so  gross. 

Rec,  You  deceive  me  ?    So  pious,  conscientious, 
A  man  as  you,  to  God  so  all-devoted, 
Who,  did  it  rest  with  him,  would  make  mankind 
As  honest  as  himself— can  he  deceive  t 

Monk.  If  I  am  pious,  Recha,  it  was  through 
The  love  for  those,  who,  to  attest  that  Christ 
Rose  from  the  grave,  shann'd  neither  want  nor  death. 
If  I  am  sav'd,  it  must  be  through  their  faith. 
And  thousand  others,  who,  like  me,  became 
Pious,  and  full  of  hope  through  them,  who  liv'd. 
In  tribulation,  virtuous  lives,  consol'd 
By  also  walking  in  the  road  to  bliss : 
Can  these,  if  God  is  just,  be  disappointed  ? 
My  dearest  daughter,  think  you  I  could  wear 
These  fetters  thus,  if  aught  within  misgave  me  ? 
Could  Peter,  or  could  Paul,  were  they  deceivers  ? 
Imposture  does  not  hug  its  penalties. 
They  could  not  think,  or  write,  or  feel,  or  suffer. 
As  they  have  done,  if  even  doubtful.    RCiad, 
Recha,  and  feel.     The  question  needs  no  learning. 
Only  an  honest,  prejudiceless  heart. 

[Nathan  comes  in;  he  has  heard  these  last  words* 

The  MONK,  RECHA,  and  NATHAN. 

Nath.  That  Recha  has,  or  no  one. 
Monk.  Nathan,  thanks ; 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  207 

Next  Grod^  you  gave  it  her. 

Nath.  So  cheerful,  friend. 
In  this  sad  place  of  sorrow. 

Monk.  Wherefore  not? 
We  have  long  since  forgotten  we  are  here. 
Joy  dwells  wherevei*  man  will  seek  to  find  her. 
If  murderers  dwell  there,  temples  may  be  prisons, 
And  dungeons,  which  the  heart  has  hallow'd,  temples. 

Nath.  You  should  not  make  my  daughter  an  apostate. 

Monk.  Not  if,  as  christian,  she  could  cease  to  love  thee. 
What  then  indeed  were  Christianity  ? 
But  Nathan  will  not  feel  displeasure,  if 
She  finds  new  grounds  for  virtue  and  for  hope. 

Nath.  Displeasure,  Recha,  no ;  whate'er  you  are. 
Be  so  on  full  conviction.  [Recha  kisses  his  hand. 

[To  the  monk]  Now,  my  friend. 
To  your  afiair.    Think  not  I  Ve  blindly  witnessed 
The  march  of  this  event :  and  soon,  I  trust, 
Your  bonds  are  loosen'd. 

Reg.  My  dear  father,  how  ? 
You  comfort  me.    Do  not  delay  a  moment 
To  hasten  his  release. 

Nath.  Yet  Recha  seems 
Quite  easy  in  this  tower. 

Rec.  Yes ;  beside  him. 
Who  would  not  ?    Yet  I  grieve  to  see  him  suffer. 

Nath.  And  have  you  seen  him  suffer  ?    I  have  not. 
See  what  a  treasure  a  good  conscience  is. 
Never  be  guiltier  than  he  in  life. 
And  never  will  you  be  less  happy.    Soon 
The  difliculties  will  be  all  clear'd  up. 

Rec.  Thank  you,  my  father. 

Nath.  Give  your  thanks  to  God. 

Monk.  You  will  not,  Nathan,  have  been  the  protector 
Of  one  ungrateful.     But  do  nothing  hasty : 
Let  not  the  laws  risk  for  my  preservation 
The  least  attaint.    While  aught  remains  unclear, 
I  wear  these  fetters  with  a  willing  patience, 
Ready  to  suffer,  or  to  die,  if  so 


208  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  will  of  God  requires. 

Rec.  He  '11  not  forsake  thee. 

Monk.  No,  not  forsake  the  just.     To  let  him  perish 
Might  be  his  will. 

Nath.  This  is  indeed  the  temper 
Of  real  innocence.     Now  tell  me,  was  not 
The  cup  a  silver  one,  in  which  you  brought 
The  beverage  you  prepared  ? 

Monk.  It  was  of  silver. 

Nath.  Nor  could  it  have  been  otherwise ;  for  all 
The  gold  within  the  palace,  Saladin 
Had  coin'd  to  drachmas,  not  an  ounce  remained. 
What  was  the  cup  you  handed  to  the  sultan  ? 

Monk.  I  know  not,  I  was  startled. 

Nath.  Well  you  might. 
But  see  how  guilt  betrays  itself,  and  even 
By  the  false  glitter  of  its  shining  mantle. 
That  was  a  golden  beaker,  out  of  which 
The  sultan  was  about  to  drink. 

Rec.  Thank  God, 
That  there  are  traces  of  the  fraud. 

Monk.  You  've  witnesses. 
Proofs  of  all  this  ? 

Nath.  I  know  what 's  in  the  palace. 

Monk.  Still,  might  not  I  have  brought  it  with  me?    So 
The  question  's  undecided  still. 

Nath.  For  whom  ? 

Monk.  For  all ;  for  you :  but  not  for  me,  and  God. 

Nath.  Seek  not  to  weave  a  net  of  useless  doubt. 

Monk.  Wert  thou  the  judge,  would  it  become  thee, 
Nathan, 
On  this  alone  to  hinge  a  clear  acquittal  ? 

Nath.  Not  unless  other  circumstances  also, 
Convinc'd  me  of  the  culprit's  innocence. 

Monk.  If  you  are  friendly  to  me,  be  not  judge ; 
If  you  are  judge,  you  must  not  be  my  friend. 

Nath.  This  is  excess  of  scruple. 

Monk.  No,  I  speak 
From  my  own  feelings,  and  I  do  not  wish 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  209 

A  deed  like  this  should  be  at  all  passed  over 
With  slight  investigation.     Saladin 
Must  be  secured  against  all  treachery. 
He  on  whose  life  the  welfare  rests  of  millions. 
What  weighs  my  freedom  in  the  scale? 

Nath.  I  wish 
You  'd  not  so  much  convinc'd  me.    Wait  then' yet, 
We  *11  track  yet  further  this  black  treachery. 

[Nathan  and  Recha  withdraw :  tJie  prison  closes :  as 
they  are  quitting  the  portal,  Jezid  approaches  it, 
buty  seeing  them,  draws  back, 

Nath.  Now  leave  me,  Recha ;  yonder  comes  a  man, 
Whom  I  would  question.     There  's  the  mien  of  guilt, 
As  here  of  innocence. 

Rec.  May  heaven  defend  us !  [Goes. 

NATHAN  and  JEZID. 

Nath.  Don't  fly  from  Nathan.    Reverend  imam,  why 
So  hastily  turn  back?    I  was  rejoicing 
In  the  occasion  to  confer  with  you. 

Jez.  embarrassed.  Jew,  I  can't  stay.    I  've  many  things 
to  do, 
And  would  not  waste  in  prate  the  precious  hours. 

Nath.  Wrapt  in  your  thoughts  you  half  forget  your  road. 

Jez.  How  I  forget — ^and  are  you  blind,  old  jew  ? 

Nath.  Nay :  you  were  coming  hither,  now  you  quit. 

Jez.  I  have  a  right  to  come.     Look.     Mark  you  this. 

[Showing  the  ring  of  the  sultan. 

Nath.  The  sultan's  ring !     His  friends  should  be  each 
other's. 

Jez.  We  friends  ?    Go,  tell  your  Sittah,  you  aspire 
To  be  the  booby  Jezid's  friend,  you  '11  then 
Have  something  new  to  prate  of  in  the  arbor. 

Nath.  Oh,  he  has  listen'd.     Can't  you  take  a  joke. 
We  saw  you  in  your  lurking-place,  and  tried 
To  punish  you  for  prying.     Such,  you  know, 
Is  quite  &ir  play  at  court. 

Jez.  And  is  that  all? — 

VOL.  II.  p 


210  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Nath.  You  should  not  take  in  earnest  a  mere  jest. 
Ohy  what  a  pity  you  were  not'  with  us. 
When  the  monk's  cup  of  mischief  was  detected! 

Jez.  Why,  I  was  there. 

Nath.  But  you  were  gone  already, 
When  the  detection  came. 

Jez.  I-^I  had  nothing 
To  do  there. 

Nath.  Yet  you  enter'd  along  with  him. 

Jez.  Was  I  with  him  ? 

Nath.  Yes;  you  have  just  now  said  so. 

Jez.  I  said  so  ?    I  said  no  such  thing,  I  tell  you. 

Nath.  Stay :  recollect.    I  just  now  heard  you  say  so. 

Jez.  You  lie. 

Nath.  You  now  inform  me  I  am  deaf, 
Just  now  you  had  inform'd  me  I  was  blind. 

Jez.  I  tell  you  't  is  a  lie.    I  was  not  there. 

Nath.  Shall  I  call  witnesses,  and  prove  it  to  you. 
I  saw  you.    Sittah  saw  you :  and  the  sultan. 
Perhaps  Abdallah,  too. 

Jez.  What?  how?  who?  he? 

Nath.  I  can't  conceive  why  you  would  fain  deny  it 
Was  not  I  present,  just  as  well  as  you  ? 

Jez.  Ay,  so  I  think.   What  can  you  prove  against  me? 

Nath.  We  are  not  talking  about  proving  aught. 
Let  him,  who  feels  the  galling  goad,  first  wince ! 

Jez.  Do  you  say  so,  and  mean  so? 

Nath.  Wherefore  not? 

Jez.  I  don't  much  like  your  questions,  jew,  your  questions. 

Nath.  Can  we  have  aught  to  fear  ?    Did  we  remove 
The  wholesome  beaker,  and  instead  thereof. 
Put  in  its  place,  the  poison  ? 

Jez.  We  ? — What  mean  you? 
Beware,  I  counsel  you.    Do  you  mean  me  ? 
I  am  sure,  upon  my  conscience — 

Nath.  I  can  tell  you, 
The  culprit  now  is  more  than  half  discover'd. 

Jez.  Discover'd?  Now  don't  cross  me  thus.  I  am  going. 

[Trtfing  to  retire. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  21 1 

Nath.  He  must  have  been  a  stupid  fellow. 

Jez.  Stupid! 

Nath.  a  very  blockhead. 

Jez.  Blockhead  me  ?  damn'd  jew. 

Nath.  You?    Who  has  mention'd  you?    I  mean  the 
murderer. 

Jez.  The  murderer  ? 

Nath.  He  who  tried  to  kill  the  sultan^ 
He  must  have  been  a  blockhead ;  for  he  plac'd 
A  golden  beaker  in  the  very  stead 
Of  the  monk's  silver  one.    What  ails  you,  Jezid  ? 
You  are  pale.    You  tremble.    Do  command  yourself 
Else  you  11  betray  too  plainly — 

Jez.  I — betray — 
Do  you  mean  me  ?    I  say,  my  golden  beaker 
Was  stolen  from  me.    Is  my  name  upon  it  ? 
Answer  me,  jew. 

Nath.  May-be.    I  've  hot  examined. 

Jez.  My  name  thereon?    There  's  magic  then  at  work. 
That  monk  deak  in  black  arts. 

Nath.  Yet  it  was  strange 
That  you,  the  moment  the  dark  deed  was  done, 
Slunk  off. 

Jez.  Dark  deed — *t  is  false  that  I — 

Nath.  No  doubt 't  was  all  the  black  art  of  the  monk 
That  you  stood  by,  when  he  set  down  the  beaker, 
And  only  you. 

Jez.  Stood  by,  just  where  the  devil 
Had  plac'd  you  too.    To  hell,  you  and  your  monk. 

Nath.  The  road  we  might  securely  find  with  you 
To  guide  us,  imam.    But  perhaps  once  more. 
We  in  this  life  must  yet  converse  agam.  [Goes. 

JEZID,  alone. 

Jez.  Had  you  been  crucified  this  morning,  jew, 
You  would  not  have  been  able  to  squeeze  from  me 
This  sweat  of  agony.    What  next  awaits  me  ? 
AH  is  discovcr'd  now,  they  know  the  whole, 

P  3 


1 


212  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

And  there  's  an  end  of  the  hop'd  caliphate, 

Of  influence,  of  honor.    The  deep  devil 

Makes  but  short  work  of  mischief :  he  draws  nigh, 

Whispers  his  wicked  counsel  in  your  ear : 

"  So  you  may  lift  yourself:  no  earthly  creature 

Will  form  the  least  suspicion :  a  great  man 

Disdains  all  puny  scruples :  act  and  prosper." 

No  sooner  have  you  yielded,  he  returns, 

Trips  up  your  feet,  laughs  at  your  shameful  fall. 

And  tells  his  other  dupes:  "  there  lies  a  murderer." 

He  has  a  covenant  with  the  jew,  a  covenant — 

What  shall  I  do  ?    I  was  about  to  ask 

The  monk  to  make  for  me  another  draught 

Of  medicine,  for  the  sultan,  and  *t  would  help  me, 

Perhaps  e'en  yet,  to  hand  him  such  another 

As  that  he  took  with  profit.     Devil,  hush ! 

I  mean  him  well.     But  how  come  round  the  monk  ? 

[Jessid  approaches  the  prison^  and  is  about  to  etsk  ad- 
mission, when  AbdaUah  enters. 

JEZID  and  ABDALLAH. 

Abd.  The  sultan  sends  for  you,  and  begs  you  '11  bring 
Without  delay  another  cordial  draught. 

Jez.  How  can  I  ? 

Abd.  Why,  you  promis'd  him  to  do  it. 

Jez.  How  can  I,  if  an  evil  angel  flings  me 
From  one  assassin's  hands  into  another. 
You  want  to  murder  me  among  you — wretches. 

Abd.  Are  you  insane  ?    The  sultan  's  waiting  for  you. 

Jez.  Another  stab. 

Abd.  Shall  I  announce  you  are  coming  ? 
Another  draught  is  soon  compounded. 

Jez.  Cati  I  ? 

Abd.  Yes,  if  you  will.    Must  I  say  you  don't  choose  it, 

Jez.  Choose  it ! 

Abd.  With  that  same  beverage  from  the  monk 
Purloin'd,  you  've  really  almost  cur'd  the  sultan : 
Nothing  is  wanting  but  the  other  half. 


OF  GERMAN  POETKT.  213 

But  now  there  *s  ne'er  a  beaker  to  be  stolen. 

Jez.  Curst  mamaluke. 

Abd.  Your  art  is  now  at  fault. 
And  so  you  are  compassing  about  this  tower, 
To  see  if  you  can  get  the  monk  to  help  you. 

Jez.  Who  told  you  that,  the  devil  ? 

Abd.  You  are  thinking 
How  you  can  cant,  or  bribe,  or  frighten  him 
To  do  the  thing  you  want. 

Jez.  For  the  first  time 
In  your  whole  life,  Abdallah,  you  speak  truth. 
The  devil  whisper'd  that  into  your  ear. 
You  are  his  bondsman,  and  my  inmost  thoughts 
He  blabs  to  you.    All  is  discovered. 

Abd.  All? 

Jez.  I  wish  I  had  told  the  jew  that 't  was  from  you 
The  whole  foul  plot  proceeded — that  from  you 
I  took  instructions,  and  obeyed  your  orders. 

Abd.  Has  Nathan  then  discovered  any  thing? 

Jez.  Ask  him  yourself.  [Goes  to  knock  at  the  prison-door. 

Abd.  Yes,  that  I  shall,  and  soon. 
[Meanwhile  Abdaliah  comes  forward^  and  soliloquizes. 
This  fellow  has  betrayed  himself.     'T  is  now 
High  time  to  take  precautions,  so  as  to  fling 
On  him  the  blame — ^if  in  Abdallah's  head 
There  's  brain  enough  for  that.     If  not :  then,  sultan. 
You  'II  hear  from  me  what  you  '11  not  care  to  spout 
To-morrow,  or  next  day,  in  paradise.  [Goes. 

SCENE.— Inside  of  the  Prison. 
JEZID  and  the  MONK. 

Jez.  Monk,  do  you  know  your  life  's  in  jeopardy  ? 
You  were  about  empoisoning  the  sultan. 

Monk.  No.    That  was  never  any  thought  of  mine — 
Anxiety  about  his  life  I  feel. 
Par  more  than  for  my  own.   And  dp  you  bring 
The  welcome  news  that  he  is  living  still — 


214  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

That  apprehension  has  not  made  him  worse^ 
That  still  there  's  hope. 

Jez.  Hope?  yes!  if  there  *s  relief 
Soon  given. 

Monk.  Go,  and  do  it. 

Jez.  So  I  would 
Gladly ;  hut,  though  I  understand  my  art, 
There  is,  in  lucky  hours,  what  helps  or  thwarts. 

Monk.  Science,  alas !  is  not  omnipotent ; 
God,  as  he  pleases,  guides  the  last  result. 

Jez.  There  is  an  iron  fate,  I  often  say. 
Which  man's  weak  hand  is  impotent  to  bend : 
On  one  it  scatters  wealth,  on  others,  honor ; 
On  some,  as  upon  thee,  a  heavy  chain. — 
Now — that  *s  well  said. 

MoNK»  Not  much  so. 

Jez.  Do  you  think 
Yourself  more  wise  than  I,  and  mean  to  blame  me, 
And  to  dispute  my  creed  ? 

Monk.  Be  cahn,  good  imam. 
Truth  loves  not  weapons,  which  impatience  lends. 
She  asks  for  reasons.    Iron  Destiny 
Would  crush  our  hopes  below,  our  hope  above. 
A  wise  good  &ther,  governing  in  kindness. 
Giving  to  each  what  *s  best  for  him  for  ever. 
So  it  be  used  for  the  immortal  end. 
Best  suits  my  judgement.    These  cold  chains  to  me 
Preach  more  of  good,  than  crowns  could :  they  are  hints, 
Which  all'-wise  providence  reveals  below. 
That  here  our  being  ends  not. 

Jez.  I  was  trying. 
As  learned  men  are  wont,  in  a  smooth  way. 
To  turn  our  converse  to  the  point  I  came  for. 

Monk.  Speak  out,  then. 

Jez.  You  are  apprehended  here 
As  one,  who  aim*d  at  murdering  Saladin ; 
,    Yet  you  might  still  be  sav'd. 

Monk.  How  so  ?    The  laws 
Ought  not  to  save  the  murderer. 


OF  G£RMAN  POETRY.  215 

Jez.  Laws  indeed — 
But  I  have  power,  and  I  could  help  you. 

Monk.  How? 
Not  to  break  them,  I  trust. 

Jez.  If  I  contriv'd 
The  means  for  your  escape — 

Monk.  Not  only  I9 
You  too  would  then  deserve  a  piuiishment ; 
I  doubly. 

Jez.  Monk,  then,  are  you  bent  on  hanging  ? 

Monk.  I  thought  you  had  some  purer  means  to  offer. 

Jez.  There  is  no  other  way. 

Monk.  Oh  yes,  there  is. 
Suppose  you  knew  the  traitor,  for  example, 
Who  took  away  my  silver  beaker,  and 
Bestow'd  instead  the  poisoned  golden  one, 
And  were  so  conscientious  as  to  name  him. 

Jez.  I  name  him  ?    I  myself  discover  him  ? 

Monk.  Why  not  ?    It  is  your  bounden  duty  surely 
As  man,  as  priest. 

Jez.  Well — to  be  short  with  you, 
I  shall  let  that  alone :  yet,  if  you  would 
Accomodate  me — 

Monk.  That  may  ask  no  treason ; 
If  so ;  speak  out :  I  will,  with  all  my  heart. 

Jez.  Your  first  draught  has  done  service  to  the  sultan. 
He  asks  another  such.    Now,  I  know  not 
Of  what  you  had  compos'd  it. 

Monk.  'T  would  not  help  you. 
Were  I  to  state  it :  for  the  plants  't  was  made  of 
Do  not  grow  here :  they  came  from  Libanon. 

Jez.  Just  so :  and  were  you  to  compound  another, 
I  would  be  grateful. 

Monk.  Gladly  should  I  help 
The  sultan,  if  I  could — but  how  proceed  ? 
My  drugs  are  taken  fi*om  me.    Bring  me  them, 
And  for  some  minutes  free  me  from  these  bonds. 
We  'U  try.    No.  matter  in  whose  name  the  sultan 
Mends,  so  he  but  gets  well.    Oh,  lose  no  time. 


216  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Jez.  There  *s  a  weight  off  my  breast.  Now  let  *s  be  quick. 
The  monk  may  take  his  chance,  when  I  am  serv'd. 

[As  Jezid  is  goings  Osman  comes  in,  and  detains  him* 
OsMAN.  Oh,  do  I  catch  you  here,  this  saves  some  trouble. 
Stop,  imam,  stop. 
Imam.  I  have  no  time. 
OsMAN.  You  must 
After  this  piece  of  work  have  need  of  rest. 

Imam,  showing  his  ring. 
True,  but  I  've  pressing  business  for  the  sultan. 
.  Osman.  Your  ring  does  not  complete  your  dress.    I  've 
here 
A  slight  addition  to  confer  upon  you. 
Imam.  I  'm  quite  content — the  caliphate  comes  next. 
OsMAN.  What  are  you  prating,  traitor,  in  with  you. 
There  mix  your  poisons,  there  exchange  your  beakers. 
In  with  him  to  the  tower,  and  bind  him  fast. 

\The  guards  bring  fetters^  and  proceed  to  manacle 
the  imam* 
Imam.  I,  in  the  tower,  I,  I? 
OsMAN.  In  with  you,  traitor ! 

[The  prisonrdoors  are  closed  upon  him. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE ^ — The  Audience^oom,  and  Sick-room  of  Saladin. 
SALADIN,  SITTAH,  and  NATHAN. 

Sal.  Thank  God  that  all  this  villainy  so  soon 
Has  been  clear*d  up :  that  the  monk's  innocence 
Runs  from  the  test  so  gloriously  resplendent. 
How  easily  he  might  have  been  the  victim 
Of  their  dark  plans,  and  we  too  stain'd  ourselves 
With  guiltless  blood,  had  heayen  not  guided  us 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  217 

To  the  right  clue.    And,  under  God,  to  tbee. 
My  Nathan,  we  are  specially  indebted 
For  that  industrious  and  clear-sighted  search 
Into  the  business,  which  has  solv'd  the  problem. 
Thus  to  have  sav'd  the  life  of  a  good  man 
Is  more  reward  to  thee,  than  we  could  offer. 
Long  live  to  practice  and  enjoy  thy  virtue ! 

Nath.  To  God  belongs  the  thank,  when  he  employs 
A  human  instrument  to  work  his  justice. 

Sit.  I  most  rejoice  on  your  account,  my  brother ; 
More  than  one  life  I  trust  is  hereby  sav*d. 

Nath.  God  grant  so. 

Sal.  We  will  soon  pass  on  to  sentence. 
But  let  me  tell  you  first 't  was  not  my  father 
Who  wrote  the  false  forg'd  letter.    I  have  now, 
By  trusty  hands,  receiv'd  quite  other  news. 
This  monk  has  sav'd  his  life  by  medicine. 
And  is  commended  to  me  as  his  friend. 

Nath.  Jezid  is  not  alone  the  guilty  person ; 
He  has  accomplices ;  and  I  suspect 
Abdallah  will  be  found  to  have  tun*d  the  strings. 

Sal.  We  'II  see :  the  culprit  must  be  brought  before  me. 

[Nathan  goes. 
He  is  a  prudent  man,  who,  ere  he  acts, 
Weighs  all  the  consequences  of  his  conduct. 
I  am  not  quite  easy  with  this  business.    Jezid, 
Some  anger  at  your  hands  I  have  deserv'd ; 
No  one,  still  less  a  sultan,  should  have  trifl'd. 
As  I  did,  with  your  temper.    Here  he  comes. 

SALADIN,  SITTAH,  NATHAN;  OSMAN 

leading  in  JEZID. 

Sal.  Jezid,  you  ill  have  thank'd  me  for  my  favors. 
Thus  by  high  treason  to  disgrace  your  office. 
And  treacherously  fling  upon  a  stranger 
The  semblance  of  the  guilt,  well  merits  death. 
Your  conscience  has  betray'd  you.    Now,  speak  out, 
A  frank  confession  may  disarm  my  wrath — 


218  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Look,  is  this  beaker  yours  ? 

Jez.  Yes. 

Sal.  Did  you  bring  it 
Filled  with  thb  poison  here  ? 

Jez.  I? 

Sal.  You  ?  I  ask. 

Jez.  It  was  not  of  my  own  accord  I  did  it. 

Sal.  At  whose  suggestion  then  ? 

Jez.  The  evil  spirit's. 

Sal.  'T  was  he  inspired  you,  was  it  ? 

Jez.  Yes,  't  was  he. 

Sal.  But  he  belongs  not  to  our  jurisdiction. 

Nath.  Was  it  some  devil  in  a  human  form  ? 

Jez.  He  was  possessed,  and  by  the  evil  spirit. 
Who  bade  me  do  it,  but  I  name  him  not. 

Sal.  You  must. 

Jez.  You  saw  the  whole  that  pass'd. 
Could  I  have  taken  the  monk's  beaker  from  him 
Had  he  not  been  prevail'd  upon  by  one 
To  set  it  down  ?    'T  was  manag'd — 

Nath.  By  Abdallah  ? 

• 

jEZi.  Jew,  you  have  hit  it.    I  should  not  have  plann'd 
The  deep-laid  scheme,  but  that  he  made  it  easy. 

Nath.  When  happened  that? 

Jez.  JeWf  dare  you  ask  that  question  ? 

Sal.  No  matter^  he  or  I.    Do  you  reply. 

Jez.  to  Nathan.  You  were  yourself  the  cause. 

Nath.  I  ?  I  ?  How  so  ? 

Jez.  Had  we  not  been  conceal'd,  when  you  and  Sittab 
Spoke  of  me  scomfiilly — 

Sit.  So  we  Ve  the  culprits. 

Jez.  I  had  not  done  it.    I  was  chafed  to  anger. 
And  then  the  devil  had  fair  play  to  tempt  me : 
I  coveted  revenge. 

Sal.  Wrote  you  the  letters  ? 

Jez.  Not  I. 

Sal.  Who  then  ? 

Jez.  Is  that  with  you  a  question  ? 

Sal.  He  too,  Abdallah  ? 


OF  GBRMAN  POETRY.  219 

Jez.  So  I  apprehend. 

Sal.  Osman,  go  fetch  him  hither :  but  conceal 
Why  he  is  sent  for.  [Osman  leads  away  the  imam* 

O  my  dearest  Nathan^ 
Happy  the  regent,  for  whom  providence, 
Among  the  unprincipled  surrounding  croud, 
Has  stationed  one  man  upright  like  thyself. 
Life  were  a  hell,  did  virtue  never  haunt  it. 
Now  go  and  loose  the  fetters  of  thy  friend. 
That 's  the  best  recompense  thy  heart  can  wish. 

[Nathan  retires :  and  the  curtain  spreads  before  the 
sici-room,  so  as  to  leave  the  anterior  room  empty. 
Osman  returns^  with  the  imam,  and  with  AbdaUah 
under  a  guard* 

Osman.  to  AbdaUah,  'T  is  well  I  met  you ;  I  was  after  you. 

Abd.  What  says  my  Osman  ? 

Osman.  That  you  come  in  the  nick. 

Abd.  When  the  great  send  for  us,  my  dearest  Osman, 
There  's  commonly  some  weighty  thing  depending. 

Osman.  Perhaps  the  sultan  wants  to  have  his  sabre 
Scour'd,  or  his  best  horse  ridden. 

Abd.  Things  like  those 
Oft  have  their  weight  at  court. 

Osman.  For  you  *t  were  better 
If  you  were  eating  beans  beside  the  Ganges, 
Than  dreaming  of  your  influence. 

Abd.  How  so,  Osman  ? 

Osman.  Suppose  I  knew,  am  I  compell'd  to  tell  you  ? 

Abd.  Yes,  if  you  are  honest. 

Osman.  All  my  honesty 
Can't  help  a  rogue.    Abdallah !  what 's  the  world  ? 

Abd.  The  world — is  round. 

Osman.  As  round  as  any  mill-wheel. 
And  turns  as  fast,  and  what  was  uppermost 
Is  soon  at  bottom.    You  are  now  at  top. 
And  presently  you  'U  find  yourself  at  bottom, 
ScriggUng  like  any  eel  the  stork  has  caught. 

Abd.  Just  as  of  old. 

Osman,  pointing  to  the  imam.   And  so  I  shall  remain. 


220  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

But  revolutions,  such  as  here  befall. 
Are  worse  than  as  of  old. 

Abd.  to  the  Imam.  What 's  this.  Sir  Imam, 
How  stands  the  caliphate? 

OsMAN.  Perchance  't  will  be 
Partitioned.     One  man's  shoulders  may  not  serve 
To  carry  the  whole  weight. 

Abd.  Is  the  draught  ready. 
You  were  compounding  for  the  sultan's  lip  ? 

Jez.  Yes,  ready,  scoundrel,  to  bestow  on  you 
Its  mortal  taste,  perhaps. 

OsMAN.  A  precious  pair ! 
Chain  them  togiether  in  unparting  bonds, 
They  '11  be  each  other's  torment  e'en  in  hell. 

[To  the  fore-mentioned  accede  Nathan  and  the  Monk, 
and  soon  after  the  Templar  and  Recha. 

Nath.  to  the  monk.  Yes,  he  is  just ;  and  even  here  below 
Mostly  rewards  the  virtuous  for  their  worth. 

Monk.  And  sometimes  more  than  their  good  deeds  could 
claim. 
Sorrows  are  often  recompenses,  which 
Prevent  the  pleasures  from  corrupting  us. 
And  keep  us  in  a  wholesome  preparation 
For  that  great  day  of  retribution,  when 
The  mortal  shall  put  on  immortalness ; 
When  from  all  arms  the  bonds  of  death  shall  drop. 
And  we  shall  clasp  each  other  without  fear 
Of  ever  being  torn  asunder  more. 
And  there  are  golden  moments  here  below 
Which  antedate  this  feeling  of  salvation. 
See,  I  had  made  a  covenant  with  my  heart. 
And  was  resign'd  to  die :  but  now  my  soul 
Floats  with  celestial  triumph  here  on  earth, 
And  feels  that  God  is  just,  that  faith  is  precious. 
And  virtue  all  in  all ;  and  that  again 
My  life  contentedly  were  risked  to  keep  it. 
But  how  feels  he,  to  whom  I  owe  this  rescue  ? 

Nath.  Well.    But  his  deed  cost  little.    Happier  still 
In  the  strong  feeling  of  his  useful  efforts 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  221 

* 

Was  he^  who,  at  the  hazard  of  his  life, 

So  often  at  the  sword's  point  shielded  mine* 

Monk.  To  whom  do  you  allude,  who  was  to  save 
My  future  rescuer? 

Nath.  To  Recha's  father. 

Monk,  awfully.  How  wondrous  are  the  ways  of  heaven, 
my  friend, 
Let  us  in  grateful  worship  bow  before  them. 
'T  is  much  to  save  a  fellow-creature's  life, 
'T  is  more  to  save  his  everlasting  soul. 

Nath.  No  doubt,  if  that  repos'd  on  alien  effort. 

Monk.  And  to  have  sav'd  the  souls  of  all  mankind. 
To  have  given  life  to  all,  and  life  eternal. 
To  have  ransom'd  from  the  penalty  of  sin. 
By  willing  sacrifice  and  bloody  death. 
The  human  race  itself,  is  surely  more 
Than  unassisted  human  power  could  hope 
To  achieve,  than  unassisted  human  reason 
Could  hope  to  comprehend ;  it  is  a  thought 
Worthy  to  have  dwelt  in  God's  high  mind  for  ever. 
If  God  has  thought  expedient  thus  through  him 
To  perfect  our  salvation,  were  he  merely 
A  man,  his  bliss  must  rival  that  of  God : 
When  round  him  all  the  myriads  shall  assemble 
Whom  he  to  everlasting  life  creates 
Anew — how  gladly,  then,  my  Nathan,  we 
Shall  gaze  together  on  the  first-born  Son 
Of  the  great  Father,  the  select  exemplar 
Of  all  that 's  good  and  great  and  like  the  Godhead, 
And  grateful  kneel  at  the  Redeemer's  feet. 
That  e'en  our  sins  are  in  oblivion  sunk. 
And  bliss  vouchsaf 'd  for  all  eternity. 

Nath.  Monk,  you  are  for  your  faith  more  eloquent 
Than  many  a  patriarch :  if  all  thought  hke  you, 
It  were  delight  at  least  to  be  a  christian. 

Monk.  Oh,  that  you  gave  us  one  confessor  more* 

Nath.  We  '11  talk  of  that  at  leisure.    Saladin 
Will  need  our  presence  soon  in  his  apartment. 

Abd.  approaches  the  monk,  and  sqeexes  hut  hand  flatter* 
ingly. 


222  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Here  is  our  friend :  let  me  congratulate 

Your  quick  return  among  us^  worthy  man. 

How  soon  is  innocence  triumphant !    Yonder 

Stands  one,  whose  doom  is  nigh.       [Poiniing  to  the  imam. 

Monk.  Rejoice  not  at  misfortune :  can  it  be 
To  man  a  pleasure,  that  his  brother  suffers. 
An  honor,  that  his  fellow-creature  fails  ? 

Nath.  And  were  his  failings  rather  instigated 
By  other's  malice  than  his  own,  the  shame 
Of  exultation  would  be  more  misseeming. 

Abd.  I  think  so  too.    Your  sentiments  are  noble, 
Nathan,  and  worthy  of  the  friend  you  Ve  sav'd. 
'T  is  true  that  men  are  weak ;  to-day,  to-morrow. 
Each  yields  its  crop  of  crime ;  yet  malice  must 
Be  doom'd  to  punishment  for  virtue's  sake. 
I  was  about  to  seek  you,  and  to  tell  you 
What  of  the  Imam's  conduct  I  drew  from  him 
By  dexterous  question. 

Nath.  What  you  have  to  say. 
Is  better  stated  first  before  the  sultan. 

[Assad  and  Recha  come  in. 
To  the  monk.   There  comes  a  pair,  my  friend,  with  fiiUer 

hearts 
To  give  you  gratulation.    Come,  our  children. 
And  from  my  hands  receive  our  cherish'd  friend  ; 
More  than  your  tears  my  words,  I  hope,  avail'd  him. 
Reg.  It  is  enough,  we  have  him. 
Temp.  Rather  thus. 
By  force  of  justice,  than  by  dint  of  prayer. 
Monk.  Praise  to  the  Lord  alone :  we  are  but  men. 
Nath.  Had  Saladin  to  mere  petition  yielded. 
Where  was  the  duty  of  his  justice  thron'd  ? 

Monk.  The  criminal  has  also  tears  and  prayers, 
And  often  is  more  moving  than  the  righteous. 
Who  feels  his  dignity. 

Nath.  The  judge  should  yield 
Only  to  reasons.    See,  the  Sultian  beckons. 

[The  curtain^  which  concealed  ScdadifCs  sici-rom, 
is  withdrawn. 


i 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  223 

To  the  others.  You  'U  wait  awhile  here  in  the  antechamber. 
Until  you  are  summons'di 

Abd.  (mde.  Ho?  what  stately  airs! 
The  jew  gives  orders,  as  if  he  were  sultan. 

SCENE.— The  SuUan's  chamber. 

SALADIN,  SITTAH,  NATHAN,  the  MONK, 

ASSAD,  RECHA. 

Sal.  to  the  monk.  Welcome,  my  friend,  thrice  welcome. 
With  sad  heart 
I  bade  thee  go :  so  justice  and  the  laws 
Seem'd  to  require.    I  do  not  make  excuses ; 
You  best  can  feel  what  I  was  bound  to  do — 
Happy  that  you  are  now  restored  to  me, 
And  dearer  far  than  ever. 

Monk.  I  don't  ask 
Excuses,  Saladin :  I  am  a  man. 
And  know  what  human  passions  lead  to.    I 
Came  here  a  stranger — 

Sal.  Landed  among  murderers 
And  traitors :  where  is  innocence  secure, 
Ifnot  in  palaces? 

Temp.  Perhaps  in  huts. 

Monk.  Wherever  an  all-seeing  God  protects  it. 
Yet  hear  me,  sultan,  it  is  hard  in  courts 
To  fancy  that  a  man  draws  near  the  throne 
Without  some  view  to  dignity  or  wealth. 
None  knew  me  here :  none  knew  I  needed  nothing 
But  this  plain  garment,  and  my  daily  bread. 
Alas !  not  all  who  wear  this  simple  robe 
Are  free  from  worldly  views :  a  shirt  of  hair 
Defends  not  against  vice.     Envy,  suspicion, 
Officious  zeal,  suggest  interpretations. 
Which  reason  cannot  suddenly  appretiate : 
Let  us  thank  God  that  from  mistaken  symptoms 
No  greater  evil  than  these  bonds  arose. 
To  me  they  are  gain,  not  loss*    For  all  things  serve 


224  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Him^  who  knows  how  to  use  them.    Do  not  seek 
To  give  me  vengeance  against  my  accusers ; 
If  thou  canst  pardon,  sultan,  I  have  done  it : 
God  is  the  great  forgiver  of  us  all. 

Rec.  Sultan,  Oh,  never  part  with  him  again : 
This  is  indeed  a  man. 

Sal.  Do  stay  with  us, 
And  be  our  friend  for  ever :  in  a  day 
We  are  grown  dearer  to  each  other,  and 
More  confidently  knit  to  one  another, 
Than  years  could  fasten  ordinary  souls. 
Nathan  and  you  shall  henceforth  be  the  first 
Among  my  household. 

Monk.  Your  partiality 
Goes  but  too  far.    What  am  I  fit  for  here  ? 
Sal.  We  '11  find  that  out. 
Monk.  For  business  more  is  needftd 
Than  probity.     I  am  but  a  physician, 
May  heal  the  body,  but  not  save  the  state. 
When  thou  art  well,  I  take  my  staff  again. 
And  recommence  my  pilgrimage  of  mercy ; 
Sufferers  dwell  every  where. 

Sal.  Not  every  where 
So  many  worthy  people,  who  esteem  you. 

Monk.  There 's  many  a  good  man  scatter'd  in  the  world; 
What  I,  for  God's  sake,  had  renounc'd,  I  find 
Often  again  e'en  here.    Where'er  I  wander, 
Some  roof  gives  shelter ;  bread,  sufficient  food  ;^ 
The  well-head,  drink ;  and  in  the  human  heart 
Oflen  a  father,  brother,  sister,  son. 
Or  daughter,  who  could  love  me,  cling  about  me. 
And  pay  my  well-meant  help  with  strong  afiection. 
God  keeps  his  promises. 

Temp.  Here  too,  good  man. 
Have  you  not  found  a  daughter  and  a  son  ? 
Monk,  pointing  to  Saladin  and  Nathan. 
And  here  a  father,  and  a  brother  here. 

Sit.  And  if  you  want  the  sister,  pray  take  me. 
Monk.  With  pleasure. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  225 

Sal.  Have  you  thank*d  your  true  preserver  ? 
Nath.  We  understand  each  other  without  forms* 
Monk.  Well,  good  is  good.    Imposing  circumstances 
Render  a  deed  in  human  eyes  more  splendid. 
Not  in  the  sight  of  God.     Hadst  thou  with  hazard 
Of  thy  own  life  from  fire  or  water  sav'd  me, 
'T  were  not  perhaps  a  case  of  equal  service. 
Through  such  appearances  of  evil  purpose 
With  steady  penetration  to  have  sought, 
And  found,  and  prov'd,  their  groundless  character, 
Unprejudic'd  by  rumor,  creed,  profession. 
Thy  noble  heart  sought  only  triiidi  and  justice. 
Thank  God,  my  friend  and  saviour. 

Sal.  Where  's  Abdallah  ? 

Temp.  In  waiting. 

Sal.  Let  him  come. 

Nath.  He  means,  it  seems, 
To  impeach  the  Imam. 

Temp.  He ;  the  hypocrite ! 

[The  monk  meanwhile  converses  with  Sittah. 

Sit.  to  SaUtdin,    Sultan,  he  begs  that  you  will  spare 
yourself; 
And  wishes  to  compound  another  draught ; 
Exertion  may,  as  yet,  he  says,  do  harm. 

Sal.  Prepare  the  potion ;  but  come  hither  soon, 
And  be  the  witness  of  my  equity. 

[The  monk  goes. 

Rec.  O  Saladin,  ne*er  let  him  quit  us  more. 

Sal.  You  are  in  love  with  this  gray  cowl  of  his. 

Rec.  Not  with  his  cowl,  my  sultan,  with  his  heart. 

Sit.  He  will  not  stop  with  us.     This  is  no  cloister ; 
And  in  a  court  the  grave  rehgious  garb 
Is  rarely  welcome  :  the  Abdallahs  win, 
With  treacherous  flatteries,  an  easier  way. 

Sal.  Who  tells  you  so,  my  Sittah  ?   When  a  man 
Has  worth  and  talent,.the  religious  garb 
Must  not  exclude  him  from  the  love  of  those 
Who  have  a  heart  for  duty  and  for  truth. 
His  mind  is  form'd  to  benefit  an  empire. 

VOL.  II.  Q 


226  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Temp.  Indeed  it  is.    . 

Sal.  And  far  more  to  be  trusted 
Than  all  the  talent  of  those  selfish  parasites. 
Who  come  to  court  to  fill  their  paunch  and  purse. 
No  matter  if  the  empire  sink  or  rise. 
Whether  the  subject  give  or  beg  his  bread, 
So  some  is  on  their  tables,  boots  it  them  ? 
My  Sittah,  you  are  joking. 

Sit.  Half  and  half. 

Sal.  To  love  good  men  is  a  great  step  to  virtue. 

[To  the  foregoing  Abdattah  and  Osman  accede. 

Sit.  We  've  all  borne  hard  to-day  upon  this  Imam ; 
I  with  my  tongue,  you  with  your  cup,  Abdallah. 

Abd.  Excuse  me,  Sittah.    Error  is  so  easy. 
'T  was  Jezid  brought  his  beaker,  plac'd  it  there. 
And  slunk  away.    I  could  observe  the  whole ; 
But  not  aware  that  it  was  aught  but  medicine, 
I  was  not  to  accuse  him.    It  was  only 
After  he  got  the  sultan's  signet-ring, 
For  handing  back  again  the  stolen  beverage, 
That  I  found  means  to  sift  him.    He  was  swollen. 
Like  a  blown  bladder,  with  his  sudden  &vor, 
Talk*d  of  his  caliphate,  as  more  than  promised. 
How  should  this  empty  fool,  this  iron  pate. 
Have  made  such  medicine,  thought  I,  and  I  went 
To  Sittah  to  command  another  draught. 
Then  all  came  out.    I  found  him  in  the  prison. 
Coaxing  the  monk  to  mix  him  such  another. 

Sal.  The  monk  assist  him?    Is  that  true? 

Abd.  He  'U  not 
Himself  deny  it. 

Nath.  He  was  at  the  prison. 

Osman.  'T  was  there  I  seiz'd  him,  as  he  left  the  monk. 

Sal.  to  Nathan,  Did  the  monk  tell  you  this  ? 

Nath.  No,  not  a  word.  [Monk  eniers, 

Sal.  He  is  coming.  We  must  ask  him.  Are  you  ready? 

Monk.  Alas,  my  sultan,  no :  they  now  have  made 
The  unkindest  cut  of  all. 

Sal.  What  happens,  friend  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  227 

Monk.  My  plants  are  taken  from  me* 

Sal.  Who  has  done  it  ? 

Monk,  pointing  to  AbdaUah.  If  the  guards  answer  truly^ 
this  is  he. 

Abd.  And  so  I  did,  but  with  a  proper  purpose : 
Least  Jezid  should  by  means  of  them  conceal 
His  string  of  frauds,  I  burnt  them. 

Sal.  Was  the  Imam 
With  you  in  prison  ? 

MoMK.  Yes. 

Sal.  What  was  his  purpose  ? 

Monk.  To  get  another  draught  such  as  I  brought  you. 

Sal.  And  you  were  giving  it. 

Monk.  Why  should  I  not  ? 
I  could  have  died  more  easy,  had  I  first 
Done  for  your  life  my  utmost. 

Sal.  And  have  let 
Th'  impostor  reap  the  credit — 

Monk.  Mattered  that? 

Sal.  Now  God  reward  thee :  that  is  new  with  us. 

Sit.  You  see  he  is  no  man  of  courts. 

Reg.  But  better. 

Temp.  Like  those  in  tournaments,  who  do  not  joust, 
Bat  spare  caparisons  for  any  horse. 

Sal.  This  Jezid,  in  my  judgement,  is  a  villain. 
What  does  Abdallah  think  that  he  deserves  ? 

Abd.  Death:  nothing  less.  His  treachery  might  have  cost 
Your  precious  hfe. 

Sal.  I  think  so  too :  it  might. 
And  what  does  he  deserve,  who  first  suggested 
The  murderous  plot ;  who  on  his  anvil  shap'd 
The  poignard  given  to  this  man  to  strike  with  ? 

Abd.  Death  also.    But  I  cannot  think  that  Jezid 
Had  prompters :  he  is  bad  enough  for  this. 

Sal.  You  call'd  him  empty  fool,  and  iron  pate — 
Does  iron  weld  itself? 

Abd.  a  simile 
Tells  little,  sultan. 

Sal.  Were  I  to  compare  thee 


228  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Abdallah^  with  the  viper,  would  that  tell? 
Thou  hast  pronounc'd  the  sentence  on  thyself. 

Monk.  The  talking  much  fatigues  thee,  my  dear  sultan. 

Sal.  So  be  it :  yet  I  must  distribute  justice 
Before  I  die.    If  you  could  pardon  all. 
The  laws  cannot.     Ought  I  to  be  a  sultan. 
If  I  refiis'd  to  execute  them.    No. 

Sit.  You  might  to  other  judges  sure  intrust 
Their  application. 

Sal.  How  to  other  judges  ? 
Am  I  among  the  frogs  to  be  king  log  ? 
To  live  inactive,  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep, 
Play  chess,  and  die  ?    No,  no,  while  life  remains. 
Let  us  make  use  of  life,  and  render  justice. 
Thy  guilt,  Abdallah,  is  no  longer  doubtful ; 
Jezid  was  urged  by  thee  to  this  foul  act. 
And  now  thou  mak'st  a  merit  to  betray  him. 

Abd.  I,  sultan,  I? 

Nath.  Wherefore  defend  yourself? 
All  is  detected :  witnesses  are  here.   - 

Abd.  Now  then,  support  my  supplication,  Nathan, 
For  mercy  to  the  sultan.  {Throws  himself  at  Scdctdidsfeet* 

Sal.  The  laws  require  a  sacrifice.     Hadst  thou 
Succeeded,  here  on  this  just  man  the  blame 
Had  fall'n,  and  had  remained.     Thou  worthless  wretch, 
What  does  such  complex  villainy  deserve  ? 

Abd.  Death  from  the  sultan,  if 't  was  with  the  sultan, 
And  not  with  Saladin,  I  had  to  plead. 
To-day  is  not  the  first  time  he  forgives ; 
He  long  has  learnt  that  mercy  more  avails 
To  purchase  love  than  fear'd  severity. 

Sal.  Thrice  thou  hast  earn'd  the  penalty  of  death ; 
First  against  me  ;  against  this  spotless  man ; 
And  then  against  the  Imam.     Call  him  in. 

[The foregoing  remain.     Osman  withdraws^  af^ 
returns  with  Jessid  guarded. 
To  Jeisid,  Your  treason  merits  death  :  but  I  commute 
Your  punishment  to  a  perpetual  prison. 

Abd.  And  mine  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  229 

Sal.  Die. 

Abd.  Must  I^  sultan?    And  to-day 
Is  Saladin  himself  no  longer?     He^ 
The  merciful,  the  generous — 

Sal.  I  ought  not. 
If  I  would  pardon  thee :  thy  guilt 's  too  black ! 

Abd.  Since  thou  art  sternly  just  for  others ;  be 
Just  for  me  too,  and  right  my  cruel  wrongs. 

Sal.  Have  I  refus'd  to  hear  or  to  redress  them  ? 

Abd.  springing  up  hastily,  speaks  with  animation. 
Then  hear  me,  sultaii,  I  am  not  a  bastard, 
But  bom  of  noble  blood.     By  treachery, 
By  treason,  sultan,  I  became  thy  slave. 

[Saladin  looks  at  Abdallah  mth  marks  of  perturbation. 

Sal.  Man,  thou  art  brooding  mischief.    In  thine  eye 
Glares  a  terrific  hate,  as  wouldst  thou  slay  me. 

Sit.  Send  him  hence. 

Sal.  No  :  it  never  shall  be  said 
That  Saladin  decreed  his  death  unheard. 
Speak,  if  with  AzraelV  voice. 

Abd.  a  thankless  vassal, 
Rais'd  from  the  dust  by  my  old  grandsire's  love. 
Forgot  not  only  what  to  gratitude 
Was  due,  but  all  his  oaths  of  fealty. 
And,  when  his  benefactor  died,  he  seiz'd 
The  whole  inheritance,  and  robb'd  the  children 
Of  him  to  whom  he  owed  his  own  advancement. 

Sal.  Did  he  do  this  by  force,  and  no  one  punish'd 
The  ungrateful,  the  disloyal  vassal  ? 

Abd.  No  one : 
He  lords  it  undisgrac'd,  and  wears  his  plunder. 

Sal.  Had  he  no  hue,  no  color,  of  a  right  ? 

Abd.  Pretences  are  not  wanting  to  usurpers. 
The  heir  was  at  a  distance,  when  my  grandsire 
Sank  to  the  tomb,  and  still  a  minor.    When 
He  reach'd  his  home,  he  found  th*  ofiicious  vassal 
Become  his  guardian,  and  possest  of  all. 

'  8  Azraeli  the  angel  of  death. 


230  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  sword  bestow'd^  the  sword  alone  maintained 
This  usurpation,  till  the  legal  heir 
Died  in  the  bloom  of  life :  chagrin  his  poison. 
So  fell  my  father. 

Sal.  Does  the  robber  live  ? 

Abd.  He  lives  in  honor. 

Sal.  aside.  God  of  heaven !  what  ails  me  ? — 
How  does  he  use  his  trust? 

Abd.  Builds  hospitals. 
Schools,  mosks ;  bestows  with  overflowing  hands 
His  gold  on  those  he  fears,  and  thus  he  wins, 
By  squandering  plundered  wealth,  the  praise  of  all. 

Sal.  aside.  This  is  a  messenger  of  death. 

Nath.  I  fear  so. 

Abd.  Now,  sultan,  I  appeal  to  thee  for  justice. 

Sit.  Sure  the  good  use  he  makes  of  his  possession — 

Sal.  Must  not  excuse  the  robber :  the  best  use 
Were  to  return  it  to  the  rightful  owner. 

Abd.  Whate'er  of  good  he  does,  is  only  taken 
From  what  he  has  to  spare ;  nor  are  his  neighbours. 
Where  he  's  the  stronger,  from  his  inroads  safe. 

Sal.  What  has  he  done  to  them  ? 

Abd.  The  great  say,  conquer'd ; 
The  little,  robbed. 

Sal.  Man,  you  are  speaking  truth ; 
It  icrall  one.  [He  is  about  to  swoon* 

Sit.  My  brother,  you  turn  pale. 

Rec.  reaching  for  some  balsaniy  which  Sittah  applies. 
For  God's  sake.  help. 

Sal.  Stay.    It  will  soon  be  over. 
Speak  on. 

Abd.  Now  wilt  thou  do  me  justice  ? 

Sal.  Yes. 
He  shall  die  first ;  then  thou. 

Abd.  Swear  that  to  me. 

Sal.  By  God  above,  he  shall. 

Abd.  approaches  the  sultan,  and  says  with  a  strong  Ur- 
rific  voice :  Die,  traitor,  then :  thou  first ;  I  next. 

Sal.  My  God ! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  231 

Lend  me  support.  [They  ctssist  him. 

Temp.  Abdallah^  are  you  crazy  ? 

Abd.  No,  no.   Nureddin's  ghost  cries  out  for  vengeance. 
I  am  bis  grandson,  Saladin  his  robber. 
Die,  sultan,  die ;  thou  first ;  I  next. 

Sal.  I  shall. 

Sit.  My  Saladin ! 

Sal.  Nureddin  is  avenged : 
And,  well  for  me,  already  here  below. 

Nath.  I  fear  the  worst.  Wretch,  thou  hast  won  thyself 
But  a  short  respite. 

Sal.  Fare  ye  well,  my  friends. 

Rec.  My  sultan,  oh,  my  second  father. 

Temp.  Mine  too. 

Sal.  to  the  monk.   Friend,  our  acquaintance  here  has 
been  but  short :  ^ 

It  will,  I  trust,  be  longer  in  yon  world. 
To^ay  is  all  fiilfiird. 

Monk.  My  God,  thy  ways 
Are  wondrous. 

Nath.  Wonderful  and  terrible. 

Monk.  If  I  must  see  thee  perish  unassisted. 
At  least  thou  shalt  not  without  joy  of  heart. 
Behold  in  me  thy  brother,  thy  own  Assad, 
My  dearest,  my  beloved,  Saladin. 

Sal.  My  Assad  ? 

Monk.  I  am  he. 

Nat^.  And  can  it  be  ? 
My  IHnek,  my  preserver ! 

Sit.  In  a  cowl ! 

Sal.  Come  to  my  arms — then  I  shall  die  in  peace. 
My  Assad  living,  yes,  my  heart  had  told  me ! 

Sit.  Did  Assad  not  in  battle  perish  ? 

Monk.  Wounded, 
Not  fatally,  he  on  the  field  of  battle 
Was  left  half  buried  in  the  drifted  sand ; 
But  he  reviv'd. 

Rec.  My  real  father.    Oh !  [Embraces  him. 

Sal.  mthfauUering  voice. 


232  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Thou  hast  on  my  last  moments  scatter'd  comfort ; 
And  made  my  dying  day  a  day  of  joy. 
Farewell,  all  my  beloved,  and  for  ever !  {^Dies. 

Sit.  God,  God,  he  dies !  the  dearest,  best  of  brothers ! 
[They  surround  his  couch  in  attitudes  of  mute  grief, 
while  the  curtain  faUs. 


The  real  author  of  this  tragedy,  John  George  Pfran- 
ger,  was  court-preacher  at  Meinungen,  and  was  highly 
esteenoied  for  his  moral  and  intellectual  virtues.  While 
his  Monk  of  Libanon  passed  for  a  work  of  Lessing, 
it  was  welcomed  with  crowing  joy,  and  was  sincerely 
preferred  by  the  christian  world  to  the  previous  play^ 
which  it  continues.  The  concluding  part  of  the  first 
act,  in  which  Saladin  becomes  so  far  delirious  as  to 
reveal  his  inmost  thoughts,  was  pointed  out  as  more 
poetic  and  pathetic  than  any  scene  in  Nathan  the 
Wise.  And  the  entire  delineation  of  the  Monk  was 
applauded  as  the  finest  personification  in  literature  of 
the  idea  of  a  perfect  christian. 

After  the  family  of  Lessing  had  disavowed  this 
posthumous  publication,  and  it  was  admitted  to  be  a 
forgery,  critics  began  to  discover  that  the  farcical  vul- 
garity of  Jezid's  character  is  justly  offensive  in  a  se- 
rious drama ;  that  Nathan,  Sittah,  the  Templar,  and 
Recha,  are  but  degraded  likenesses  of  the  original 
characters ;  and  that  the  fable  of  the  piece  is,  in  the 
highest  degree,  dissatisfactory  and  incomplete.  After 
the  decease  of  Saladin,  where  was  the  sovereignty  to 
vest  ?  His  heir  apparent  is  the  Monk,  and  next  the 
Templar.  The  first  would  not  accept,  the  second  could 
not  attain,  the  supreme  rank ;  so  that  all  the  friends 
of  Saladin  are  turned  adrift  at  bis  death,  without  any 
better  prospect  than  exile,  confiscation,  and  poverty. 


t 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  233 


his  is  not  a  catastrophe^  but  the  commencement  of 
pnew  distresses.  And  why  does  the  Monk  conceal  so 
long  his  relationship  to  the  parties^  when  an  early 
lavowal  of  it  would  have  prevented  all  mistrust  and  all 
lembarassment  ? 

The  poem  has  another  more  vital,  or  rather  mor- 
\tSL\j  fault.  Pfranger  had  professional  superstitions,  and 
treats  the  local  conventional  morality  of  his  sect,  as 
an  inherent  universal  rule  of  right.  He  has  not  hesi- 
tated to  represent  all  his  characters  as  judging  of  their 
own  actions  by  this  peculiar  christian  standard.  The 
death-bed  repentance  of  Saladin  is  wholly  unnatural ; 
with  the  faith  and  fashion  of  a  Mahometan,  he  could 
not  feel  remorse  at  having  wielded  the  sword  in  behalf 
of  his  faith  and  his  people.  The  monk  must  previous- 
ly have  converted  him,  if  the  dialogue  at  the  close  of 
the  first  act  was  to  take  place.  But  Lessing  was  a  phi- 
losopher, and  every  where  appeals  to  the  instinctive 
sympathies  of  human  nature :  hence  his  drama  has 
progressively  gained  ground  in  public  favor  for  half  a 
century ;  has  climbed  from  the  closet  to  the  theatre ; 
and  is  claimed  by  his  country  as  a  national  classic ; 
while  Pfranger  s  imitation  is  so  nearly  forgotten,  that 
it  only  serves  as  a  warning  against  the  prejudices  of 
the  angelic  school.  The  Polyeucte  of  Corneille,  how- 
ever eloquently  versified,  has  fallen,  in  like  manner; 
by  attempting  to  hold  up  as  meritorious  the  fanati- 
cisms of  a  religious  intolerance,  which  the  epurated 
morality  of  civilization  is  walking  away  from  in  dis- 
gust 


234  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


§7. 

Groop  of  Vienna  poets — Denis — Alxinger — Haschia — 

Fridrich — Blumaner, 

Vienna^  or,  as  the  Germans  call  it,  Wien,  (and  it  is 
time  for  English  geography  to  denominate  foreign 
cities  by  the  names  in  use  on  the  spot,)  has  not  pro- 
dnced  its  natural  crop  of  excellence  in  authorship. 
A  metropolis  may  be  expected  to  collect,  and  should 
endeavour  to  patronize,  the  stronger  minds  in  the 
nation  which  it  superintends ;  but,  except  during  the 
short  sway  of  the  emperor  Joseph  the  second,  an 
intolerance  of  liberal  literature  has  marked  the  policy 
of  the  Austrian  government ;  which  not  merely  pro- 
hibited, but  practically  resisted,  the  introduction  and 
circulation  of  all  writings  tending  to  encourage  free- 
dom of  sentiment,  or  to  prepare  the  reform  of  soda! 
institutions.  The  leaden  mace  of  superstition,  the 
cast-iron  sceptre  of  hereditary  despotism,  were  girt  in 
the  fasces  of  the  magistrate,  and  paraded  with  effica- 
cious terror  among  all  domestic  as  well  as  pubh'c 
assemblages  of  the  people.  Yet  instruction  is  a  power- 
ful instrument  of  government ;  it  doubles  the  force  of 
any  community  by  facilitating  its  harmonious  exertion ; 
and,  like  the  foil  of  the  fencer,  it  can  be  wielded,  or 
parried,  or  incurred,  without  insecurity. 

Some  German  poets,  howeVer,  budded  at  Wien, 
though  for  a  short  season.     Michael  Denis,  who  was 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  235 

bora  in  1729  at  Scharding,  a  frontier-town  then  be- 
longing to  Bavaria^  entered,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
the  order  of  Jesuits,  gave  classical  and  mathematical 
lessons  at  the  semiDaries  of  Gratz  and  Clagenfurt, 
and  became  in  1759  inspector  of  the  similar  stndies 
cultivated  at  the  military  academy,  founded  by  Maria 
Theresa. 

After  the  accession  of  Joseph  the  second,  and  the 
suppression  of  the  order  of  Jesuits,  Denis  transferred 
his  attention  to  bibliographic  studies,  and  was  appoint* 
ed  chief  bibliothecary  to  the  Garelli  library,  in  which 
sitoation  he  merited  public  gratitude  for  the  critical 
catalogue  he  gave  of  its  contents,  and  for  the  many 
curious  manuscripts  and  scarse  books,  which  he  edited, 
or  analized.  He  first  evulgated  twenty-five  letters  of 
Saint  Augustin,  which  had  escaped  the  Benedictine 
editors,  and  wrote  an  erudite  history  of  typography 
at  Vienna.  He  was  finally  made  overseer  of  the  im- 
perial library  there,  which  appointment  he  held  until 
his  death  in  1800. 

The  first  poetical  attempt  of  Denis  was  a  metrical 
chronicle  of  the  seven-years*  war.  Next  he  published 
au  epistle  to  Klopstock,  which  contributed  to  draw 
an  attention,  new  in  southern  Germany,  to  this  pro- 
testant  poet,  for  whose  piety  and  orthodoxy  the  Jesuit 
could  vouch.  To  the  chorus-dramas,  and  bardic  odes, 
Denis  became  peculiarly  attached,  and  was  thus  pre- 
pared to  receive  with  enthusiam  the  analogous  sceneries 
and  personages  of  Ossian,  all  whose  poems  he  trans- 
lated into  German  hexameter.  The  address  to  the 
sun  will  supply  a  specimen. 

Thou,  who  roirst  in  the  firmament,  round  as  the  shield  of  my  fathers. 
Whence  is  thy  g;irdle  of  glory,  O  Sun  1  and  thy  light  everlastmg  ! 
Forth  thou  com'st  in  thine  aweful  beauty ;  the  stars  at  thy  rising 
Haste  to  their  azure  pavillions,  the  moon  sinks  pale  in  the  waters ; 


236  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

But  thou  movest  alone :  who  dareth  to  wander  beside  thee  ? 
Oaks  of  the  mountain  decay,  and  the  hard  rock  crumbles  asunder ; 
Ocean  shrinks,  and  again  grows  ;  lost  is  the  moon  from  the  heavens ; 
While  thou  ever  remainest  the  same,  to  rcgoice  in  thy  brightness. 
Altho'  laden  with  storms  be  the  wind,  loud  thunders  be  rolling, 
Lightnings  be  glaring  around,  thou  look'st  from  the  clouds  in  thy  beauty. 
Laughing  the  storm ;  but,  alas  I  thou  shinest  in  vain  upon  Ossian  : 
He  no  more  may  behold  thy  effulgency,  whether  thy  fair  locks 
Yellowly  curl  on  the  clouds  of  the  morning,  or  red  in  the  west  wave 
Quivering  dip.     Yet  thou  art  perhaps  but  like  me,  for  a  season— < 
Finite  e'en  thy  years — thou  too  shalt  be  sleeping  in  midnight, 
Deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  morning.     Exult,  then,  O  Sun  !  in  thy  vigor  : 
Dark  and  unlovely  is  age,  as  the  glimmering  light  of  the  moon-beams 
Pale  that  shine  thro'  mists  over-rolling  the  face  of  the  grey  sky. 
When  on  the  heath  «weep  blasts  and  the  sleet-vezt  traveller  shivers. 


Denis  also  wrote  latin  poetry :  his  epitaph  on  Pope 
Pius  VI  may  deserve  transcription. 

Papa  pius,  patri4  Caesenas,  Angelas  ante 

Braschius^  ingenio  vividus,  ore  decens, 
Casibus  adversis  in  serum  exercitus  aevum^ 

Jure  peregrinus  dictus  apostolicus. 
Post  varios  tandem  vitaeque  viseque  labores 

Ossa  Valentino  liquit  in  exilio. 
Perdita  sub  sextis  semper,  testante  poetd, 

Hoc  quoque  sub  sexto  perdita  Roma  fuit. 
Sed  ne  crede  Pii  culpa  periisse,  viator, 

Perdidit,  heu !  Romam  temporis  impietas. 

Many  occasional  poems  of  Denis  are  addressed  to 
Austrian  worthies,  but  the  most  original  of  his  pro- 
ductions is  entitled  "  The  Temple  of  the  -Slons.**  At 
the  north  pole,  in  a  palace  of  ice,  are  supposed  to  as- 
semble the  ghosts  of  departed  centuries.  The  earth, 
in  the  poet's  opinion,  had  lasted  6900  years  at  the 
close  of  the  year  1800  of  our  era ;  and  the  ^ons  are 
consequently  sixty-nine  in  number.  At  the  midnight 
hour  which  commences  the  nineteenth  century,  they 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  237 

awake  from  their  centennial  sleep,  and  prepare  to  re- 
ceive their  new  brother,  who  arrives  to  give  an  account 
of  what  happened  of  remarkable  during  the  period  of 
his  abode  among  men.  He  sketches  the  principal 
events  he  had  witnessed  with  solemn  and  impressive 
criticism  ;  and  a  throne  is  then  assigned  to  him  next 
to  that  of  his  last-born  brother.  The  inauguration 
finished,  the  seventy  ^ons  sink  back  into  their  peri- 
odic repose  and  chill  silence  of  a  hundred  years.  This 
was  the  last  effusion,  the  swan-song  of  Denis,  who 
died  on  the  29th  of  September,  1800,  nine  months 
after  his  ideal  inspection  of  the  temple  of  the  ^ons. 
He  provided  in  his  will  against  the  dissection  of  his 
body. 


John  Baptist  von  Alxinger  was  born  at  Wien  on 
the  24th  of  January  1755,  of  noble  parents :  his  father, 
a  doctor  of  laws,  officiated  as  consistorial  counsellor  to 
the  bishop  of  Passau.  Alxinger  studied  under  the 
celebrated  Eckhel,  who  had  the  care  of  the  imperial 
cabinet  of  medals,  and  imbibed  in  this  society  a  love 
of  the  details  and  illustrations  of  classical  studies. 
Heir  to  a  liberal  patrimony,  though  bred  to  the  bar 
he  attended  with  little  sedulity  to  his  profession  :  he 
acquired,  however,  a  doctor's  degree,  and  the  rank  of 
aulic  counsellor;  but  withdrew  progressively  from 
practical  to  literary  occupations.  The  court  of  Vienna, 
with  a  polite  regard  for  his  inclinations,  proposed  to 
him  to  undertake  not  so  much  the  management  as 
the  superintendence  of  the  imperial  theatre,  a  salaried 
office,  which  he  executed  tastefully,  and  held  during 
the  three  years  preceding  his  decease.  A  nervous 
fever  carried  him  off  in  May  1797,  at  the  early  age 


238  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

of  forty-two :  aware  of  his  approaching  end^  he  be- 
queathed his  skull  to  Dr.  Gall^  the  foimder  of  phre- 
nology. 

The  poetic  effusions  of  Alxinger^  which  had  ap- 
peared singly  and  successively  in  various  periodic 
magazines,  were  first  collected  in  1784 ;  and  a  second 
volume  appeared  in  1794.  Beside  these  occasional 
verses,  and  a  translation  of  Florian's  Numa,  he  com- 
posed three  epic  poems  on  chivalrous  subjects,  namely, 
Doolin  of  Maynz,  1787 ;  Bliomberis,*  1791 ;  and 
Richard  Lion-heart,  1796.  Wieland  had  been  the 
author's  model ;  and  it  was  hoped  for  a  time  that  the 
imitator  would  also  assert  a  permanent  reputation ; 
but  his  fame  as  a  poet,  which  was  perhaps  favoured 
by  his  rank  and  his  virtues,  has  waned  not  waxed.  It 
is  now  perceived  that  often  his  fable  is  ill-constructed, 
his  style  wants  grace,  his  exuberance  is  trailing,  bis 
interest  sags,  and  that  the  splendid  picturesque  colour- 
ing which  Wieland  so  dazzlingly  throws  over  every 
object  of  description,  fades  into  misty  dimness  on  the 
canvas  of  his  copyist. 

The  private  virtues  of  Alxinger,  his  noble  generosity, 
his  affectionate  soul,  so  much  more  than  atone  for 
some  intemperate  sallies  of  his  early  years,  and  place 
him  so  high  among  men,  that  one  covets  for  him  a 
more  eminent  station  as  a  poet. 


Lorenz  Leopold  Haschka,  an  Austrian,  became 
for  a  time  remarkable  by  some  odes,  which  aped  the 
manner  of  Klopstock,  without  however  displaying  that 


*  The  fable  of  Bliomberis,  (which  is  probably  a  Nonnati  corruption  of  the  Eog^ 
lish  name  Bloomsbury,)  is  given  at  length  in  the  second  volume  of  the  Tales  of  Yore, 
printed  for  Mawman  in  1810,  and  is  the  most  adapted  for  English  refashionment. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


239 


force  of  thought  snd  feeling,  which  were  attained  hy 
his  master.  He  was  liberally  patronized  by  his  friend 
the  poet  Alxinger,  who  made  him  a  present  of  10,000 
florins. 


Karl  Julius  Fridrich  also  flourished  and  published 
atWien,  in  1786,  a  volume  of  Situations jOjs  they  were 
entitled.  They  resemble  dramatic  soliloquies  on  some 
topic  which  engages  the  poet's  contemplative  attention. 
Perhaps  the  best  of  them  is  that  entitled  The  Hero's 
Monument,  and  records  the  self-immolation  of  a  prince 
Leopold^  who  was  drowned  at  Frankfort  on  the  Oder, 
in  attempting  to  rescue  some  humble  individuals,  from 
being  swept  away  by  an  inundation. 


Aloys  Blumaner  was  born  the  21st  of  December, 
1755,  at  Steyer  in  Austria,  entered  the  order  of  Jesuits 
in  1772,  and  gave  for  a  time  private  lessons.  After 
the  suppression  of  the  order,  he  became  licenser  of 
the  press,  or  censor  as  it  was  called,  and  he  acquired 
some  share  in  a  bookseller  s  concern.  He  died  in 
1798,  in  the  forty-fourth  year  of  his  age. 

His  poems,  which  first  appeared  at  Wien  in  1782, 
contain  the  Praise  of  Printing,  an  Address  to  the 
Devil,  a  Panegyric  of  the  Ass,  and  a  tragedy,  Erwina 
of  Sternheim ;  but  his  most  celebrated  production  is 
the  ^neid  burlesqued,  of  which  he  lived  to  complete 
only  nine  books.  The  death  of  Dido  has  been  quoted, 
no  doubt  for  its  merit,  byM.  Bemays,  in  his  conveni- 
ent and  comprehensive  German  Poetical  Anthology, 
London,  1829;  an  abridgement  of  it  is  attempted 
here. 


1 


240  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


THE  DEATH  OF  DIDO. 

Night,  in  her  full-dress  mourning  garb, 

Stalk'd  slowly  to  the  palace ; 
And  through  the  queen's  apartment  came. 
But  brought  no  hartshorn  drops,  or  dram. 

To  quiet  her  wild  sallies. 

As  all  creation  always  mourns 

When  titled  people  sufier ; 
The  very  bull-frogs  in  the  marsh 
Were  heard  in  croaks  more  loud  and  harsh 

To  pity,  or  to  huff  her. 

The  sky  put  crape  about  his  hat. 

The  clouds  began  to  weep. 
The  otiis  rehears'd  a  requiem. 
The  ravens  try'd  to  echo  'em. 

The  wind  sigh'd  wondrous  deep. 

Her  very  furniture  partook 

The  general  consternation ; 
The  bedstead  first  a  creak  began. 
The  toilet  sigh'd,  the  close-stool  pan 

Repeats  the  lamentation. 

Though  but  the  old  moon's  waning  horns 

Before  the  window  linger, 
Poor  Dido  fycy'd  she  beheld 
Pygmalion's  angry  ghost,  who  held 

A  halter  on  his  finger. 

"  Ah,  grin  not,  griesly  shade,  at  me ; 

I  'm  reading  Werter's  sorrows : 
I  come  to  share  thy  second  bed ; 
I  know  my  winding  sheet  is  spread  ; 

I  ask  for  no  to-morrows." 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  241 

Then  from  her  bosom  the  sad  queen 

A  stout  black  ribband  drew ; 
Of);  she  had  coil'd  it  with  her  nail 
Around  iSneas's  pig-tail^ 

When  she  tied  up  his  cue. 

Round  her  own  neck  she  twin'd  it  now^ 

And  made  a  slipping  noose ; 
And  to  the  tester  of  the  bed 
Fastened  the  two  ends  overhead, 

And  slipt  her  high-heel'd  shoes. 

*'  Dear  ribband,  once  my  lover's  pride. 

Be  now  at  last  my  own." 
And  then  she  kick'd  away  the  stool. — 
Her  sister  thought  her  a  great  fool, 

But  durst  not  cut  her  down. 

This  is  not,  in  my  judgement,  the  best  part  of  the 
poem:  the  visit  to  Anchises  in  the  Elysian  fields, 
where  he  keeps  a  public  house  and  sells  draughts  of 
Lethe,  and  the  prophecy  of  the  future  papal  govern- 
ment of  Rome,  have  more  satiric  mierit :  but  Blumaner 
had  not  formed  \^  plany  when  he  undertook  his  work. 
He  begins  with  Juno,  and  the  heathen  gods  and  god- 
desses ;  but  he  afterwards  converts  ^neas  to  Christi- 
anity, and  makes  him  vow-'m  monastery  to  St.  Florian. 
This  portion  of  the  fabl«,.|p  which  catholic  superstitions 
are  admirably  held  up  tb  ridicule,  has  chiefly  contri- 
buted to  keep  alive  the  popularity  of  a  poem,  which 
could  only  have  appeared  at  ViSma  during  the  sway 
of  Joseph  II. 

Instead  of  sending  iEneas  to  Italy,  there  "  den  Vati- 
cm,  zu  griinden,''  *  (book  I,  stanza  iv,)  perhaps  it^would 

S  **  To  found  the  Vatican."— So  Blumauer  parodies  the  line :  **  Tantse  molis  erat 
Romanam  condere  gentem." 

VOL.  n.  R 


242  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

have  been  wiser  to  have  made  saint  Peter  himself  the 
hero  of  the  story ;  and  to  have  narrated  his  pretended 
journey  to  Rome  with  the  appropriate  embellishments 
of  christian  mythology.  Saint  Nicholas  might  raise 
the  wind  as  well  as  iBolus,  and  saint  Mary  the  Egyp- 
tian, without  any  loss  of  reputation  for  chastity,  might 
receive  the  apostle  with  all  the  hospitality  of  a  Dido. 
The  Recognitions  of  Clemens  would  have  supplied 
many  poetic  incidents  arrangeable  in  a  manner  analo- 
gous to  the  disposition  of  Virgil's  fable,  and  equally 
open  to  the  admission  of  those  parodies,  which  con- 
stitute the  chief  felicities  of  Blumauer  s  travesty. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  243 


§8. 

I 

^if^  Rf  Wieland. 

Some  persons  are  to  be  found  in  every  land,  whose 
individual  progress  resembles  that  of  the  community. 
Starting  into  life  with  the  average  culture  of  the  better 
classes  of  their  countrymen,  able  to  keep  pace  with 
the  course  of  literature  and  of  event,  attentive  to  sur- 
rounding nature,  and  using  acute  powers  of  observa- 
tion and  reflection  to  the  last,  they  undergo  personally 
the  same  series  of  changes  as  the  public  mind  itself, 
represent  all  throughout  the  Spirit  of  the  whole,  and 
leave  oflf  where  they  leave  their  country.  Of  such 
men  the  lives  are  peculiarly  instructive ;  they  form  an 
epitome  of  the  general  history;  a  nation  reads  its  own 
memoirs  in  their  annals:  like  delicately  suspended 
needles,  they  enable  others  to  steer,  and  indicate  the 
invisible  magnetic  currents  of  a  world. 

Wieland  was  a  being  of  this  class ;  and,  independ- 
ently of  his  eminence,  fertility,  and  beauty,  as  a  writer, 
he  deserves  notice  as  the  ready  pupil  of  all  the  coeval 
philosophy.  By  the  calm  wisdom  of  his  disinterested 
philanthropy,  he  had  insensibly  acquired  the  confidence 
of  the  entire  party  ^f  continental  liberalists,  whe- 
ther writers  or  statesmen.  The  genius  of  Europe 
visited  in  his  book-room,  and  delivered  oracles  from 
the  lips  of  his  bust :  hostile  -sovereigns  became  com- 


244  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

petitors  for  his  approbation :  and  Napoleon  and  Alex- 
ander equally  courted  his  sanction  of  their  views. 
Raised  by  a  voluntary  and  informal  but  efficacious  and 
understood  delegation  into  the  papal  chair  of  philoso- 
phy, he  almost  swayed  nations  by  the  pure  influence 
of  preaching  to  them  their  real  interests. 

At  Biberach  in  Swabia,  Christopher  Martin  Wieland  ' 
was  born,  on  the  5th  of  September  1733,  in  a  parson- 
age-house called  Holzheim,  which  his  father  inhabited 
near  the  Riess,  a  streamlet  now  become  classical. 
Biberach  is  a  free  corporation-town,  in  which  the 
Catholics  and  Lutherans  have  equal  rights,  and  use 
the  same  church  alternately;  and  Wieland's  father  was 
the  Lutheran  minister.  He  undertook  the  entire  edu- 
cation of  his  son,  for  which  his  studies  at  the  Universi- 
ty of  Halle  had  qualified  him:  but,  with  the  usual  soli- 
citude of  parental  affection,  he  bestowed  too  much  toil 
on  the  pupil,  began  his  lessons  when  the  child  was  only 
three  years  old,  and  forced  by  this  hot-house  confine- 
ment a  premature  growth  of  knowledge. 

The  boy  was  admired  as  a  prodigy>  and  in  his  seventh 
year  was  reading  Nepos :  but  he  had  incurred  the 
oppressed  feeling  of  those  who  are  not  suffered  to 
expand,  had  contracted  a  shy  lonesomeness  of  dispos- 
'  ition,  and  apparently  wanted  the  activity,  the  readi- 
ness, and  the  spirit  of  competition  which  are  possessed 
by  boys  accustomed  to  bustle  through  a  crowd.  In 
his  thirteenth  year,  Virgil  and  Horace  were  his  pocket- 
companions  ;  he  was  already  familiar  with  Cicero ; 
and  he  had  not  only  begun  to  make  German  verses, 
especially  hymns,  but  had  planped  an  epic  poem  on 
the  Destruction  of  Jerusalem.  The  mystically  pioos 
turn  of  his  father  was  giving  to  all  his  ideas  a  religi- 
ous direction. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  245 

At  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  was  first  exposed  to  the  con- 
flicts of  public  and  social  education ;  being  then  sent 
to  the  high  school  at  Klosterbergen,  near  Magdeburg, 
at  that  time  superintended  by  the  Abbot  Steinmetz, 
whose  reputation  as  a  teacher  was  great,  and  whose 
evangelical  tone  accorded  with  the  sentiments  of  Wie- 
land's  father.  In  consequence  of  the  popularity  of 
this  institution,  especially  in  the  Prussian  states,  the 
school-house  had  been  lately  enlarged  :  the  discipline, 
also,  had  become  unremitting ;  and  devotional  exer- 
cises formed  a  laborious  part  of  the  employment  of 
the  numerous  pupils.  The  young  Wieland  here  made 
a  rapid  progress  in  Greek,  and  grew  remarkably  fond 
of  Xenophon,  whose  Cyropa^dia  was  the  study  of  his 
class :  but  he  took  less  part  than  others  in  the  sports 
of  his  school-fellows,  their  play-ground  being  to  him 
rather  a  show  than  an  arena.  Adelung,  afterwards  the 
celebrated  glossologist,  was  one  of  the  scholars  with 
whom  he  formed  a  permanent  friendship.  During 
his  leisure-hours,  he  applied  to  English  literature,  and 
read  the  Spectator,  and  Shaftesbury's  Characteristics. 
All-curious,  too,  at  this  time,  he  peeped  into  some 
libertine  books,  but  felt  compunction  after  the  indul- 
gence. Indeed  his  conscientiousness  was  extremely 
sensible,  whatever  were  his  topics  of  self-reproach : 
"  how  often,"  he  says,  "  I  almost  bathed  in  tears  of 
contrition,  and  wrung  my  hands  sore ;  I  would  fain 
but  could  not  fashion  myself  into  a  saint." 

When  seventeen  years  old,  Wieland  left  school, 
and  passed  some  months  at  Erfurt  with  a  relation 
named  Baumer ;  who  gave  him  instructions,  and  ad- 
vised him,  as  his  lungs  were  weak,  to  abandon  the 
intention  of  taking  orders,  and  to  study  the  law.  In 
the  year  following  he  returned  home,  and  obtained 


246  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  relactant  permission  of  his  father  to  prepare  for 
college  on  this  new  plan. 

Sophia  von  Gatterman,  the  daughter  of  a  physician 
at  Augsburg,  a  young  lady  of  beauty  and  intellect, 
was  now  staying  at  Biberach,  and  visited  at  the  house 
of  Wieland's  father.  Two  or  three  years  older  than 
this  youth,  who  was  still  treated  as  a  school-boy,  and 
debarred  by  a  specific  engagement  from  any  prospect 
of  alliance  with  him,  she  saw  neither  danger  nor  im- 
propriety in  walking  out  frequently  with  a  lad  whose 
talents  and  accomplishments  she  could  discern  and 
appretiate:  but  Wieland  fell  enthusiastically  in  love 
with  her.  One  Sunday,  when  his  father  had  been 
preaching  from  the  text  *God  is  love,'  he  accompanied 
Sophia  after  service  into  the  fields ;  said  that  he  thought 
a  warmer  discourse  might  have  been  inspired  by  the 
topic;  and  began  to  declaim  in  a  rhapsodical  phrase- 
ology, recollected  or  modified  from  Plato's  dialogues. 
"  You  may  imagine,*'  says  Wieland's  own  narrative, 
**  whether  I  spoke  coldly  when  f  gazed  in  her  eyes, 
and  whether  the  gentle  Sophia  heard  unpersuaded, 
when  she  looked  benignly  at  me.  In  short,  neither 
of  us  doubted  the  rectitude  of  my  system :  but  Sophia 
expressed  a  wish,  probably  because  she  thought  my 
delivery  was  too  lyrical,  that  I  would  put  down  my 
ideas  in  writing.  As  soon  as  I  left  her,  I  was  at  my 
desk,  and  endeavoured  to  versify  my  theory."  The 
fruits  of  this  enthusiastic  stroll  were  the  lines  entitled 
The  Nature  of  Things,  which  form  a  conspicuous  part 
of  Wieland's  first  publication ;  the  poem  was  dilated 
afterwards,  but  the  substauce  originated  at  the  time 
mentioned. 

Term  now  drew  nigh ;   Sophia  was  returning  to 
her  friends ;  the  Platonic  lovers  separated  ;  and  Wie- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  247 

land  proceeded  in  1751,  to  the  college  of  Tiibingen, 
a  cheap  and  not  a  celebrated  university;  The  pro- 
fessors did  not  attract  his  attention,  and  he  shat  him- 
self np  in  his  room  to  write  verses.  While  a  student 
there  in  1752,  he  printed  his  earliest  volume  of  poems, 
which  are  chiefly  didactic :  The  Nature  of  Things,  the 
Anti-Ovidy  the  Moral  Epistles^  and  some  Sacred  Sto- 
ries, being  of  the  number.  As  they  were  adapted  to 
the  state  of  the  reading  world  at  that  period,  and  su- 
perior to  the  extant  German  poetry  of  the  same  kind, 
they  excited  some  sensation,  which  has  since  dimin- 
ished. 

At  Tubingen,  Wieland  also  began  an  epic  poem  in 
Ossianic  prose,  entitled  Arminitis,  or- Germany  freed, 
which  has  been  translated  into  English.  He  sent  the 
manuscript  of  the  first  five  cantoes  of  this  epopea,  with- 
out his  name^  to  Bodmer,  the  conductor  of  an  eminent 
Swiss  Review,  soliciting  the  critical  opinion  of  this 
literary  patriarch ;  who  thought  well  of  the  specimen ; 
and,  having  shewn  it  to  Hagedorn  and  others,  who 
corroborated  his  judgement,  he  printed  a  compliment- 
ary acknowledgement  to  his  unknown  correspondent. 
Wieland  then  named  himself;  and  Bodmer  invited 
the  young  genius  to  pass  the  vacation  at  his  house 
near  Zurich.  He  complied  with  the  proposal,  in  Oc- 
tober, 1752,  and  beheld  the  dwelling  of  Bodmer,  adapt- 
ed for  a  temple  of  the  Muses.  Situated  at  the  foot 
of  a  hill,  between  the  town  and  the  country,  it  was 
retired  without  being  lonely ;  a  vineyard,  bounded  at 
top  by  fig-trees,  rose  at  the  back  of  the  garden  ;  the 
Uto  glittered  in  front ;  and  a  magnificent  landscape 
of  city,  lake,  and  mountain,  embosomed  the  modest  resi- 
dence. To  Wieland  was  assigned  an  apartment  which 
Rlopstock,  already  known  to  fame,  had  occupied  in 


248  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  year  before.  Within  view,  or  a  walk,  were  to  be 
seen  traces  or  ruins  of  the  dwellings  of  Owe,  Warte, 
Hnsen,  and  other  poets  of  the  Swabian  period,  who 
had  founded  the  romantic  literature  of  Germany;  and 
whose  manuscript  remains,  collected  and  preserved  by 
the  care  of  Rudiger  Maness  of  Zurich,  were  now  about 
to  be  edited  by  Bodmer.  Visits  to  and  from  the  lite- 
rary men  of  the  neighbourhood  varied  the  domestic 
circle,  of  which  Gesner,  the  author  of  the  Idyls,  often 
formed  a  part:  but  Breitinger,  a  canon  of  Zurich,  was 
the  one  of  Bodmer's  friends  who  showed  most  atten- 
tion to  Wieland ;  and  in  a  dedication  addressed  to 
them  jointly,  the  latter  has  recorded  an  enduring  sense 
of  their  kindness. 

Bodmer,  who  had  lost  a  wife  and  children,  was  glad 
of  an  habitual  companion  ;  and  he  could  also  employ 
the  labor  of  Wieland  profitably  in  critical  animadver- 
sion, and  contributions  to  periodic  publications.  In- 
sensibly, the  stay  was  prolonged,  and  arranged  on  a 
footing  of  mutual  advantage.  Wieland,  quite  in  his 
element,  and  delighted  with  his  new  independence, 
dropped  the  project  of  returning  to  college,  devoted 
himself  wholly  to  the  cares  of  authorship,  and  mana- 
ged an  extensive  literary  correspondence,  which  in- 
cluded the  conspicuous  names  of  Haller,  Gleim,  Hage- 
dorn,  Gellert,  Klopstock,  and  Sulzer.  His  attachment 
to  Bodmer,  the  author  of  his  comforts,  was  signalized 
by  a  panegyrical  analysis  of  the  Noah  of  that  writer, 
which  displays  less  of  the  sagacity  of  justice  than  of 
the  partiality  of  friendship. 

With  Bodmer  the  great  recipe  for  composition  was 
to  transplant  from  foreign  writers  all  that  he  could 
employ  in  his  native  tongue.  "  My  own  talent  for 
stealing,*'  says  Wieland  jocosely  in  one  of  his  letters, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  249 

^was  evolved  and  cultivated  under  him :  there  is  much 
»f  the  echo  in  my  nature ;  and  I  never  read  a  book 
prith  delight,  but  that,  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  my 
bagination  was  endeavouring  to  reproduce  a  similar 
plan  of  fable,  or  similar  efforts  at  expression."     One 
of  his  poetic  works  that  was  strongly  tinctured  with 
this  imitative  spirit  was  his  volume  of  Epistles  from 
the  Dead  to  the  Livings  published  in  1753,;  when  he 
had  just    been    reading  Mrs.  Rowe's  Friendship  in 
Death.     Yet,  if  more  of  plagiarism  than  of  invention 
be  found  in  the  matter,  and  if  Rlopstock's  Elegies 
laaght  the  style,  it  is  by  copying  fine  art  that  authors, 
like  painters,  may  best  learn  to  produce  it.   Wieland's 
Trial  of  Abraham,  however,  (published  in  1755,)  is 
an  imitation  of  Bodmer  s  manner  in  which  the  resem- 
blance extends  to  the  faults.     Sympathies,  Vision  of  a 
World  of  innocent  Men,  Hymns  in  verse,  and  Psalms 
m  prose,  are  other  writings  of  this  date ;  and,  in  the 
dedication  prefixed,  Wieland  holds  up  to  public  an- 
imadversion some  odes  of  Uz,  which  he  was  destined 
afterwards  to  outstrip  in  lascivious  delineation.  In  some 
poetical  epistle,  Uz  had  ventured  to  yawn  over  the 
Trial  of  Abraham.     Gleim,  without  any  other  provo- 
cation than  his  Anacreontics,  was  likewise  chidden  in 
the  solemn  tone  of  ecclesiastic  displeasure;  so  com- 
pletely was  Wieland  still  an  adherent  of  the  ascetic 
morality  and  somewhat  bigoted  intolerance  of  Bodmer 
and  his  set.   Indeed,  those  passages  in  the  Sympathies 
which  inveigh  against  the  libertinisms  of  literature  are 
too  eloquent  not  to  have  been  sincere ;  although,  when 
stationed  as  an  appendix  to  the  later  works  of  Wie- 
land, they  are  read  with  the  loud  laugh  of  irony.   ^  He 
pities  Petrarch,  for  speaking  of  his  Laura  with  an 
idolatry  to  which  no  human  excellence  can  be  entitled 


250  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

from  man;  be  laments  that  the  sublime  genius  o| 
Pindar  had  been  squandered  on  the  decoration  of  i 
heathen  and  profane  mythology ;  and  he  adds,  thalj 
whoever  did  not  consider  indifference  to  religion  as  ad 
honor,  was  bound  in  duty  infinitely  to  prefer  the  feeblest 
spiritual  hymns  of  the  ecclesiastic  poets,  to  the  se^ 
dnctive  imagery  of  the  finest  odes  of  Uz  or  GleixnJ 
Bodmer  was  enraptured  with  this  pious  tone,  and  de^ 
scribed  Wieland  in  his  Review  as  ^^  protected  by  thei 
seraph  Eloa,  who  with  sheltering  wings  scatters  inspi^ 
ration  over  him,  and  reaches  to  him  a  harp  to  wbicb 
the  souls  of  men,  and  even  the  rolling  spheres,  masf 
listen."  -I 

In  1753,  Wieland  was  invited  by  Professor  Miichlerl 
to  undertake  some  academic  situation  connected  witb 
the  education  of  select  noble  pupils,  and  in  conse<*i 
quence  drew  up  a  plan  of  the  intended  academy,  which- 
however  was  eventually  relinquished :  but  the  sketch 
was  preserved  among  some  fugitive  pieces  printed  in 
1758,  and  probably  occasioned  at  a  later  period  the 
idea  of  Wieland  being  made  preceptor  to  the  Duke  of 
Saxe-Weimar.    In  the  Letters  of  Literature^  Lessing^ 
who  was  the  best  prose-writer  of  the  Germans,  criti- 
cised this  sketch,  and  censured  the  style  of  the  author 
as  redundant,  finical,  and  overrun  with  Grallicisms: 
the  remark  was  not  lost ;  a  reformation  ensued,  and 
Wieland*^8  first  good  prose  may  be  dated  from  thia 
wholesome  severity. 

In  1756  occurred  the  seven  years'  war  of  Germany, 
which  gave  importance  to  public  opinion  and  to  its 
literary  heralds.  The  catholic  writers  embraced  the 
cause  of  Maria  Theresa :  but,  as  the  Prussian  monarch 
was  an  adherent  and  patron  of  the  French  free-think- 
ing, an  alliaiice  insensibly  took  place  between  protest- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  251 

antism  and  philosophy,  which  liberalized  the  Prussian 
clergy,  and  shook  the  pillars  of  orthodoxy.    The  fre- 
quent idleness  of  the  camps  and  garrison-towns  form- 
ed a  new  set  of  readers;  the  mess-room  became  an 
important  tribunal  of  literary  appretiation  ;  and  books 
of  amusement  were  multiplied,  in  which  a  lascivious 
turn  prevailed,  and  which  were  welcomed  in  the  col- 
leges as  much  as  in  the  barracks.     The  desultory  an- 
archy, also,  which  rendered  literary  success  independ- 
ent of  any  metropolitan  verdict,  favoured  a  variety  and 
an  originality  of  manner  among  the  diflferent  writers, 
which  baffled  the  rules  of  criticism,  and  often  bestow- 
ed on  caprice  the  laurel-wreath  of  genius.     Wieland, 
in  common  with  other  protestants,  was  a  well-wisher 
to  the  cause  of  Frederic  II,  composed  a  loyal  poem 
on  Wille's  statue  of  the  King,  and  gradually  imbibed 
the  cast  of  opinion  that  was  prevalent  among  the  Prus- 
sian writers :  but  he  was  principally  occupied  at  this 
time  about  an  epic  poem,  to  be  intitled  Cyrus,  which 
he  began  in  German  hexameters.    With  Xenophon 
for  his  ostensible  guide,  the  court  of  Babylon  was 
probably  to  have  shadowed  forth  that  of  Vienna,  and 
the  hero  to   have   represented   Frederic  the  Great. 
After  having  completed  five  cantoes,  which  were  print- 
ed, the  poet  grew  tired,  and  desisted ;  and  his  readers 
have  not  much  wondered,  or  much  grieved,  at  his 
fatigue. 

Already  in  1754,  Wieland  had  quitted  his  host  in 
order  to  take  separate  lodgings,  having  felt  some  re- 
straint from  the  perpetual  interference  of  Bodmer 
with  his  employments;  and  being  inclined  to  give 
private  lessons  in  Greek  to  some  pupils  of  family, 
whom  he  could  not  so  well  receive  at  the  apartment 
of  a  friend.   A  band  qf  players  having  comd  to  Zurich 


252  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

in  1758,  he  attended  the  theatre  with  eagerness,  for* 
med  an  acquaintance  with  the  manager  AckermaiL 
was  solicited  by  him  for  something  new,  and  translate! 
for  him  Rowe's  Lady  Jane  Gray.  The  tragedy,  whicfi 
had  been  slightly  altered,  was  suffered  to  pass  as  an 
original;  it  succeeded,  and  was  printed;  and  it  formi 
the  first  specimen  of  German  drama  in  five-feet  iambid 
blank  verse;  rimed  Alexandrines  having  been  hitherto 
employed,  as  in  French  tragedy.  These  players  were 
proceeding  to  Berne ;  and,  as  Wieland,  through  the 
medium  of  his  pupils,  had  the  offer  of  a  preceptorship 
there  in  the  house  of  M.  Sinner,  he  determined  W 
leave  Zurich.  He  next  attempted,  unsuccessfully,  an 
original  tragic  drama,  founded  on  the  story  of  Clemenr 
tina  of  Porettay  from  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ;  and 
another  on  the  story  of  Araspes  and  Panthea,  which 
vras  not  accepted  by  the  players;  but  was  afterwards 
expanded  and  published  separately  as  a  romance  in 
dialogue.  He  was  more  fortunate  in  refashioning 
Lesage's  Pandora.  At  Berne,  Wieland  became  per- 
sonally known  to  Dr.  Zimmermann,  the  author  of  a 
work  on  Solitude,  with  whom  he  corresponded ;  and 
he  visited,  perhaps  from  sensual  motives,  perhaps  oat 
of  mere  literary  curiosity,  at  the  lodgings  of  Julia 
Bondeli,  the  acquaintance  of  Roussq^u  ;  to  whose 
declining  charms  M.  Gruber  ascribes  the  power  of 
having  occasioned  in  Wieland  ^  a  more  than  friendly 
attachment.' 

From  Berne  he  was  suddenly  Called  in  the  year  1760 
to  his  native  city ;  the  town-clerkship  having  become 
vacant,  and  the  corporation  of  Biberach,  without  any 
solicitation  on  his  part,  having  nominated  Wieland  to 
the  office.  The  confidence  of  fellow-citizens  is  pecu- 
liarly flattering,  because  it  reposes  on  long  familiarity; 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  253 

d,  as  the  situation  offered  if  not  a  liberal  yet  an  ho- 
oarable  independence,  Wieland  accepted  the  place, 
d  undertook  its  laborious  duties.  His  return  to 
iberach,  However,  was  not  free  from  disappointment, 
ophia,  to  whose  hand  he  might  now  have  aspired, 
as  become  the  wife  of  M.  Laroche,  a  secretary  of 
bunt  Stadion:  many  years  had  not  elapsed  before 
e  discovered  that  the  necessary  duties  of  office  made 
rievous  inroads  on  his  leisure ;  and  the  inglorious 
icomforts  of  competency  appeared  ill  exchanged  for 
tie  precarious  earnings  of  literary  publicity.  In  a 
letter  dated  1763,  he  compares  Biberach  with  San 
Marino ;  describes  the  triviality  of  those  legal  records 
which  formed  his  morning  task,  and  of  those  quadrille 
parties  which  his  patrons  expected  him  to  join  in  the 
afternoon ;  laments  that  he  is  as  much  without  society 
as  Milton's  Adam  among  the  beasts  of  paradise  ;  and 
adds  that  his  only  tolerable  hours  are  those  which  he 
can  snatch  from  business  and  from  company  to  devote 
to  composition.  In  one  respect,  however,  this  situa- 
tion was  of  moral  use;  having  no  one  on  whom  he 
could  lean,  he  gradually  acquired  an  upright  and  self- 
supported  character.  Hitherto,  with  the  suppleness 
of  a  cameleon,  he  had  too  much  imitated  the  hues  of 
his  acquaintance,  and  had  cultivated  the  arts  of  ingra- 
tiation  with  soine  sacrifice  of  the  dignity  of  independ- 
tnce :  bat  he  now  first  became  himself ;  and  his  na- 
tive tinge  was  slowly  perceived  to  be  very  different 
from  that  which  he  .reflected,  or  assumed,  while  in 
the  circle  of  his  Swiss  connections. 

A  translation  of  Shakspeare  was  at  this  period  the 
employment  of  Wielaqd's  leisure ;  and,  between  the 
years  1762  and  1766,  he  published  (in  eight  volumes) 
the  twenty-two  principal  plays.     He  seems  to  have 


254  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

used  Pope's  edition^  and  often  leaves  ont  the  feebler 
passages,  there  placed  between  dotted  commas  as  sup-« 
posed  interpolations  of  the  players.  He  received  oti 
the  bookseller  two  dollars  per  sheet  for  the  job.  £s- 
chenburg  republished  this  version  in  1775,  with  cor* 
rections,  and  added  the  fourteen  omitted  pieces.  *i 

At  Warthausen,  about  three  miles  from  Biberach, 
on  an  eminence  which  overlooks  a  valley  stretching 
toward  the  Danube,  stands  a  proud  mansion  belong* 
ing  to  the  noble  family  of  Stadion;  and  hither  the  old 
Count  Frederic,  now  a  widower,  who  had  been  Aus* 
trian  ambassador  at  the  court  of  George  the  Second, 
but  was  retiring  from   the  exertions  of  public  life,; 
came  in  his  seventieth  year,  at  the  close  of  1763,  to 
reside.  With  him  dwelt  his  former  secretary  Laroche, 
to  whom  the  stewardship  of  his  Swabian  manors  was 
now  intrusted ;  and  Laroche  was  of  course  accompa- 
nied by  his  wife,  the  Sophia  of  Wieland.     Indeed, 
they  almost  supplied  the  place  of  a  son  and  daughter 
to  the  old  Count,  and  were  the  companions  of  his  table 
and  the  helpmates  of  his  infirmity.     Through  the 
friendship  of  Sophia,  Wieland  was  induced  to  visit 
often  at  Warthausen ;  and,  finding  her  happy  in  the 
protection  of  a  man  of  merit,  and  surrounded  by  ami- 
able children,  the  fruits  of  a  marriage  of  seven  years, 
he  soon  acquiesced  in  that  brotherly  feeling  which  fate 
and  nature   (their  grandmothers  had  been  sisters) 
seemed  to  have  predestined  for  the  quality  of  their 
attachment.     He  was  also  made  welcome  by  the  old 
Count,  who  felt  the  value,  in  a  rural  solitude,  of  so 
accomplished  a  guest.     An  experienced  courtier,  who 
had  long  moved  in  the  first  circles  of  Europe,  this 
nobleman  was  formed  by  exquisite  politeness,  by  his 
ready  talent  and  fund  of  anecdote,  by  his  penetrating 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  255 

^bserTation,  and  by  those  luxurious  appendages^  which 
iecorate  the  exterior  of  opulence^  to  make  a  strong 
Ind  progressive  impression  on  the  young  poet^  to 
Rrhom  his  conversation  revealed  a  new  and  higher 
iForld.  Still  this  impression  had  at  first  more  of  ad- 
miration than  complacence.  Wieland's  scheming  phi- 
lanthropy was  often  thwarted  and  chilled  by  the  prac- 
tical mistrust  and  sarcastic  good  sense  of  the  Count 
and  Laroche ;  his  sentimental  enthusiasm  was  made 
to  collapse  by  many  mortifying  sneers  ;  and  he  incur- 
red something  of  that  unwelcome  flinch  which  the 
touch  of  egotism  gives  to  benevolence.  Under  other 
names^  Wieland  paints  the  change  which  at  this  time 
his  own  mind  was  silently  undergoing ;  where  Aga- 
thon  unwillingly  discovers  a  sister  in  his  beloved 
Psyche^  Sophia  floated  in  his  thought^  and  where  the 
religious  tenets  in  which  he  had  been  educated  are 
combated  by  the  arguments  of  an  epicurean^  Count 
Stadion  was  sitting  to  him  for  Hippias. 

In  this  circle,  Wieland  first  acquired  that  tone  of 
the  great  world,  and  that  art  of  saying  bold  things 
with  urbanity,  which  enabled  him  to  become  the  clas- 
sic of  the  gentlemen  of  Germany,  and  to  lift  up  in 
courts  the  voice  of  freedom.  Count  Stadion's  library 
included  the  select  literature  of  Europe,  especially 
its  modem  philosophy ;  and  he  had  himself  deeply 
imbibed  the  spirit  of  an  age  intent  on  the  overthrow 
of  prejudice.  In  the  fashionable  world,  laxity  of 
principle  is  often  professed  for  the  sake  of  living 
among  the  licentious  without  offending  their  self-love; 
and  so  Wieland  perceived  in  this  family.  The  moral 
tolerance  proclaimed  to  others  was  not  needed  as  a 
personal  apology  ;  egotism  was  but  the  pretext  for  a 
luxury  which  acted  as  the  handmaid  of  beneficence  ; 


266  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

morality  was  exercised  without  moroseness ;  and  the 
kind  affections  were  indulged  within  the  limits  of  the 
beautiful  and  the  good.     The  married  daughters  ol 
Count  Stadion  came  occasionally  to  visit  at  Warthait- 
sen.  At  these  times  the  Muses  redoubled  their  eflforts 
to  enliven  the  family-circle ;  poems  of  Wieland  yet  in 
manuscript  were  read  aloud  for  their  amusement ;  and 
the  story  of  Diana  and  Endymion  is  noticed  as  one  of 
the  pieces  so  rehearsed.  It  contains  passages  to  which 
English  ladies  would  hesitate  at  listening;  but  pro- 
bably  the  poet  knew  where  to  skip :   or  perhaps  in 
southern  countries  the  married  women  less  affect  se- 
verity ;  and,  at  a  time  when  the  court  of  France  gave 
the  tone  to  Europe,  and  received  it  from  Madame  de 
Pompadour,  the  novels  of  Crebillon  and  the  metrical 
tales  of  Grecour  were  to  be  found  on  fashionable  toi- 
lettes.    Certainly  a  loose  cast  prevailed  in  the  litera- 
ture of  the  times,  which  Wieland  could  imitate  in  his 
Comic  Tales  without  forfeiting  the   suffrage  of  the 
genteel  world.     The  ladies  at  Warthausen  not  only 
fancied  poetry,  but  were  remarkably  fond  of  fairy- 
tales, and  gave  occasion  to  those  studies  which  excited 
the  composition  of  Don  Sylvio  of  Rosalva,  a  novel 
printed  in  1764.     The  Ricciardetto  of  Damouriez,  a 
French  translation  from  the  Italian  of  Fortiguerra,had 
pleased  in  Count  Stadion's  family^  and  probably  sug- 
gested to  Wieland  his  modern  Amadis,  which  was  not 
published  until  1771.     This  burlesque  epopea  was 
successful,  but  has  outlived  its  popularity :  it  appeared 
when  the  French  writers  had  made  a  conquest  of  the 
taste  of  the  German  courts ;  and,  by  this  accommoda- 
tion of  manner,  Wieland  gradually  sqcceeded  in  re- 
gaining for  Germany  and  the  German  language  the 
patronage  of  its  princes. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  257 

Laroche  having  a  clerical  friend  named  Brechter, 
for  whom  he  wished  to  obtain  some  small  piece  of 
preferment,  Wieland  undertook  to  canvas  in  his  be- 
half the  corporation  of  Biberach,  and  obtained  from 
the  mayor  an  appointment  of  his  candidate.  Some  part 
of  the  corporation,  however,  soon  became  alarmed  at 
the  liberal  or  the  heretical  tone  of  Brechter's  preach- 
ing or  conversation,  and  made  formal  representations 
to  the  mayor,  requiring  that  he  should  rescind  the 
nomination.  The  strife  became  warm  in  the  corpor- 
ate body;  some  harsh  and  calumnious  words  were 
used;  a  sort  of  riot  was  threatened,  to  prevent  Brech- 
ter from  ascending  the  pulpit ;  and  Wieland,  in  his 
official  capacity,  accompanied  by  the  mayor  and  peace- 
officers,  led  Brechter  through  the  assembled  congre- 
gation to  the  desk.  This  incident  obliged  Wieland  to 
break  with  the  orthodox  party,  with  whom  he  had 
hitherto  kept  terms,  but  who  now  made  some  attempt, 
through  the  courts  of  law  at  Vienna,  to  deprive  him 
of  his  official  situation.  The  question,  however,  was 
decided  in  his  favor  about  the  close  of  1764.  This 
affair  is  remarkable  as  having  supplied  the  real  basis 
of  a  narrative  included  ii^  the  Abderites;  where,  under 
Greek  names,  and  with  a  most  dexterous  substitution 
of  incidents  that  were  probable  under  Greek  institu- 
tions, much  personal  satire  is  levelled  against  the 
corporation  of  Biberach.  Count  Stadion  took  amiss 
some  part  of  Wieland's  conduct  in  these  matters ; — 
probably  his  courageous  assertion  of  the  independent 
rights  of  the  corporation,  over  which  the  court  of 
Vienna  claimed  some  sovereignty ;  and  Wieland  says, 
in  a  letter  dated  1766,  ^^  Madame  Laroche  n  est  plus 
ici :  elle  a  suivi  son  mari  et  son  maitre  k  Bonigheim, 
terre  du  Comte  de  Stadion:  nous  ne  nous  ^crivons 

VOL.  n.  s 


258  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

plus,  parceque  j'ai  eu  le  malhear  d'encourir  la  disgrace 
de  son  Excellence,  en  faisant  mon  devoir  et  rien  de 
plus." 

The  year  1765  was  allotted  to  the  composition  and 
completion  of  Agathon^  the  earliest  work  of  Wieland 
to  which  he  himself  assigns  a  classical  rank :  it  ap- 
peared in  1766.  His  previous  productions  he  consi- 
ders as  juvenile  efforts,  made  while  his  mind  was  yet 
in  the  progress  of  education,  and  he  had  prejudices  to 
lose  as  well  as  principles  to  acquire :  but,  in  the  Aga- 
thon,  his  philosophy  already  appears  systematized  and 
mature ;  and  his  peculiar  talent  for  psychological  ob- 
servation and  mental  anatomy,  is  here  advantageously 
displayed.  In  the  intellectual  progress  of  the  hero, 
a  secret  history  is  given,  under  a  Greek  garb,  of  con- 
flicts which  had  passed  in  the  author  s  own  soul. 

In  the  autumn  of  1765,  Wieland  married  Miss 
Hillenbrandt,  the  daughter  of  a  merchant  at  Augsburg ; 
a  lady  more  remarkable,  it  is  said,  for  a  pleasing  per- 
son and  for  domestic  virtues,  than  for  much  accom- 
plishment of  mind.  She  looked  up  to  her  husband 
with  a  sort  of  worship,  but  is  believed  to  have  been 
scantily  versed  in  his  writings.  Wieland  being  some- 
what choleric,  and  often  provoked  by  little  things 
into  bursts  of  angry  eloquence,  his  wife  bore  those 
explosions  of  temper  with  such  gentle  patience  that 
any  bystander  was  filled  with  real  admiration ;  even 
Wieland  himself  usually  changed  sides  before  he  had 
done  raving,  and  turned  his  own  zeal  into  ridicnle : — 
many  of  his  felicities  of  diction  were  thus  struck  out 
at  a  heat. 

Idris  and  Zemde,  a  poem  in  the  looser  manner  of 
Ariosto^  occupied  the  author  during  the  first  months 
of  his  marriage :  five  cantos  were  printed,  and  five 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  259 

more  were  promised :  but,  like  the  four  Facardins  of 
Count  Hamilton,  this  fairy-tale  remains  a  fragment. 
The  earliest  classical  production  of  Wieland  in  verse, 
his  Musarion,  was  undertaken  next :  it  narrates  a  phi- 
losophic conversation ;  and,  of  all  didactic  poems,  it 
has  most  dramatic  vivacity  and  grace  of  diction.  It 
appeared  in  1768. 

In  a  letter  to  Riedel,  dated  1765,  Wieland  mentions 
that  he  had  hired  a  garden  out  of  Biberach,  having  a 
summer-house  which  commanded  a  fine  rural  pros- 
pect. "  Here,"  adds  he,  *^  I  pass  my  afternoons  with 
no  other  society  than  the  Muses ;  and,  when  I  rise 
for  some  minutes  from  my  task,  I  snuff  the  odor  of 
new-mown  hay,  or  see  the  boys  bathe,  or  watch  the 
retters  of  flax.  At  a  distance,  I  catch  the  church- 
yard in  which  the  bones  of  my  fathers  and  probably 
itny  own  will  one  day  repose  together ;  or,  in  the  rich 
confusion  of  the  remoter  landscape,  I  single  out  the 
new  white  castle  of  Horn,  then  sit  down  again, — and 
rime. 

In  1769,  Wieland,  who  had  then  two  daughters^ 
received  from  the  elector  of  Mayntz  an  invitation  to 
become  Principal,  or  first  professor  of  law,  at  the 
University  of  Erfurt,  with  a  salary  of  six  hundred 
dollars,  and  the  title  of  privy-counsellor.  This  offer 
was  transmitted  by  Baron  Grosssdilag,  the  elector^s 
arbiter  elegantiarumy  but  was  probably  due  to  the  com- 
mendation of  count  Stadion ;  who  had  connections 
with  Mayntz,  and  whose  friendship  for  Wieland  in 
reality  out-lasted  his  ostensible  favor.  With  the  skill 
of  a  courtier,  he  was  contriving  to  withdraw  from 
Biberach  the  champion  of  an  independence  obnox- 
ious at  Vienna,  and  yet  to  give  a  more  adapted  sta- 
tion to    his    late    guest   and  companion.      Wieland 

S  2 


260  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

considered  the  offer,  and  accepted  it.  If  the  situation 
at  Biberach  was  less  precarious,  that  of  Erfurt  seem- 
ed an  opening  to  further  advancement ;  and,  if  but 
little  was  added  to  his  pecuniary  income,  yet  the  in- 
crease of  leisure,  the  entire  devotion  of  his  time  to 
literature,  and  the  nobler  circle  in  which  he  was  to 
move,  had  claims  to  his  preference. 

On  arriving  at  Erfurt,  Wieland  had  to  lament  the  re- 
cent removal  of  his  relation  and  early  instructor,  Bau- 
mer,  to  a  mineralogical  lectureship  in  Saxony.  He 
moreover  found  an  University  in  decay,  with  sinecure 
professors  unlocking  at  term-time  their  neglected  halls^ 
looking  round  for  auditors  in  vain,  and  returning  in  con- 
tented silence  with  their  books  and  papers  unopened. 
Only  five-and-twenty  students  were  nominally  attach- 
ed to  the  entire  institution.  Wieland,  however,  did  not 
despair ;  four  times  in  a  week,  for  about  an  hour  and 
a  half,  the  lectures  of  the  new  Principal,  On  the  State 
of  Nature  and  Society y  were  henceforth  to  be  heard : 
they  aroused  and  attracted  attention ;  and  the  num- 
ber of  sthdents  was  doubled.  Among  the  pupils  drawn 
thither  by  the  celebrity  of  Wieland,  may  be  distinguish- 
ed Heinse,  the  author  of  Ardinghello.  Some  disserta- 
tions inserted  in  the  fourteenth  volume  of  the  collect- 
ive works.  On  RousseaiUs  Idea  of  our  original  Condi'' 
tiim,  On  the  perpetual  Amelioration  of  human  Society , 
and  On  the  supposed  Declension  of  the  human  Race^ 
are  detached  portions  of  these  lectures,  and  probably 
comprehend  all  that  was  most  original  in  them ;  of  the 
borrowed  matter,  Iselin's  Ephemeris  of  Humanity  sup- 
plied a  remarkable  share.  That  philosophic  and  ori- 
ginal, though  not  very  decent,  novel,  entitled  Koxhox 
and  Kikequetzel*  or  the  Mexican  Paradise  Lost,  is  a 

4  A  translation  of  this  «ovel  Dccurs  in  the  third  volume  of  the  "  Talcs  of  Yore, 
1810." 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  261 

I 

work  of  this  period,  and  is  strongly  sprinkled  with  the 
opinions  advanced  in  the  lectures.  Combabus,  the 
best  of  Wieland's  metrical  Comic  Tales,  was  also  com- 
posed at  Erfart ;  it  preserves  an  agreeable  medium 
between  the  Greek  and  the  French  manner  of  narra- 
tion. 

In  his  correspondence,  Wieland  complains  of  the 
society  of  Erfurt.  With  Professor  Meusel,  the  com- 
piler of  a  biographic  dictionary  of  German  authors, 
and  with  others  of  his  colleagues,  he  was  indeed  in  a 
certain  degree  intimate:  but  the  house,  which  with 
most  solicitude  and  splendor  of  hospitality  collected 
all  the  wit  and  fashion  in  the  place,  was  alas !  also 
distinguished  for  a  licentiousness  of  character  from 
which  Wieland,  the  husband  and  the  father,  prac- 
tically shrunk  back,  however  tolerant  his  theoretic 
principles  of  morals  may  appear ;  and  he  the  more 
scrupulously  confined  himself  habitually  within  his 
domestic  circle,  because  he  had  been  accompanied  to 
Erfurt  by  a  son  of  his  friend  Laroche,  who  was  in- 
tended to  live  in  the  family  as  a  kind  of  private  pupil, 
and  prematurely  to  assert  a  privilege  of  attending  the 
college-lectures . 

Young  Laroche  corresponded  with  his  father,  who 
had  been  placed  by  Count  Stadion  in  some  public 
office  at  Vienna,  and  who  was  ambitious  of  recom- 
mending himself  to  the  heir  of  Maria  Theresa  as  an 
apologist  of  the  reformations  contemplated  in  the 
ecclesiastic  order.  Wieland  received  through  his  pu- 
pil early  information  of  the  official  projects  of  reform, 
corrected  in  manuscript  Laroche*s  pamphlet  on  the 
suppression  of  monastic  orders,  and  determined  per- 
sonally to  assist  in  preparing  the  public  mind  for  the 
impending  innovations.   With  this  view,  fate  composed 


262  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  Golden  Mirror,  a  novel  in  Crebillon's  manner ; 
which,  nnder  oriental  names,  satirizes  European  abuses. 
The  fourth  chapter  sketches  the  idea  of  a  beautiful 
religian,  and  may  retain  a  classical  value :  but  the  nu- 
merous allusions  to  temporary  circumstances  have  lost 
their  interest ;  the  praise  prepared  for  Joseph  the  Se* 
cond^  under  the  name  of  Tiphan,  has  been  imperfectly 
earned;  and  the  reader  finds  not  enough  of  vivacity  in 
the  diction,  or  of  action  in  the  fable,  to  present  tedium. 
Some  Free-spirited  Dialogues  on  the  abolition  of  con- 
vents were  also  issued  by  Wieland;  and  a  satire  on  the 
missionary  spirit,  entitled.  Travels  of  the  Priest  Ahul- 
fauaris  into  the  Interior  of  Africa.  Of  the  political 
good  that  was  likely  to  result  from  the  liberal  spirit  of 
the  Emperor  Joseph,  Wieland  had  formed  enthusias- 
tic hopes ;  and  he  seems  to  have  anticipated  a  re-union 
of  the  Jewish,  the  Catholic,  and  the  Protestant  church- 
es, on  the  principles  of  the  anti-supematuralist  Unita- 
rians. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  Erfurt  dwelt  a  German 
princess,  Anna  Amalia;  who  had  been  since  1758  the 
widow  of  Ernest  Augustus,  Duke  of  Saxe- Weimar. 
Descended  from  the  house  of  Guelph,  and  intrusted 
by  her  husband's  will  with  the  regency  of  the  state 
during  the  minority  of  the  heir,  she  enjoyed  the  dig- 
nity and  patronage  of  a  sovereign ;  and,  like  another 
Zenobia,  she  endeavoured  to  attract  about  her  court 
men  of  literary  celebrity.  Her  son,  now  sixteen  years 
old>  was  considered  to  require,  superior  tutorage,  and 
she  applied  to  her  friend  Baron  Dalberg,  governor  of 
Erfurt,  for  advice  in  the  choice.  He  was  in  conse- 
quence authorized  to  propose  the  situation  to  Wieland, 
at  an  allowance  of  one  thousand  dollars  annually  for 
the  three  years  of  expected  active  service,  and  a  pen- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  263. 

si  on  of  six  handred  dollars  on  retirement.  Wieland 
having  signified  a  disposition  to  accept  the  offer,  the 
Dowager-Duchess  applied  to  the  Elector  of  M ayntz 
for  leave  that  he  might  resign  the  chair  of  the  Uni- 
versity, and  obtained  for  him  a  gracious  release  from 
that  prior  engagement:  in  consequence  of  which  he 
removed  in  the  autumn  of  1772,  to  Weimar,  where 
he  was  decorated  immediately  with  the  title  of  Aulic 
Counsellor. 

Wieland  was  no  sooner  settled  there  than  he  felt 
himself  in  a  welcome  atmosphere,  in  a  congenial  situ- 
ation. Repeatedly  in  his  correspondence  he  boasts 
that,  from  this  time  forwards,  he  knew  nothing  of 
those  attacks  of  hypochrondriasis  which  had  previous- 
ly at  times  interrupted  his  application,  and  saddened 
his  solitary  wanderings ;  and  he  places  at  forty  the 
period  of  life  at  which  a  man  is  most  adapted  to  exe- 
cute a  permanent  work  of  literary  art.  To  his  pupil 
he  gave  lessons  as  assiduously  as  they  could  be  admi- 
nistered to  an  heir  of  rank,  who  was  much  his  own 
master;  and  he  endeq.voured  to  call  in  the  aid  of  more 
attractive  arts  of  instruction.  For  the  seventeenth 
birth-day  of  the  hereditary  prince,  he  wrote  an  opera- 
tical  interlude,  which  succeeded  admimbly  on  the  stage, 
called  The  Choice  of  Hercules ;  of  which  the  poetry 
may  be  compared  with  that  of  Comus,  and  of  which 
the  charming  music  was  composed  by  Schweitzer* 
Rosamond,  and  Midas,  were  translated  by  Wieland 
from  the  English  at  this  period  for  the  stage  of  Wei- 
mar, and  the  fine  serious  drama  of  Akestes  was  writ- 
ten. This  is  the  earliest  tragic  opera  extant  in  the 
German  tongue ;  the  poetry,  though  its  greatest  beaui- 
ties  are  transplanted  from  Euripides,  is  admirable ; 
and,  though  hastily  ridiculed  by  Goethe,  it  taught  him 


264  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  style  of  his  own  Iphigenia.  The  music  by  Schweit- 
zer is  allowed  to  rival  the  poetry ;  and  the  piece  was 
nationally  welcomed  with  enthusiasm,  and  repeated  to 
peals  of  acclamation  throughout  Germany.  An  ele- 
gant dissertation  on  the  theory  of  the  operatical  drama 
was  prefixed  to  the  text,  which  displays  an  epuration 
of  the  author  s  German  style,  the  natural  result  of  re- 
sidence in  Saxony. 

At  this  time,  Wieland  had  ample  leisure ;  and  he 
undertook  in  1773  the  publication  of  a  monthly  mis- 
cellany, or  magazine,  entitled  the  German  Mercury,  of 
which  the  form  was  in  some  degree  copied  from  the 
then  popular  Mercure  de  France.  It  did  not  consist 
exclusively  of  lucubrations  of  his  own,  and  he  was 
especially  assisted  with  literary  notices :  but,  whatever 
•he  wrote  henceforth,  it  was  there  first  exhibited  to 
public  curiosity  and  criticism,  and  afterwards  separately 
republished  in  a  revised  and  amended  state.  This 
practice  of  first  printing  a  sort  of  waste-paper  edition 
of  works  that  are  intended  for  permanence,  and  of 
subsequently  issuing  them  in  a  more  splendid  form, 
is  of  good  example :  it  is  preferable  to  the  English 
habit  of  beginning  with  a  quarto,  and  descending  to 
an  octavo,  or  duodecimo ;  because,  on  our  plan,  the 
best  and  finest  copies  have  the  worst  text ;  and  mag- 
nificent libraries  contain  but  the  crude,  unfinished,  in- 
correct sketches  of  our  authors.  The  German  Mer- 
cury  included  no  selections  from  newspapers,  which 
only  keep  alive  a  taste  for  trivial  and  trifling  gossip : 
but  it  commented  with  Athenian  freedom  and  urban- 
ity on  all  the  higher  topics  of  European  polished  con- 
versation. The  effusions  of  literature,  the  productions 
of  art,  remarkable  lives  and  political  events,  all  the 
opinions  and  interests  of  men,  were  canvassed  with 


OF  GEItMAN  POBTRY.  265 

etn  exqaisite  sense  of  their  proportionate  and  enduring 
importance,  with  comprehensive  information  and  learn- 
ing, with  highly  philosophic  and  cosmopolitical  views, 
and  with  an  attraction  of  manner  which  wanted  in- 
deed the  rapidity  and  stimulancy  of  Voltaire,  bnt  not 
bis  various  resources  of  imagination.    Perhaps  it  may 
be  conjectured  that  the  correspondence  of  Grimm  and 
Diderot  was  communicated  to  Wieland  in  the  original 
manuscript,  as  it  manifests  much  coincidence  of  atten- 
tion and  analogy  of  sentiment.     It  was  this  Mercury 
wbich  in  fact  gaiqed  for  Weimar  the  appellation  of 
the  German  Athens  ;  during  more  than  twenty  years, 
it  remained  the  favourite  journal  of  the  cultivated 
classes  of  Germany ;  it  selected  and  brought  out  the 
topics  which  were  to  occupy  and  to  interest  the  fash- 
ionable and  polished,  in  the  other  minor  courts  and 
cities ;  and  it  first  gave  the  liberal  tone  of  comment- 
ary, which  was  elsewhere  to  be  felt  but  as  an  echo. 
Wieland  was  assisted  in  this  work  originally  by  Ber^ 
tuch,  then  by  Reinhold,  next  by  Schiller,  and  finally 
by  Bottiger,  to  whom  in  1795  he  transferred  the  ex- 
clusive editorship. 

The  hereditary  prince,  after  the  completion  of  his 
domestic  education,  quitted  Weimar  to  visit  France 
and  Italy;  and,  on  coming  of  age,  he  signified  his  gra- 
titude to  Wieland,  by  assigning  to  him  an  annuity  of 
one  thousand  dollars,  which  exceeded  the  stipulated 
pension  by  four  hundred.  Charles  Augustus  had  im- 
bibed,— ^and  this  was  not  the  slightest  praise  of  his 
instruction, — a  taste  for  merit,  a  virtuosity  in  human 
excellence,  to  employ  his  preceptor  s  phrase.  An 
eager  dilettante  in  celebrity,  he  was  chiefly  ambitious 
of  decorating  Weimar  with  a  gallery  of  living  geniuses ; 
and,  if  in  the  statistical  map  of  Europe  this  was  an 


266  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

inconsiderable  place,  it  was  not  long  to  remain  such 
in  the  intellectnal  map.    Herder,  the  father  of  rational 
Scripture-criticism  among  the  Germans,  was  called  to 
be  the  ecclesiastical  superintendant,  or  bishop,  of  this 
little  metropolis ;  and,  like  another  Paul  of  Samosata, 
he  inculcated  beneath  mystical  phrases  unprejudiced 
philosophy.     Painters  were  employed  to  decorate  his 
cathedral ;   and   Schweitzer,  his  chapel-master,   em- 
bellished the  public  worship  witli  choruses  worthy  of 
Handel.     The  theatre  of  Weimar,  which  had  been 
burnt  down  in  1774,  and  had  beep  rebuilt  with  sin- 
gular elegance,  was  conducted  wholly  at  the  expense 
of  the  state;   and  the  public,  as  in  antient  Home, 
was  admitted  gratuitously.     Goethe,  the  Euripides  of 
Germany,  was  invited  to  become  director  of  this  play- 
house ;  a  situation  which  was  made  worthy  of  his  ac- 
ceptance, and  was  conferred  together  with  an  order 
of  nobility.   Henceforth,  the  lovers  of  the  dfama>vere 
no  where  so  sure  of  a  various  and  tasteful  selection 
of  pieces,  of  performers  so  picked  even  in  the  minor 
departments,  and  of  costume  and  scenery  so  critically 
exact.     Schiller  was  induced  to  try  on  this  stage  the 
most  valued  of  his  immortal  productions,  and  at  length 
to  settle  amid  the  applauding  circle.     Musaeus,  the 
novelist,  and  other  minor  authors,  were  led  to  reside 
at  Weimar  by  the  elegant  resources  of  amusement 
which  it  supplied,  among  which  may  be  classed  the 
romantic  walks  of  Etterburg  opened  to  the  public  in 
the  ducal  grounds.     As  at  Ferrara,  under  the  house 
of  Este,  a  refinement  of  the  pleasures  of  man  was  here 
become  the  chief  occupation  of  his  rulers ;  and  like 
Ferrara,  Weimar  was  destined  to  bring  forwards  a  se- 
cond Ariosto. 

When  Wieland  first  came  to  reside  in  this  capital, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  267 

he  seems  to  have  fancied  that  the  court-etiquette  was 
somewhat  burdensome ;  and  he  ridicules^  in  his  cor* 
respondence^  the  necessity  of  presenting  himself  at 
the  ducal  table  in  full  dress  and  with  a  bag-wig,  when 
perhaps  no  strangers  were  present.  In  occasional 
poems,  he  names  the  Dowager-regent  Otympia^  as  if 
he  had  discerned  something  of  loftiness  in  her  demea- 
nor :  but,  when  she  had  laid  down  the  regency,  he 
uniformly  praises  her  afiability,  calls  her  the  soul  of 
all  the  good  society  in  Weimar,  and  notices  her  allot* 
ment  to  him  of  an.  apartment  in  her  country  residence 
at  Tieflfurt,  where  he  was  treated  as  one  of  the  family. 
He  had  at  first  probably  mistaken  the  official  stateli* 
ness  of  the  representative  of  sovereignty  for  distance 
of  the  heart ;  or  his  own  ease  of  manner  was  progres* 
sive,  and  had  produced  reciprocity. 

The  Fabliaux  of  Wieland  were  composed  during 
the  earlier  part  of  his  residence  at  Weimar ;  and  they 
form  a  classicaL  volume  of  Metrical  Tales,  which  no 
other  European  nation  had  rivalled.  The  themes  are 
mostly  derived  from  story-books  of  chivalry,  such  as 
Gyron  le  Courtms,  the  Lays  de  FOlselet,  the  Conies 
de  le  Crrandf  and  the  Pentamerone:  but  the  most  for- 
tunate of  them  all  is  the  story  of  the  King  of  the 
Black  Isles,  from  the  Arabian  Nights.  Some  are 
wholly  of  the  author's  invention :  but  these  have  less 
felicity  of  fable  than  those  of  which  the  plot  was  adopt* 
ed  or  borrowed,  and  has  only  been  rounded  into  a 
neat  whole  by  a  more  dramatic  arrangement  of  the 
incidents: — ^a  copiousness  carried  to  excess  is  their 
most  frequent  blemish. 

These  excellent  narrations,  however,  were  but  pre- 
paratory exercises  for  the  romantic  epopsea  which  was 
to  follow.    Oberon  first  appeared  in  the  Oermcm  Mer- 


268  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

cury  for  1780,  and  was  received  at  once  with  that  trans- 
port of  popularity  which  continues  to  accompany  every 
republication  of  It.  Unquestionably,  indeed^  it  is  the 
most  beautiinl  modem  poem  which  has  appeared 
since  the  Jemsalem  of  Tasso ;  and^  if  it  has  less  gran- 
deur of  fable,  it  communicates  to  the  marvellous  per- 
sonages and  incidents  a  more  natural  and  illusive  co- 
louring. The  story  of  January  and  May  is  not  well 
placed  in  the  mouth  of  Scherasmin ;  nor  has  it  suffi- 
cient dignity  of  tone  for  the  general  elevation  of  the 
poem,  on  which  account  Mr.  Sotheby  omits  the  pas- 
sage in  his  version:  but,  on  the  whole,  in  point  both 
of  plan  and  style,  this  most  attractive  and  attaching 
composition  is  a  master-piece.  Wieland  felt  that  he 
should  never  surpass  it,  and  henceforwards  declined  to 
write  poetry :  he  did  indeed  publish  afterwards  a  pre- 
existing translation  of  Horace's  Epistle  to  the  Pisos, 
and  concluded  rather  than  completed  his  Clelia  and 
Sinibald:  but  he  was  careful  not  to  write  himself  down 
by  exciting  attention  to  subsequent  inferiority. 

He  next  undertook  a  translation  of  Lucian's  works 
from  the  Greek,  which  was  published  in  1788  and 
1789,  and  forms  six  octavo  volumes.  The  translation 
is  alike  distinguished  for  its  learning  and  its  elegance; 
notes  are  added,  beautifully  illustrative  of  the  manners 
of  the  times,  and  of  the  historic  allusions  contained  in 
the  text;  and  a  good  biography  of  the  Greek  author 
is  prefixed.  All  classical  students  must  be  glad  to  be 
able  to  consult  this  excellent  commentary  on  a  writer, 
who  is  destined  in  every  age  to  awaken  some  efficaci- 
ous opposition  to  the  incessant  industry  of  superstition. 

During  the  occupation  of  translating  Lucian,  the 
natural  tendency  of  Wieland's  mind  to  re-produce  ori- 
ginal imitations  of  those  works  of  art,  with  the  con- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  269 

templation  of  which  he  was  actually  engaged^  became 
apparent.  ,  Peregrinus  ProteuSj  a  novel  twice  trans* 
lated  into  oar  language,  and  better  known  here  than 
the  Agathon,  was  now  composed ;  and  it  was  soon  fol- 
lowed by  Dialogues  in  Elysium^  and  Dialogues  of  the 
Gods.    These  last  agitate  many  questions  originating 
in  the  French  Revolution.     Th^  most  splendidly  fan- 
cifnl  and  philosophically  profound  is  the  sixth,  which 
dwells  on  the  abolition  of  Paganism,  so  as  to  prepare 
the  reader  for  the  downfall  of  other  dynasties  of  gods. 
Many  argumentative  dissertations  on  the  French  Re- 
volution, that  all-absorbing  topic,  filled  the  Mercury 
from  1790  to  1795,  when  Wieland  relinquished  the 
editorship,  and  sought  a  new  employment  for  his  lei- 
sure and  imagination.   The  Agathodcemon,  a  romance 
which  attempts  a  probable  history  of  Philostratus's 
Apollonius  of  Tyana,  was  composed  about  the  year 
1795,  and  reveals  the  creed  of  the  writer  more  than 
any  of  his  works.     His  Christianity  is  nearly  that  of 
Professor  Paulus,  who  attempts  to  solve  the  evangeli- 
cal phaenomena  without  the  hypothesis  of  supernatural 
interposition : — his  theology  is  nearly  that  of  the  Phi- 
Ionic  pantheists:  he  describes  himself, under  the  name 
of  his  prophet,  as  ^perpetually  conscious  of  the  pre- 
sence of  the  universal  genius  of  nature,  or  soul  of  the 
whole,  of  the  living  provident  father  of  all :' — and  his 
psychology  (though  that  is  not  defined  in  the  Agatho- 
daemon,  but  must  be  sought  in  a  much  earlier  work, 
his  Liberty  of  Reasoning  in  Matters  of  Belief  J  admits 
^  the  posthumous  continuation  of  our  own  original 
being,  with  the  consciousness  of  our  own  personality^ 
and  a  progress  to  ever-increasing  perfection,  which  will 
be  modified  by^our  behaviour  in  this  life.* 
Since  their  marriage  in  October,  1765,  Wieland's 


270  HISTORIC  SURVBY 

wife  had  borne  him  fourteen  children :  only  nine  of 
whom  remained  to  him,  when  in  1782  he  thus  writes 
to  Gleim : 

'  How  gladly  would  I  accept  your  invitation,  and 
fly  to  you,  and  shake  you  by  both  hands,  and  talk  over 
with  you  the  days  of  our  youth,  and  sun  ourselves 
afresh  in  the  aurora  of  literature :  but  a  thousand  silk- 
en bands  bind  me  to  Weimar.  I  am  rooted  into  the 
ground  here,  and  occupations  that  admit  no  delay  press 
around  me.  Besides,  how  can  I  drag  away  my  wife 
from  her  nine  children,  when  the  joint  ages  of  the  six 
youngest  do  not  amount  to  twenty  years  ?  Our  house 
is  a  little  world,  in  which  our  presence  and  govern- 
ment cannot  be  spared.  But  you,  my  Gleim,  a  single 
man,  might  come  hither,  and  amuse  yourself  with 
seeins:  these  little  elves  creep  one  after  another  out  of 
their  lurking  holes.' 

In  a  letter  to  Sofia  de  la  Rdche,  he  says ;  '  My 
sweetest  hours  are  those  in  which  I  see  about  me,  in 
all  their  glee  of  childhood,  my  whole  possy  of  little 
half-way  things  between  apes  and  angels.* 

Writing  to  Meister,  in  1787,  he  observes :  ^  My 
wife  is  a  model  of  every  feminine  and  domestic  virtue; 
free  from  the  usual  foibles  of  her  sex,  with  a  head  ub- 
biassed  by  prejudices,  and  a  moral  character  that  would 
do  honor  to  a  saint.  The  two-and-twenty  years,  dnring 
which  I  have  lived  with  her,  have  passed,  one  and  all, 
without  my  ever  once  wishing  to  have  remained  un- 
married. On  the  contrary,  her  existence  is  so  inter- 
woven with  mine,  that  I  cannot  spend  a  week  from 
home  without  being  attacked  with  the  Swiss  longing.* 
Elsewhere  he  says;  ^  I  experience  more  and  more 
that  all  true  human  happiness  lies  within  the  charmed 
circle  of  married  domestic  life.    I  become  continually 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  271 

more  and  more  the  man,  and  in  that  proportion  hap- 
pier and  better.  Labor  is  a  pleasure  to  me  because  I 
am  ^v^orking  for  my  children ;  and  I  am  internally  con- 
rihced  that  my  calm  trust  in  the  hand  which  weaves 
the  web  of  our  destinies  will  not  disappoint  me  or 
mine.' 

The  reigning  duke,  the  prince  Constantine,  Goethe, 
and  Gleim,  were  among  the  godfathers  of  his  children ; 
the  dowager-duchess,  and  the  duchess  Louisa,  among 
their  godmothers.  Wieland's  mother  came  to  spend 
her  latter  days  of  widowhood  in  his  family,  and  died 
about  the  year  1790,  under  his  roof. 

M.  Gosche,  an  eminent  bookseller  at  Leipzig,  con-> 

tracted  with  Wieland  in  the  year  1793  for  a  revised 

edition  of  his  Collective  Works,  which  were  then  esti- 

JDiated  to  fill  thirty  volumes,  each  of  five  hundred 

pages.     The  copy-right  was  purchased  with  liberality, 

and  the  publication  executed  with  magnificence.     A 

quarto  edition  with  plates,  an  octavo  edition,  and  a 

duodecimo  edition,  were  issued  at  once ;  and  every 

rank  of  society  was  thus  accommodated  with   the 

choice  of  a  copy  proportioned  to  its  habits  of  literary 

luxury.     The  sale  did  not  disappoint  expectation ;  a 

fourth  edition  becaihe  requisite ;  and  Wieland  had  the 

gratification  of  placing  all  the  favourite  works  of  his 

genius  in  the  hands  of  the  rising  generation,  with  the 

diction  polished  and  the  orthography  reformed,  with 

many  prudent  Suppressions,  many  tasteful  insertions, 

aud  many  embellishing  corrections.     A  law-suit  was 

undertaken  against  M.  Gosche,  as  having  invaded  the 

copy-right  of  prior  publishers,  biit  without  success : 

the  perpetual  alterations  being  judged  to  constitute  a 

fi*esh  original  title  in  the  author  to  the  new  text  so 

visibly  emended. 


272  HISTORIC  SURVEY  j 

Daring  the  progress  of  this  reprint  of  Wieland's 
Collective  Works,  which  occnpied  abont  four  years, 
may  be  placed  the  zenith  of  his  celebrity  and  comfort 
His  eldest  daughter  was  already  married  satisfactorily 
to  M.  Reinhold,  who  at  one  time  assisted  in  the  Mer- 
cur,  and  afterwards  became  a  college-professor.  Two 
other  daughters  were  now  portioned  off  to  Protestant 
clergymen,  of  the  names  of  Schorcht  and  Liebeskind : 
these  two  sisters  married  in  the  same  ye^ir,  lost  their 
husbands  in  the  same  year,  and,  being  left  in  narrow 
circumstances,  they  both   returned  to  their  father's 
house  with  four  children.   A  fourth  daughter  married 
a  son  of  the  poet  Gesner  ;  a  connection  which  Wie-  i 
land,   who  had  been  early,  intimately,  and  uninter-i 
ruptedly  attached  to  the  father,  warmly  approved.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  was  assailed  by  all  the  miseries  of 
celebritj/:   every  German   nobleman  who   travelled, 
every  foreigner  who  visited  Germany,  came  to  Wei- 
mar as  a  pilgrimage  due  to  the  shrine  of  genius,  and 
came  provided  with  some  pretext  for  visiting  Wieland. 
He  had  a  great  dislike  to  be  called  out  of  his  book- 
room  in  his  night-gown  and  slippers;  and  he  com- 
plains bitterly,  in  his  correspondence,  of  this  incessant 
and  impolite  intrusion.     This  feeling  had  a  principal 
share  in  leading  him  to  wish  for  a  situation  more  re- 
tired and  less  accessible ;  and,  as  his  eldest  son  was 
now  grown  up,  had  a  taste  for  rural  economy,  and  was 
in  search  of  a  farm  to  conduct,  he  determined  on  the 
purchase  of  an  estate  at  Osmanstadt,  which  appeared 
adapted  to  the  wishes  and  to  the  accommodation  of 
his  whole  household.    Though  the  purchase-money 
exceeded  the  provided  means  of  Wieland,  the  noble 
proprietor  was  willing  to  accept  payment  by  instal- 
ments ;  and  it  was  hoped  that  the  Letters  of  Arts- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  273 

tippuSy  which  were  now  on  the  stocks,  would  defray 
the  demands.  In  1798,  Wieland  removed  to  Osman- 
stadt :  his  family  consisting  of  thirteen  persons,  him- 
self, his  wife,  three  sons,  two  single  daughters,  two 
widowed  daughters,  and  four  grand-children.  Some 
alterations  being  requisite  on  the  premises,  the  artists 
of  Weimar  volunteered  their  drawings,  and  the  reign- 
ing duke  deigned  to  inspect  and  to  advise  between  their 
plans.  He  also  sent  from  the  ducal  gardens  the  statue 
of  a  siren,  to  decorate  the  fountain  in  the  court  yard ; 
and  Osmantium,  thus  embellished,  was  engraved  for 
the  almanacs,  and  celebrated  by  the  poets  like  another 
villa  of  Horace. 

Sofia  de  la  Roche,  now  a  widow,  came  to  visit  Wie- 
land at  his  new  residence,  and  thus  describes  the  habits 
of  the  family  during  her  stay : 

^  On  the  fifteenth  of  July,  1799,  after  a  separation 
of  almost  thirty  years,  I  reached  Wieland's  house  at 
evening,  and  embraced  again  the  worthy  friend  of  my 
youth,  his  wife,  and  four  of  his  daughters.  One  of  my 
six  grand-daughters  accompanied  me,  and  being  fa- 
tigued we  retired  early  to  rest :  but  I  could  not  sleep ; 
the  tide  of  feelings  and  recollections  rushed  over  me 
too  vehemently :  still  I  was  in  his  house,  and  was 
happy.  I  heard  him,  before  he  went  to  bed,  playing 
on  his  harpsichord,  according  to  his  custom  ;  he  was 
now  rehearsing  a  Swiss  tune  which  we  had  admired 
together  at  Biberach.  The  breakfast  had  an  attractive 
neatness  and  simplicity :  no  servant  attended  :  but  one 
daughter  brought  a  glass  of  buttermilk ;  another  a 
plate  of  cherries,  the  toasted  bread,  and  the  home- 
made butter;  and  the  young  man  })resented  to  my 
Jalia  a  handful  of  roses :  we  had  seen  him,  while  we 
were  rising,  employed  in  mowing  the  grass-plot  in  the 

VOL.  II.  T 


274  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

garden.  During  the  forenoon,  Mrs.  Wieland  led  me 
to  the  dairy  and  the  several  objects  of  her  superinten- 
dance,  and  shewed  me  the  delicate  produce  of  her 
spinning-wheel.  Wieland  himself  conducted  me  to 
see  his  new- shorn  flock,  and  told  me  what  crops  were 
to  succeed  the  fragrant  fields  of  beans  and  clover  which 
I  then  beheld. 

'  He  took  me  to  spend  a  day  with  the  Dowager- 
Duchess,  at  her  residence  in  Tieffurt ;  Goethe  was  of 
the  party,  and  agreed  to  dine  with  us  next  day  at  Os- 
manstadt.  Then,  indeed,  I  sat  in  a  temple  of  the  gods; 
while  at  the  table,  which  was  not  additionally  pro- 
vided, I  listened  to  these  two  patriarchs  of  German 
literature,  addressing  each  other  with  the  friendly  thou 
and  thee  of  the  ancients,  and  discussing  with  polished 
frankness  the  men  and  books  and  events  of  the  times. 
A  bust  of  Count  Stadion  ornamented  the  mantle-piece: 
Goethe  asked  me  whether  it  was  a  good  likeness,  ana- 
lyzed its  expression,  and  was  almost  immediately  on 
a  friendly  footing  with  me,  as  if  he  too  had  been  ac- 
quainted with  us  under  that  roof.  I  repeated  to  him 
an  observation  which  I  had  heard  Wieland  make  to 
the  old  Count,  that  all  great  men  in  the  evening  of 
life  had  sought  a  still  retirement  in  the  lap  of  nature. 
When  the  ladies  withdrew  to  walk  in  the  alley  of 
lime-trees.  Herders  daughter  came  to  join  us. 

^  Another  of  the  delightful  days  that  I  passed  here 
was  that  on  which  the  duchess  Amalia,  in  all  her  afia- 
bility,  came  to  see  us,. and,  leaning  on  Wieland's  arm, 
walked  up  and  down  the  garden  with  us.  On  that 
same  day.  Herder  and  his  wife  joined  our  party  at 
table,  and  brought  with  them  John  Paul  Richter,  a 
comparatively  young  man,  of  whose  genius  high  opin- 
ions were  entertained ;  and  in  the  evening,  when  our 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  275 

guests  had  retired,  Wieland  read  to  us  a  terrific  dream 
written  by  this  author.  That  day,  too,  was  an  inter- 
esting one,  on  which  Wieland*s  name  was  to  be  in- 
serted in  the  manorial  books,  and  he  gave  a  rural  feast 
to  his  neighbours  on  becoming  a  fellow-tenant,  his  pro- 
perty being  copy-hold.  All  the  villagers  came  and 
spread  themselves  over  the  green^  and  partook  in  the 
open  air  of  a  rustic  hospitality,  and  shook  Wieland  and 
his  sons  by  the  hand,  and  prayed  God  to  bless  him 
and  his  heirs ;  and  they  had  music  and  a  dance,  and 
we  joined  in  it,  and  satig  and  rejoiced  until  twilight. 
O  may  his  felicity  be  perpetual!  he  so  thoroughly 
deserves  it.' 

'  Wieland,'  says  Goethe  somewhere,  *  was  truly 
formed  for  the  higher  circles ;  the  highest  would  have 
been  his  proper  element ;  for,  as  he  never  wishes  to 
domineer,  or  even  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  company, 
but  takes  a  willing  interest  in  any  thing,  and  a  tempe-^ 
rate  interest  in  every  thing,  he  never  requires  the  con- 
trol of  superior  presence.  His  thoughts  are  always 
distinct  and  definable;  his  expression  is  clear;  and, 
notwithstanding  the  comprehensive  character  of  his 
knowledge,  he  is  singularly  prone  to  attend  to  present 
objects,  and  to  dwell  on  the  immediate  topic  of  the 
day.  Moreover,  I  do  not  know  any  man  who  is  al^ 
ways  so  alive  to  every  thing  that  is  happily  said  by 
another,  and  so  ready  to  make  room  for  that  which 
another  wishes  to  throw  into  the  conversation.' 

In  1798,  Wieland,  in  one  of  his  Dialogues  between 
four  Eyesy  ventured  to  foretell  that  the  anarchy  of 
France  would  seek  its  cure  in  military  despotism,  and 
propose  BoTUipcarte  as  a  temporary  dictator.  The  event 
shewed  that  ^^  long  experience  can  attain  to  something 
like  prophetic  strain :"  but  some  agent,  probably,  of 


276  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  British  court,  or  some  officious  quidnunc^  unable 
to  conceive  such  sagacity  of  genius,  imputed,  in  the 
newspapers,  this  suggestion  to  a  private  and  hired 
concurrence  with  certain  factious  individuals  at  Paris. 
This  illiberal  denunciation  had  the  unfortunate  effect, 
for  Wieland,  of  causing  all  the  writers  in  the  interest 
of  those  courts  who  were  in  alliance  with  Great  Bri- 
tain suddenly  to  assail  him  as  an  illumin^tto ; — as  one 
of  the  ne  plus  ultra  revolutionists,  for  whom  mere 
imprisonment  was  too  mild  a  fate.  The  cry  of  the 
continental  anti-jacobins  was  loud,  was  repeated  from 
a  thousand  mouths,  and  exposed  him  to  vulgar  suspi- 
cion and  to  titled  odium.  It  had  effects  yet  more  ope- 
rative on  his  comforts  and  sources  of  well-being ;  it 
terrified  the  booksellers,  and  depreciated  the  selb'ng 
value  of  his  manuscripts,  which  were  now  more  than 
ever  necessary  to  his  subsistence.  The  expenses  of 
alterations  at  Osmanstadt  were  still  undefrayed,  and 
some  instalments  of  purchase-money  still  undischarg- 
ed. Movements  of  armies  rendered  property  insecure, 
and  lessened  its  price ;  ready  money  rose  in  value ; 
the  produce  of  the  crops  disappointed  expectation ; 
and  it  was  only  by  mortgaging  the  land,  at  a  great 
disadvantage,  that  the  immediate  demands  on  Wieland 
could  be  met.  These  were  heavy  sorrows,  and  they 
led  the  way  to  one  still  heavier.  In  1801,  his  wife 
died.  She  was  buried  in  a  grove  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden,  where  he  made  a  family  vault,  which  was  to 
include  his  own  remains.  One  of  his  widowed  daugh- 
ters now  undertook  the  care  of  the  household :  but  it 
was  too  soon  felt  that  the  farms  of  citizens  do  not  pay, 
and  Wieland  determined  to  let  his  land.  Further  in- 
stalments became  due,  and  at  length  it  was  necessary 
to  sell  in  proportion  to  the  income  of  the  new  lease. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  277 

at  a  price  much  below  the  cost.  In  April,  1803,  he 
visited  for  the  last  time  the  trees  which  he  had  plant- 
ed round  the  grave  of  his  wife,  and  abandoned  Osman- 
stadt  to  its  new  proprietors,  his  finances  much  impo- 
verished by  this  rural  speculation. 

In  a  letter  to  Bodmer^  dated  early  in  1803,  he  thus 
tenderly  depicts  his  state  of  feeling : 

'  Since  the  death  of  my  wife,  I  have  lost  the  love 
of  existence ;  and  the  lustre  which  once  shone  on  all 
things  around  me  is  bedimmed.  I  would  fain  with- 
draw my  attention  from  a  painful  feeling,  which  espe- 
cially seizes  on  me  whenever  I  lie  down  or  get  up : 
but  memory  will  be  busy.  Never  since  I  was  bom 
have  I  loved  any  thing  so  much  as  my  wife.  If  I  but 
knew  that  she  was  in  the  room,  or  if  at  times  she 
stepped  in  and  said  a  word  or  two,  that  was  enough ; 
^my  guardian  angel  had  been  pear : — but,  since  she 
has  been  gone,  my  very  labors  fall  off  in  spirit,  and  my 
writings  please  me  no  longer.  Why  could  we  not,  like 
Philemon  and  Baucis,  have  died  on  one  day  ?' 

Wieland  now  returned  to  Weimar.  The  reigning 
Duke  had  provided  for  him  a  house  opening  into  the 
grounds  of  the  Duchess-Dowager,  and  enjoying  a  beau- 
tiful prospect.  It  was  announced  that  Wieland  was 
henceforth  to  form  one  of  the  household,  and  a  place 
was  assigned  to  him  in  the  state-box  at  the  theatre : 
an  eagerness  of  welcome  was  expressed  in  every  quar- 
ter; and  Father  Wieland,  as  they  called  him,  was  bail- 
ed on  his  return,  after  six  years  of  absence,  with  every 
mark  of  gratulation.  Goethe  varied  a  decoration  of  his 
Torquato  Tasso,  to  give  opportunity  for  a  plaudit  of 
exultation  on  Wieland's  first  appearance  in  the  play- 
house : — Herder  approached  him  with  sincerer  though 
less  ostentatious  friendship ; — and  Schiller  became  now 


278  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

first  au  habitual  acquaintance ; — ^together  with  Meyer^ 
the  founder  of  the  recent  exhibitions  of  fine  art.  Above 
all,  the  reigning  family,  the  dowager-duchess,  the  duke, 
and  the  princess  his  wife,  redoubled  their  former  at- 
tentions, with  that  generosity  of  heart  which  always 
discovers,  in  the  adversity  of  a  friend,  some  additional 
claims  for  him  to  be  honoured  as  well  as  loved : — ^the 
whole  house  of  Weimar  showed  themselves  to  be  the 
nobles  of  humanity.  Herder,  however,  did  not  live 
long  after  Wieland*s  return  to  Weimar;— they  had 
agreed  in  disliking  the  Kantian  philosophy,  or  jargon, 
which  Goethe  and  Schiller  patronized.  It  is  the  mis- 
fortune of  longevity  to  survive  its  most  valued  friend- 
ships ;  and  Wieland  had  moreover  to  lament  the  loss 
of  the  dowager-duchess,  which  rendered  Tieffurt  com- 
paratively a  solitude  to  him :  but  his  former  rooms 
were  still  open  to  him  there  during  the  summer-season, 
until  he  voluntarily  exchanged  them  for  an  apartment 
at  Belvedere.  M.  Gruber,  who  met  him  there,  says 
that 

^  His  walk  was  firm,  not  quick ;  it  had  much  of  dig- 
nity: he  did  not  need  for  his  support  the  Spanish  cane 
which  he  carried :  he  was  of  more  than  middle  stature, 
slim  and  thin,  and  his  head  bent  forwards.  In  his 
countenance,  it  has  been  said,  there  was  a  mixture  of 
the  Faun  and  the  Grace :  but  the  lofty  arched  fore- 
head, and  Grecian  profile,  gave  it  an  exalted  expres- 
sion of  intellect.  His  eye  was  mild  and  placid :  but  an 
ironical  smile  often  played  on  his  lip.  I  accosted  him, 
and  congratulated  him  on  the  possession  of  so  much 
activity  at  so  advanced  an  age.  He  said  that  he  him- 
self wondered  at  it,  as  he  had  been  a  hot-house  plant, 
reared  within  doors,  too  much  nursed  by  women,  and 
too  much  confined  by  study.' 


OF  GERMAN  FO^ITRY.  279 

I 

In  1806  the  progress  of  warfare  had  rendered  Wei- 
mar a  station  of  alarm,  if  not  of  danger ;  in  1808  the 
Congress  of  Erfart  was  convened ;  and,  in  the  Octo- 
ber of  that  year,  the  assemhled  princes  came  for  a  few 
days  to  visit  the  court  of  Weimar.  Napoleon  brought 
with  him  a  troop  of  French  players,  who  borrowed  the 
theatre,  and  on  the  si^th  of  October  exhibited  in  it 
Voltaire's  "  Death  of  Caesar.'*  Wieland  went  to  see 
this  tragedy,  in  which  Talma  was  to  perform,  and  sat 
as  usual  in  a  private  side-box  of  the  second  tier,  reserv- 
ed for  the  ducal  family,  to  which  he  was  considered  as 
attached.  Napoleon  observed  him  there,  and  inquired 
who  was  the  venerable  old  man  with  the  black  velvet 
cahtte.  This  was  the  usual  costume  of  Wieland;  who, 
not  liking  to  wear  a  wig,  and  being  exposed  by  the 
want  of  hair  to  colds  in  the  head,  had  adopted  a  small 
circular  cap  resembling  that  of  the  catholic  priests. 
On  being  informed  by  the  Prince-primate  that  this 
was  Wieland,  Napoleon  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him 
after  the  play,  and  he  was  accordingly  ushered  into 
the  ball-room,  which  was  intended  to  be  the  next  place 
of  rendezvous.  In  one  of  Wieland's  letters,  the  fol- 
lowing account  is  given  of  the  interview : 

^  I  had  not  been  many  minutes  there  before  Napoleon 
came  across  the  room  toward  us :  the  Duchess  then 
presented  me  to  him  in  form,  and  he  addressed  me 
affably  with  some  words  of  compliment,  looking  me 
steadily  in  the  face.  Few  persons  have  appeared  to 
me  so  rapidly  to  see  throtigh  a  man  at  a  glance.  He 
instantly  perceived  that,  notwithstanding  my  celebrity, 
I  was  a  plain  unassuming  old  man ;  and,  as  he  seem- 
ed desirous  of  making  for  ever  a  good  impression  on 
me,  he  at  once  assumed  the  form  best  adapted  to  at- 
tain his  end.    I  never  saw  a  man  in  appearance  calmer. 


280  HISTOKIC  SURVEY 

plainer,  milder,  or  more  unpreteDding.  No  trace  was 
visible  about  him  of  th*e  consciousness  that  he  was  a 
great  monarch.  He  talked  to  me  like  an  old  acquain- 
tance with  his  equal,  and,  which  was  very  rare  with 
him,  chatted  with  me  exclusively  an  entire  hour  and  a 
half,  to  the  great  surprize  of  all  who  were  present. 
At  length,  about  midnight,  I  began  to  feel  inconveni- 
ence from  standing  so  long,  and  took  the  liberty  of  re- 
questing his  Majesty's  permission  to  withdraw.  ^^Allez 
donCj^  said  he  in  a  very  friendly  tone,  "  hon  soir.^ 

^  The  more  remarkable  traits  of  our  interview  were 
these. — ^The  previous  play  having  made  Caesar  the 
subject  of  pur  conversation.  Napoleon  observed  that 
he  was  one  of  the  greatest  characters  in  all  history ; 
and  that  indeed  he  would  have  been  without  exception 
the  greatest,  but  for  one  blunder.  I  was  about  to  in- 
quire to  what  anecdote  he  alluded,  when  he  seemed 
to  read  the  question  in  my  eye,  and  continued;  "Caesar 
knew  the  men  who  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  he 
ought  to  have  been  rid  of  them  first."  If  Napoleon 
could  have  read  all  that  passed  in  my  mind,  he  would 
have  perceived  me  saying ;  Such  a  blunder  will  never 
be  laid  to  yofur  charge. — From  Caesar  our  conversa- 
tion turned  to  the  Roman  people;  and  he  praised 
warmly  their  military  and  their  political  system:  while 
the  Greeks,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  to  stand  low  in 
his  opinion.  The  eternal  contest  between  their  little 
republics  ^was  not  formed,  he  said,  to  produce  any  thing 
great :  but  the  Romans  were  always  intent  on  grand 
purposes,  and  thus  created  the  mighty  colossus  which 
bestrode  the  world.  I  pleaded  for  the  arts  and  litera- 
ture of  the  Greeks:  but  he  treated  both  with  con- 
tempt, and  said  that  they  only  served  to  make  objects 
of  dispute. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  281 

*  He  preferred  Ossian  to  Homer. .  In  poetry,  he  pro- 
fessed to  value  only  the  sublime,  the  energetic,  and 
the  pathetic  writers,  especially  the  tragic  poets.  Of 
Ariosto  he  spoke  in  some  such  terms  as  those  which 
had  been  used  by  Cardinal  Hippolito  of  Este;  not 
aware,  however,  I  think,  that  in  doing  this  he  was 
giving  me  a  box  on  the  ear.  For  any  thing  humorous 
he  seemed  to  have  no  liking;  and,  notwithstanding 
the  flattering  friendliness  of  his  apparent  manner,  he 
repeatedly  gave  me  the  idea  of  his  being  cast  from 
bronze. 

*  At  length,  however,  he  had  put  me  so  much  at  my 
ease,  that  I  asked  him  how  it  happened  that  the  pub- 
lic worship,  which  he  had  in  some  degree  reformed  in 
France^  had  not  been  rendered  more  philosophic,  and 
more  on  a  par  with  the  spirit  of  the  times.  "  My  dear 
Wieland,"  he  replied, "  worship  is  not  made  for  philo- 
sophers ;  they  believe  neither  in  me  nor  in  my  priest- 
hood. As  for  those  who  do  believe,  you  cannot  give 
them,  or  leave  them,  wonders  enough.  If  I  had  to 
make  a  religion  for  philosophers,  it  should  be  just  the 
reverse."  In  this  tone  the  conversation  went  on  for 
sonrie  time,  and  Bonaparte  professed  so  much  scepti- 
cism as  to  question  whether  Jesus  Christ  had  ever 
existed.  This  is  very  common  every-day  scepticism ; 
so  that  in  his  free-thinking  I  saw  nothing  to  admire, 
but  the  openness  with  which  he  exposed  it.' 

Bonaparte  sent  shortly  afterwards  to  Wieland  a  bre- 
vet of  admission  into  his  Legion  of  Honour ;  and  the 
Emperor  Alexander  of  Russia  transmitted  to  him  near- 
ly at  the  same  time  the  order  of  Saint  Anne :  so  en- 
tirely did  he  also  admire  and  wish  to  conciliate  talents 
so  independently  and  impartially  exerted. 

Wieland  continued  his  habits  of  literary  industry 


282  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

even  in  the  midst  of  bustle  and  of  danger.  To  his 
Afistippus  succeeded  Menander  and  Ghfcerixm,  and 
Krates  and  mppctrchia,  two  Greek  novels  of  high 
merit ;  the  Hexameron  of  Rosenhain,  a  compilation  of 
earlier  unacknovirledged  stories;  and  Euthanasia^  a 
sort  of  valedictory  dissertation  on  human  life,  and 
against  the  belief  of  ghosts,  which  seems  to  imply  a 
final  relinquishment  of  those  opinions  concerning  fu- 
turity that  were  attached  to  his  Liberty  of  Reasoning 
in  Matters  of  Belief 

In  the  autumn  of  1809,  Wieland  was  afflicted  with 
a  severe  and  dangerous  illness;  from  which  he  re- 
covered, but  which  left  a  tendency  to  ophthalmia  truly 
hostile  to  his  habits  of  literary  industry.  From  the 
account  in  one  of  his  letters,  the  attack  seems  to  have 
been  paralytic;  and  he  describes  with  feeling  grati- 
tude the  kind  attentions  of  his  children  and  grand-chil- 
dren, while  he  was  learning  again,  as  he  expresses  it, 
the  use  of  his  arms  and  legs,  like  a  child. 

Wine  was  ^commended  to  him,  and  Port  in  prefer- 
ence ;  and  the  Duke,  he  adds,  has  opened  to  me  the 
fountain  of  Hygeia  in  the  court-cellar.  He  complain- 
ed henceforth  of  some  diminution  of  his  memory,  but 
was  able  to  undertake  a  translation  of  Cicero  s  LetterSy 
to  which  he  attached  excellent  illustrative  notes.  At 
this  late  period  of  his  life,  he  first  became  a  member 
of  the  club  of  Free-masons,  probably  because  it  afford- 
ed frequent,  neighbourly,  and  unrestrained  society :  he 
was  admitted  into  the  Amalia  lodge  of  Weimar,  4th 
of  April,  1809.  The  brethren  made  a  festival  of  his 
eightieth  birth-day  in  1812,  and  had  a  medal  struck  in 
honor  of  him. 

The  estate  at  Osmanstadt  having  been  ultimately  ac- 
quired by  the  Brentano  family  at  Frankfort,  to  which 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  283 

Wieland  had  been  amicably  attached^  it  was  arranged 
that  the  original  project  of  there  placing  his  remains 
and  his  monument  should  still  be  realized.  The  sta- 
tuary of  the  court  of  Weimar^  Weisser,  undertook  the 
appropriate  decorations.  On  the  side  which  records 
the  death  of  Anna  Dorothea  Wieland,  bom  Hillen- 
brand, were  sculptured  in  the  marble  two  intwined 
hands,  the  emblem  of  conjugal  affection ;  and,  on  the 
side  which  was  destined  to  record  Wieland's  age,  were 
sculptured  a  winged  lyre  and  a  star  of  immortality 
above.  Wieland  himself  wrote  for  the  monument  a 
simple  distich,  which  may  thus  be  rendered : 

Love  and  Friendship  united  their  kindred  souk  in  life ; 
And  this  common  stone  covers  their  mortal  remains. 

Having  now  calmly  superintended  every  preparation 
for  death,  he  would  jokingly  say  that  he  ought  not  to 
be  kept  waiting  any  longer.  In  January,  1813,  how- 
ever, he  was  still  well  enough  to  attend  the  theatre, 
and  to  enjoy  the  comic  acting  of  Iffland :  but  on  the 
I3th  day  of  that  month  a  second  paralytic  stroke  as- 
sailed him,  which  on  the  20th  put  an  end  to  his  ex- 
istence. Conscious  of  the  approach  of  death,  he  suc- 
cessively took  leave  of  his  descendants,  who  alternately 
watched  in  his  bed-room :  when  he  thought  that  his 
end  was  very  near,  he  began  to  repeat  his  own  trans- 
lation of  Hamlet's  soliloquy;  and  it  was  at  the  second 
exclamation,  ^^ to  &e^ — ^^  to  sleep^^  that  his  soul  took 
flight,  to  resolve  the  doubt. 

The  impression  made  by  the  news  of  this  event  was 
deeply  felt  throughout  Weimar.  The  lodge  of  Free- 
masons applied  to  the  family  for  leave  to  order  the  fune- 
ral at  their  expense:  it  was  granted;  and  they  resolved 
to  attend  as  a  body  in  their  robes  o£  ceremony.    The 


284  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

corpse  lay  for  several  days  exposed  in  state,  on  cash- 
ions  of  blue  silk,  in  a  rich  coffin  decorated  with  gild- 
ing: a  white  shrond  was  wrapped  round  the  limbs; 
and  the  head  alone  was  visible,  retaining  the  black  vel- 
vet calotte,  round  which  was  braided  a  wreath  of  lau- 
rel. A  copy  of  Oberan,  and  one  of  Musctrion,  were 
placed  under  it,  as  the  worthiest  pillows ;  the  impe- 
rial orders  of  Saint  Anne,  and  the  Legion  of  Honor, 
lay  beside  him,  on  a  cushion  of  white  satin.  On  the 
2dth  of  January,  the  Amalia  Lodge  was  appointed  to 
assemble  at  the  Castle  in  Osmanstadt,  to  accompany 
the  funeral  procession ;  the  body  having  been  convey- 
ed thither  during  the  night  from  Weimar.  Deputies 
from  the  city  attended,  and  the  corpse  had  sixteen 
bearers,  brother-masons.  Wieland's  eldest  son  walked 
as  chief  mourner,  with  the  French  resident  Baron  St. 
Aignan,  who  had  requested  a  station  in  the  ceremony. 
It  was  a  cold  but  clear  day,  and  the  procession  passed 
without  accident  along  the  alley  of  lime-trees  to  the 
grove  in  the  garden,  through  a  vast  crowd  of  silent 
and  sorrowing  spectators.  Sacred  music  composed  by 
Stockmaim,  and  an  appropriate  anthem,  accompanied 
the  whole  march;  and  M.  Giinther  pronounced  the 
usual  orations  during  the  interment. 

*  Years  hence,  and  centuries  hence/  concludes  M. 
Gruber,^  ^  our  children  and  their  children  will  walk  in 
pilgrimage  to  this  grave,  and  relate  to  one  another, 
that,  during  a  long  life,  Wieland  strove  unwearied  af- 
ter truth,  exercised  goodness,  and  delineated  beauty ; 
and  how  sincerely  zealous  he  was  for  the  glory  of  Ger- 
man literature,  which  he  peculiarly  brought  into  honor 
among  foreigners.     If  the  proper  fountain  of  poetry 

5  The  foregoing  biography  of  Wieland  is  principally  abridged  from  J.  G.  Gruber's 
C.  M,  Wieland  geschildert:  2  vol.  Leipzig,  1815  and  1816. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY,  285 

flowed  less  abandantly  in  him  than  in  some  others^  yet 
he  has  diverted  the  fairest  tributary  streams  of  Greece, 
Rome,  England,  Italy,  and  France,  into  the  channel, 
whence  to  us  he  has  fed  so  wide  a  lake  of  glittering 
waters.   He  singly  may  be  said  to  have  renewed  among 
us  Lucian  and  Horace,  Xenophon  and  Shaftesbury, 
Ariosto  and  Cervantes,  Voltaire  and  Chauliea,  Sterne 
and  Metastasio.    He  has  furnished  models  of  didactic 
poetry  such  as  no  other  nation  can  exhibit ;  he  intro- 
duced the  romantic  epopaea,  and  has  hitherto  been 
equalled  by  no  imitator.    He  gave  us  our  first  philoso- 
phic romances ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  changes  of 
fashion  to  which  that  class  of  literature  is  peculiarly 
exposed,  several  of  them  retain  a  permanent  classical 
ranl^.    He  founded  our  vernacular  opera:  his  writings 
have  peculiarly  improved  the  language  of  polished  con- 
versation ;  he  enabled  German  to  supersede  French, 
and  led  the  Graces  into  gothic  halls :  his  philosophy 
is  cheerful,  his  irony  gentle^  his  indulgence  liberal,  and 
his  perseverance  in  struggling  against  error,  darkness, 
and  oppression,  truly  praiseworthy.    The  fear  of  man 
was  no  more  known  to  him  than  the  fear  of  death ; 
nor  can  he  be  said  to  have  had  the  fear  of  God :  it  was 
rather  a  filial  love  toward  the  Father  of  all,  that  dwelt 
within  him.    To  reason  about  the  interests  of  mankind 
impartially,  and  to  bring  to  bear  the  inferences  of  that 
reason,  formed  the  cordial  purpose  and  eager  business 
of  his  philanthropic  life.     Hallowed  be  thy  memory, 
thou  charming  singer,  thou  sound  philosopher^  thou 
meritorious  German,  thou  noble  man !' 


286  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


§9. 

Remewed  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works,  vol.  i — x. — Agaihcn 
— The  modem  Amadis — The  golden  Mirror — Religion  of 
Psammis — Danishmend — Musarion — Didactic  Poems — 
Sixtus  and  Clara — the  Grcices —  Comic  Tales. 

Of  that  higher  class  of  writers^  whose  popularity,  in- 
compressible within  the  scanty  limits  of  one  country^ 
language,  or  age,  is  likely  to  assert  a  diffusive  and 
permanent  influence  over  the  opinions  of  a  refined 
portion  of  the  whole  European  public,  Christopher 
Martin  Wieland  of  Biberaeh  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable and  voluminous.  Second  only  to  Voltaire 
in  the  copiousness  and  variety  of  his  effusions,  he  is 
admirable  as  a  composer  both  in  verse  and  prose.  He 
has  excelled  in  epic  and  didactic  poetry,  and  has  ap- 
peared in  the  dramatic  arena  without  disgrace.  His 
varied  disquisitions  are  admired  for  elegant  erudition 
and  philosophic  penetration ;  his  dialogues,  for  poetry 
of  form  and  urbanity  of  manner ;  his  novels,  for  the 
insight  which  they  display  and  communicate  into  the 
most  hidden  recesses  of  the  human  heart.  Few  wri- 
ters  have  so  uniformly  walked  within  the  precincts  of 
the  beautiful.  He  never  swells  into  bombast,  he  sel- 
dom mounts  to  sublimity,  and,  if  he  sometimes  tires 
by  the  gay  profusion  of  his  repeated  descriptions,  he 
never  sinks  into  a  vulgar  insipidity.  Scenes  of  pathos 
he  avoids,  either  as  unattainable  by  his  powers,  or  as 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  287 

painful  to  his  equanimity.  Like  the  painter  Albania 
he  delights  to  detain  the  imagination  beneath  groves 
gay  with  a  thousand  flowers,  peopled  with  happjr 
lovers  sacrificing  to  Cupid,  or  haunted  by  choirs  of 
nymphs,  whose  thin  drapery  is  the  sport  of  the  ze- 
phyrs, and  whose  charms  are  the  pursuit  of  fauns  or 
the  prize  of  river-gods.  His  obtrusive  wit,  rather  dex- 
terous than  forcible,  might  gratify  the  delicacy  of  a 
Chesterfield :  it  aims  at  exciting  a  continual  smile,  but 
it  neither  apes  the  bitter  grin  of  Voltaire,  nor  provokes, 
like  the  humor  of  Swift,  to  open-mouthed  langhter. 

Possessed  of  the  whole  mass  of  ancient  and  modern 
literature,  Wieland  has  distilled  from  it  the  favourite 
ornaments  of  his  compositions,  whicli  are  throughout 
more  remarkable  for  selection  than  invention.  He 
even  delights  in  assisting  the  reader  to  trace  his  eter- 
nal allusions  to  their  source ;  in  pointing  out  the  nar- 
rator whose  fable  he  embellishes,  the  stylist  whose 
epithet  he  transplants,  or  the  philosopher  whose  infe- 
rence he  impresses.  Allusions  to  the  classical  pages 
of  any  period  are  always  gratifying ;  for  the  reputa- 
tion of  distinguished  writers  being  in  this  case  associ- 
ated with  their  expressions,  the  inherent  efiect  of  these 
is  thus  strengthened: — but  allusions  to  secondary  au- 
thors, known  only  from  circumstances,  appear  pedantic 
as  soon  as  their  notoriety  expires ;  and  very  many  such 
occur  amid  the  inlaid  phrases  of  Wieland.  He  has 
been  charged  Ivith  inculcating  religious  opinions  verg- 
ing on  a  hopeless  epicurism,  and  is  justly  reprehensible 
for  the  too  frequent  introduction  of  scenery  licenti- 
ously voluptuous.  To  borrow  the  words  of  a  foreign 
critic:  ^'  On  retrouve  chez  lui  les  id^es  grivoises  de 
Crebillon  et  les  plaisanteries  de  Hamilton .  II  vous  sait 
encadrer  dans  sa  mosaique  les  plus  beaux  vers  de  Co- 


288  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

lardean,  de  Fezay,  de  Dorat,  et  il  se  donne  par  fois  dd 
air  de  sagesse  qui  groappe  k  merveille  avec  ces  images 
libertines.  On  Tappelle  le  Petrone  du  Nord,  mais  il 
a  bien  plus  de  gout  et  de  finesse.  On  cache  son  livre 
aux  demoiselles,  qui  ont  grand  soin  de  le  savoir  par 
coeur." 

Among  the  writers  who  have  most  sensibly  contri- 
buted to  tinge  the  mind  of  Wieland  with  its  peculiar 
hues,  and  of  whose  perusal  the  most  frequent  traces 
occur  in  his  compositions,  may  be  numbered  Lucian, 
whom  he  has  translated  in  a  manner  only  to  be  com- 
pared with  that  of  Belin  de  la  Ballue; — Horace,  whose 
epistle  to  the  Pisos  he  has  rendered  with  not  less  feli- 
city than  Mr.  Colman ; — ^and  the  younger  Crebillon, 
the  delicacy  of  whose  pencil  is  no  apology  for  its  ex- 
treme lasciviousness. 

Three  quarters  of  a  century  have  now  elapsed  since 
Wieland  first  entered  the  lists  of  authorship :  his  ca- 
reer began  with  the  dawn,  and  has  perhaps  extended 
to  the  sunset  of  German  literature.  He  had  (as  he 
himself  expresses  it,)  the  heart-exalting  satisfaction  of 
being  the  cotemporary  of  all  the  German  poets  and 
writers,  in  whose  works  breathes  the  genius  of  immor- 
tality, and  the  rival  of  none :  most  of  them  were  his 
friends,  not  one  of  them  was  his  foe. 

The  ten  volumes  before  us  form  the  first  lot  of  one 
of  the  four  new  and  only  complete  editions  of  the  works 
of  Wieland,  of  which  the  republication  began  in  1795, 
with  profuse  alterations,  under  the  author  s  inspection. 
I  shall  give  some  account  of  each  of  his  principal  pro- 
ductions in  the  order  in  which  they  are  here  arranged. 
Agathon  occupies  the  first  three  volumes.  This  novel 
has  for  many  years  been  known  in  England  (since  1773) 
by  a  good  translation  from  one  of  the  early  editions, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  289 

executed  by  Mr.  Richardson,  of  Eworth,  in  Yorkshire. 
Some  omissions  and  many  extensive  changes  have 
since  been  made,  and  three  new  chapters  have  been 
inserted  between  the  penultimate  and  conchiding  sec- 
tion. It  may  seem  needless,  at  this  time,  to  state  that 
it  contains  the  history  of  nearly  twenty  years  of  the 
life  of  a  young  Greek,  supposed  to  flourish  about  the 
hundredth  olympiad ;  who,  having  been  educated,  like 
the  Ion  of  Euripides,  in  religious  purity,  and  having 
imbibed  the  sublime  speculations  of  the  Orphic  theo- 
sophy,  is  suddenly  thrown  on  the  world,  and  exposed 
to  its  temptations.  His  innocence,  assailed  at  once  by 
the  philosophy  of  Hippias,  and  the  attractions  of  Danae, 
is  overpowered.;  and  the  fine  enthusiast  sinks  for  a 
Habile  into  the  contented  voluptuary.  At  length  he 
breaks  loose;  is  engaged  in  active  life  at  Athens,  and 
at  the  court  of  Syracuse,  where  he  philosophizes  with 
Aristippus  and  Plato ;  and,  having  corrected  by  experi- 
ence his  notions  of  mankind,  he  at  last  fixes  at  Taren- 
tum,  where  the  conversations  and  example  of  the  excel- 
lent Archytas  restore  to  unison  his  speculation  and  his 
practice,  and  complete  the  fashion  of  his  virtue. 

This  history,  which,  when  denuded  of  its  trappings, 
is  that  of  a  considerable  number  of  men,  displays  a 
deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  of  the  causes 
and  means  by  which  one  growth  of  character  and  opin- 
ion comes  gradually  to  succeed  another.  Neither  has 
any  part  of  the  relation  been  laboured  so  attentively  by 
the  author  as  the  full  display  of  Agathon's  mind,  as 
the  analysis  of  its  several  psychological  phsenomena, 
as  the  studious  demonstration  that  thus,  and  no  other- 
wise, could  such  a  person  be  actuated  by  the  circum- 
stances supposed, — in  short,  as  the  solution  of  every 
moral  difficulty.    In  this  consist  the  characteristic  ex- 

VOL.  II.  U 


290  HfSTORIC  SURVEY 

celleDce  and  peculiar  perfection  of  the  work  :  so  that 
it  offers  a  gratification  analogous  to  studying  a  charac- 
ter of  Shakspeare  anatomized  by  Richardson.  It  also 
displays  an  intimacy  with  Greek  manners  and  Greek 
philosophy,  which  has  only  been  rivalled  in  the  long 
subsequent  travels  of  Anacharsis.  The  mode  of  nar- 
ration, pleasing  as  it  is,  would  be  more  agreeable,  if 
all  direct  allusions  to  modern  personages  and  writings 
were  expunged ;  and  if  the  imagination  were  never 
recalled  from  among  the  classical  personages  of  the 
story,  by  the  incongruous  mention  (p.  246)  of  Molly 
Seagrim,  by  the  allusion  (p.  264)  to  Rousseau,  by  the 
quotation  (p.  306)  from  Montesquieu,  &c.  If  the  au- 
thor scrupled  to  borrow  a  thought  without  indicating 
its  source,  he  might  at  least  have  reserved  the  acknow- 
ledgement for  a  note. 

The  summary  of  opinions  which  Agathon  is  repre- 
sented as  bringing  home  from  his  travels,  and  which 
may  undoubtedly  be  considered  as  the  personal  senti- 
ments of  a  writer  whose  long  life  has  been  passed  in 
a  skilful  observation  of  mankind,  have  in  this  edition 
been  retouched,  and  merit  translation. 

"  He  departed  with  few  prejudices,  and  returned 
without  those  few.  During  his  philosophic  pilgrim- 
age, he  remained  a  mere  spectator  of  the  stage  of 
things^  and  was  the  more  at  leisure  to  judge  of  the 
performance. 

'^  His  observations  on  others  completed  what  his  own 
reflexions  and  experience  had  begun.  They  convinced 
him  that  men  in  the  average  are  what  Hippias  paints 
"them,  although  they  should  be  what  Archytas  exhibits. 

"  He  saw  every  where — what  may  yet  be  seen — ^that 
they  are  not  so  good  as  they  might  be  if  they  were 
wiser :  but  he  also  saw  that  they  cannot  become  bet- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  291 

ter  until  they  are  wiser ;  and  they  cannot  become  wiser 
unless  fathers^  mothers^  uarses,  teachers,  and  priests, 
with  their  other  overlookers,  from  the  constable  to  the 
king,  shall  have  become  as  wise  as  it  belongs  to  each 
in  his  relative  situation  to  be,  in  order  to  do  his  duty, 
and  to  be  truly  useful  to  the  human  race. 

*^  He  saw,  therefore,  that  information  favourable  to 
moral  improvement  is  the  only  ground  on  which  the 
hope  of  better  times,  that  is  of  better  men,  can  ration- 
ally be  founded.  He  saw  that  all  nations,  the  wildest 
barbarian  as  well  as  the  most  refined  Greek,  honour 
virtue  ;  and  that  no  society,  not  even  a  horde  of  Ara- 
bian robbers,  can  subsist  without  some  degree  of  vir- 
tue. He  found  every  town,  every  province,  every  na- 
tion, so  much  happier,  the  better  the  morals  of  the 
inhabitants  were ;  and,  without  exception,  he  saw  most 
corruption  amid  extreme  poverty  or  extreme  wealth. 

^^  He  found,  among  all  the  nations  whom  he  visited, 
religion  muffled  up  in  superstition,  abused  to  the  injury 
of  society,  and  converted  by  hypocrisy,  or  open  force, 
into  an  instrument  of  deception,  ambition,  avarice,  vo- 
luptuousness, or  laziness.  He  saw  that  individuals  and 
whole  nations  can  have  religion  without  virtue,  and . 
that  thereby  they  are  made  worse :  but  he  also  saw 
that  individuals  and  whole  nations,  if  already  virtuous, 
are  made  better  by  piety. 

''  He  saw  legislation,  administration,  and  police,  eve- 
ry where  full  of  defects  and  abuses :  but  he  also  saw 
that  men  without  laws,  administration,  or  police,  were 
worse  and  more  unhappy.  Every  where  he  heard  abu- 
ses censured,  and  found  every  one  desirous  that  the 
world  should  be  mended ;  he  saw  many  willing  to  toil 
at  its  improvement,  and  inexhaustible  in  their  projects 
— but  not  one  who  was  willing  to  begin  the  amend- 

Ua 


292  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

inent  on  himself.     Hence  he  easily  conceived  why  no- 
thing grows  better. 

"  He  saw  men  every  where  influenced  by  two  oppo- 
site instincts,  the  desire  of  eqtmlity  and  the  desire  of 
domineering  without  restraint  over  others  :  which  con- 
vinced him  that,  unless  this  evil  can  be  subdued,  much 
may  not  be  expected  from  changes  in  governments  ;^ 
that  man  must  revolve  in  an  eternal  circle  from  royal 
despotism  and  aristocratic  insolence,  to  popular  licen- 
tiousness and  mob-tyranny ;  and  from  these  back  to 
those^  unless  a  legislation,  deduced  from  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  justice,  religion,  and  morality,  and  an  educa- 
tion corresponding  with  them,  shall  in  most  men  curb 
the  animal  desire  of  domineering  without  restraint. 

"  He  saw  that  every  where  arts,  industry,  and  eco- 
nomy, are  followed  by  riches^  riches  by  luxury,  luxury 
by  corrupt  manners,  and  corrupt  manners  by  the  dis- 
solution of  the  state : — but  he  also  saw  that  the  arts, 
under  the  guidance  of  wisdom,  embellish,  evolve,  and 
ennoble  mankind  ;  that  art  is  the  half  of  our  nature, 
and  that  man  without  art  is  the  most  miserable  of 
animals. 

"  He  saw  throughout  the  whole  economy  of  society, 
the  limits  of  the  true  and  false,  of  the  good  and  bad, 
of  the  right  and  wrong,  imperceptibly  melting  into 
each  other ;  and  he  thereby  convinced  himself  still 
more  of  the  necessity  of  wise  laws,  and  of  the  duty  of 
a  good  citizen  rather  to  trust  the  law  than  his  own 
preconceptions. 

'^  All  that  he  had  seen  Confirmed  him  in  the  opinion 
that  man — in  one  respect  allied  to  the  beasts  of  the 

6  Here  the  author  does  not  express  himself  with  precision.  The  love  of  domi- 
neering and  the  impatience  of  control  are  the  two  contending  instincts.  The  desire 
of  equadhy  is  the  equitable  compromise  between  them,  is  the  just  mean,  is  the  virtue 
wkidi  inclines  to  neither  vice. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  293 

field,  in  another  to  superior  beings,  and  even  to  the 
Deity  himself — is  no  less  incapable  of  being  a  mere 
beast  than  a  mere  spirit:  that  he  only  lives  conform- 
ably to  his  nature,  when  he  is  ever  ascending :  that 
each  higher  step  toward  wisdom  and  virtue  increases 
his  happiness :  that  wisdom  and  virtue  have  at  all  times 
been  the  true  gauge  of  public  and  private  happiness 
among  men ;  and  that  this  experienced  truth,  which 
no  sceptic  can  weaken,  is  sufficient  to  blow  away  all 
the  sophistries  of  a  Hippias,  and  irreversibly  to  con- 
firm Archytas's  theory  of  living  wisely." 

Thus  terminates  the  third  volume.  The  fourth  in- 
troduces the  reader  to  a  species  of  epic  poetry,  of  which 
it  is  difficult  to  give  either  a  definition  or  an  example. 
The  Modem  Amadu  is  one  of  those  freaks  df  fancy, 
inspired  by  a  wanton  laughter-loving  muse,  which  is  at 
once  a  singular  and  not  unamusing  specimen  of  heroi- 
comic  narrative.  The  personages  are  knights  errant, 
princesses,  Saracens ;  and  the  machinery,  wizards,  fai- 
ries, monsters ;  such  as  occur  in  the  songs  of  Ariosto 
or  rather  of  Fortiguerra.'^  The  manners,  however,  are 
not  those  of  the  age  of  chivalry,  but  those  of  the  court 
of  Paris  in  its  most  luxurious  period,  while  it  was  the 
pink  of  etiquette,  the  cornucopia  of  compliment,  and 
the  bower  of  gallantry.  The  ludicrous  effect  of  this 
whimsical  combination  may  be  imagined,  when  it  is 
added  that  the  incidents  are  varied  with  felicity,  and 
are  such  as  Lafontaine  would  not  disdain  to  describe. 
They  are  told,  however,  more  in  the  manner  of  Prior's 
tales,  with  his  ease,  his  grace^  his  parenthesis,  his  pro- 
fusion of  learned  display,  witty  allusion,  and  Horatian 
morality.  The  poem  consists  of  eighteen  cantoes,  which 
are  broken  into  stanzas  often  lines  each,  and  the  verses 

7  An  Italian  poet,  author  oi*^  II  Ricciardctto,"  a  burlesque  epic. 


294  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

are  sometimes  iambic  and  sometimes  anapsestic :  a  prac- 
tice introduced  by  Wieland  into  the  poetry  of  his  conn- 
try,  and  now  become  highly  agreeable  to  the  German 
ear.  The  profuse  notes  which  accompany  this  poem 
furnish  a  poignant  literary  desert.  Cupid  Accused,  an 
entertaining  mythological  allegory,  in  five  books,  (writ- 
ten also  much  in  Prior's  manner,)  completes  the  fifth 
volume. 

Wieland  is  distinguished  for  ductility  of  imagination. 
His  fancy,  endowed  with  intuitive  ubiquity,  is  alike  at 
home  in  every  place  and  every  age,  and  knows  how  to 
invest  the  costume,  and  to  think  within  the  range  of 
idea  appropriate  to  its  peculiar  situation.  Like  the 
dervis-friend  of  Fadlallah,  he  seems  able  to  shoot  his 
soul  into  the  body  of  man  or  woman,  libertine  or  sage, 
of  ancient  or  modern,  of  Persian,  Greek,  or  Goth ;  and, 
by  a  voluntary  metempsychosis,  to  animate  each  with 
characteristic  expression.  Yet  still  it  is  his  soul  which 
pierces  through  every  disguise ;  it  is  with  him  the  ef- 
fect of  art  and  skill  to  substitute  himself  for  another ; 
an  observing  eye  discovers  that  the  alteration  is  as- 
sumed. It  is  by  means  of  his  varied  knowledge  of 
every  thing  relating  to  the  manners,  superstitions,  and 
history  of  different  nations,  that  he  contrives  to  per- 
sonate all  with  so  classical  a  propriety.  It  is  Larive 
in  Orestes,  Larive  in  Orosman,  always  accurate,  always 
admirable, — but  still  Larive.  His  characters  are  less 
the  creation  of  a  plastic  genius,  than  the  mouldings  of 
an  accomplished  artist :  he  does  not  animate  his  figures, 
like  Prometheus,  by  putting  fire  within,  but,  like  Pyg- 
malion, by  external  touches  of  the  chisel.  Nor  are 
his  personages  so  varied  as  at  first  sight  they  appear. 
He  imitates  general,  not  individual,  nature :  with  him 
every  character  is  a  species  ;  and  it  is  with  a  very  lim- 


OF  G&RMAN  POETRY.  295 

ited  Damber  of  these,  that  he  has  undertaken  the  va- 
riegated list  of  his  dramatizations.  Like  the  manager 
of  a  band  of  players,  his  Archytas  of  to-day  is  the 
Danishmendof  tolmorrow:  Hippias  appears  again  in 
the  Calender,  and  even  in  Jnpiter ;  and  Danae  recurs 
with  prostituted  frequency  in  Devedassi,  in  Dioklea, 
and  elsewhere. 

The  Golden  Mirror  occupies  the  sixth  and  seventh 
volumes  of  the  collection.  The  scene  of  this  novel  lies 
in  the  harem  of  a  Persian  sultan,  Shah-Gebal,  whose 
vizir  is  required  to  amuse  his  tedious  leisure  by  read- 
ing aloud  the  history  of  Sheshian.  This  suppositious 
chronicle  forms  a  kind  of  philosophy  of  history,  a  ge- 
neralized view  of  national  event,  an  abstract  or  selec- 
tion of  those  features  which  are  common  to  the  progress 
of  all  countries,  but  which  are  here  predicated  of  one. 
It  gives  an  account  of  the  manner  in  which  a  people 
is  likely  to  pass  from  savagism  to  civilization,  and  from 
refinement  back  to  corruption  and  barbarism;  from 
ignorance  to  superstition,  and  from  superstition  back 
to  unbelief.  Morals,  frugality,  religion,  law,  are  de- 
scribed as  the  cohesive — ^libertinism,  profusion,  infide- 
lity, licentiousness,  as  the  dissolving — principles  of  so- 
ciety ;  and  as  succeeding  each  other  with  an  habitual 
and  possibly  an  irresistible  alternation.  The  lecture  is 
frequently  interrupted  by  the  conversations  of  the  sul- 
tan, of  the  sultaness  Nurmahal,  and  of  the  other  hear- 
ers, and  by  many  amusive  court-incidents.  A  vein  of 
severe  satire,  insinuated  with  oblique  caution  and  dex- 
terous urbanity,  animates  the  narrative.  Shah-Gebal 
is  the  idea  of  a  prince  as  he  is  likely  to  he,  and  is  a 
masterly  though  not  wholly  original  personification  of 
the  despotic  character :  for  which,  and  indeed  for  the 
whole  form  of  the  novel,  the  younger  Crebillon  has 


296  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

been  consulted.  Tifan  is  the  prince  as  he  should  he. 
In  order  the  more  neatly  to  detach  from  the  fourth 
chapter  the  beautiful  episode  describing  the  Religion 
of  Psammis,  an  introductory  paragraph  or  two  have 
been  substituted  to  the  exact  words  of  the  original* 

THE  RELIGION  OF  PSAMMIS. 

An  Arabian  emir,  who  was  travelling  to  Damascus 
by  way  of  Palmyra,  found  himself  at  a  loss  for  the  pro- 
per road.  An  arid  desert  surrounded  him  on  every 
side.  Drifted  sands  had  obliterated  all  traces  of  the 
usual  course.  His  attendants  were  alike  embarrassed. 
No  village,  no  caravanserai  was  to  be  seen.  The  camels 
were  left  to  choose  their  own  path,  provided  it  had  a 
north-^westerly  bearing. 

At  evening  a  sort  of  encampment  was  made  beneath 
a  clump  of  palm-trees.  To  pass  one  night  in  this  com- 
fortless manner  had  in  some  degree  been  provided 
against.  But  before  the  next  noon  the  stock  of  water 
was  exhausted,  and  to  the  inconvenience  of  heat  and 
fatigue  was  superadded  that  of  thirst.  The  emir's  opi- 
um too  was  consumed,  and  he  felt  all  the  weariness 
of  fatigue  without  the  hope  of  refreshment. 

His  sufferings  had  attained  a  character  of  disease 
and  agony,  when  at  length  one  of  those  oases  was  dis- 
covered, which  promise  water,  fruits,  verdure,  and  po- 
pulation. It  was  evening  before  the  travellers  could 
attain  this  welcome  spot. 

No  sooner  were  their  wants  known,  that  a  venerable 
old  man  came  to  offer  his  dwelling  to  the  emir.  It 
was  gratefully  accepted.  The  tasteful  simplicity  of 
the  apartments  pleased.  Wine  was  offered  with  the 
repast,  which  in  some  degree  revived  the  drooping 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  297 

gnest,  and  he  was  carried  to  his  sleeping-room  with 
tenderness,  but  witboat  alarm,  by  the  beautiful  grand* 
children  of  his  host. 

On  his  awaking  he  opened  a  window  commanding 
a  prospect  of  the  gardens,  stretching  round  the  eastern 
side  of  the  house.  A  pure  air,  freshened  with  a  thou- 
sand vivifying  odors,  soon  dispelled  the  gloomy  mist 
which  hung  about  his  brow.  He  felt  himself  strength- 
ened. This  feeling  kindled  a  new  spark  of  hope  in 
his  bosom,  and  with  hope  returns  the  love  of  life. 
While  he  was  contemplating  these  gardens,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  habitual  bad  taste  for  the  splendid  and 
the  artificial,  could  not  avoid  thinking  them  beauti- 
ful with  all  their  useful  simplicity  and  apparent  wild- 
ness,  he  perceived  the  old  man,  who,  half  Ihiried  in 
shrubs,  was  employing  himself  in  little  garden-labors, 
of  which  the  emir  had  never  deigned  to  acquire  an 
idea.  The  desire  of  having  explained  whatever  he 
saw  that  was  strange  and  astonishing,  in  this  house, 
induced  him  to  walk  down  in  order  to  talk  with  his 
aged  host.  After  having  thanked  him  for  his  kind 
reception,  he  began  to  express  some  wonder  that  a  per- 
son of  his  years  should  be  so  upright,  so  active,  so 
cheerful,  and  so  capable  of  taking  a  share  in  the  plea- 
sures of  life.  "If  thy  silver  hair  and  thine  ice-gray 
beard  did  not  point  to  extreme  age,**  added  he,  "  I 
should  have  taken  thee  for  a  man  of  forty.  I  beg  thee 
to  explain  to  me  this  enigma ;  what  secret  dost  thou 
possess  which  can  work  such  miracles  ?** 

"  I  can  give  thee  my  secret  in  three  words,**  replied 
the  old  man  smiling:  "Toil,  pleasure,  and  repose,  all 
in  a  moderate  degree,  in  equal  portions,  and  intermin- 
gled at  the  suggestion  of  nature,  work  this  miracle,  as 
thou  callest  it,  in  the  simplest  manner  imaginable.    A 


298  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

weariness  not  unpleasant  is  the  hint  which  nature  gives 
us  to  interrupt  our  labor  by  amusement :  and  a  like 
suggestion  warns  us  to  rest  from  both.  Toil  keeps 
alive  our  taste  for  the  pleasures  of  nature^  and  our 
ability  to  enjoy  them ;  and  only  he,  who  for  her  pure 
and  blameless  delights  has  lost  all  relish,  is  condemn* 
ed  to  seek  in  artificial  gratifications  a  satisfaction  which 
they  cannot  bestow.  Learn  of  me,  stranger,  how  hap- 
py we  are  made  by  obedience  to  Nature.  She  rewards 
us  for  it  w^th  the  enjoyment  of  her  best  gifts.  My 
whole  life  has  been  a  long  and  almost  unbroken  series 
of  agreeable  moments ;  for  a  labor  within  reach  of  our 
strength,  and  accompanied  by  no  embittering  circum- 
stance, is  attended  with  a  sort  of  gentle  delight,  of 
which  the  beneficial  influence  overspreads  our  whole 
frame:  but,  in  order  to  be  happy,  through  Nature*s 
means,  the  greatest  of  her  benefits  and  the  instrument 
of  all  the  rest,  the  sensibility,  must  be  preserved  incor- 
rupt. In  order  rightly  to  feel,  it  is  needful  rightly  to 
think." 

The  old  man  saw  by  the  looks  of  his  guest  that  he 
was  scarsely  understood.  ^^  Thou  wilt  comprehend  me 
better,*'  continued  he,  "  if  I  tell  thee  the  history  of  our 
little  colony :  for  in  every  other  dwelling,  to  which 
chance  might  have  led  thee  among  these  valleys,  thou 
wouldst  have  found  all  things  nearly  as  with  me.'*  The 
emir  expressed  his  willingness  to  listen :  but^  as  he 
seemed  to  have  a  kind  of  wearied  appearance,  the  hu- 
mane old  man  proposed  to  him  to  sit  down  on  a  sofa, 
which  stood  in  a  summer-house  or  garden-hall,  sur- 
rounded by  lemon-trees ;  although  he  would  himself 
have  preferred  a  walk  beneath  the  palms. 

The  emir  willingly  accepted  this  offer ;  and,  while 
a  lovely  young  slave  was  serving  them  with  the  best 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  299 

Moka  coffee,  the  cheerftil  ancient  thus  began  his  nar* 
ration : 

'^  Tradition  informs  us  that  our  forefathers  were  of 
Greek  extraction,  and  by  an  accident,  the  particulars 
of  which  are  uninteresting,  were  driven  some  centuries 
ago  to  take  shelter ,  among  these  mountains.    They 
colonized  these  agreeable  valleys,  which  Nature  seems 
to  have  fashioned  for  the  very  purpose  of  concealing 
a  small  number  of  happy  beings  from  the  envy,  and 
the  contagions  manners,  of  the  rest  of  mortals.    Here 
they  dwelled  contentedly,  circumscribed  within   the 
narrow  circle  of  natural  wants,  and  in  appearance  so 
scantily  provided,  that  the  contiguous  Beduins  scarsely 
appeared  to  notice  their  existence.    Time  by  degrees 
extinguished  the  traces  of  their  origin :  their  language 
melted  into  the  Arabic;  their  religion  degenerated  into 
a  number  of  superstitious  observances,  of  which  they 
could  give  no  rational  account;  and  of  the  arts  (to  have 
excelled  in  which  has  given  to  the  Greek  nations  an 
imprescriptible  rank  above  all  others)  they  retained  on- 
ly the  love  of  music,  and  a  certain  innate  inclination  for 
the  beautiful,  and  for  social  gratifications,  which  fur- 
nished the  wise  lawgiver  of  their  posterity  with  the 
ground-work,  on  which  he  has  known  how  to  erect 
a  little  state  of  happy  men.    Anxious  to  eternize  among 
themselves  beauty  of  form,  they  made  it  a  rule  to  admit 
into  their  colony  only  the  loveliest  of  the  daughters  of 
Yemen  ;  and  this  custom,  which  our  lawgiver  thought 
worthy  of  being  consecrated  into  an  inviolable  duty,  is 
no  doubt  the  cause^  why,  in  all  our  valleys,  thou  wilt 
not  have  seen  any  one  of  this  or  of  the  other  sex,  who 
would  not  pass,  out  of  our  district,  for  a  remarkably 
handsome  person. 
^^  In  my  grandfather's  time,  the  excellent  man,  to 


300  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

whom  we  are  indebted  for  pur  present  constitution, 
the  second  and  true  founder  of  our  nation^  came  by  a 
chain  of  accidents  into  this  region.  We  know  nothing 
of  his  origin,  nor  of  the  events  of  his  life  prior  to  the 
time  of  his  coming  among  us.  He  then  appeared  to 
be  fifty  years  old^  was  tall,  of  a  majestic  figure,  and 
of  so  attractive  a  behaviour,  that  in  a  short  time  he 
won  every  heart.  He  had  brought  with  him  as  much 
gold  as  proved  that  he  had  no  other  motive  for  living 
with  us  than  because  he  felt  happy  in  our  society.  The 
mildness  and  pleasantry  of  his  manners,  the  unafiected 
wisdom  of  his  discourses,  the  knowledge  which  be  had 
of  a  thousand  useful  and  agreeable  things,  united  with 
an  eloquence  which  stole  irresistibly  into  the  soul,  gave 
him  by  degrees  a  more  unlimited  authority  among  us 
than  a  monarch  is  wont  to  have  over  those  who  are 
born  his  subjects.  He  found  our  little  nation  capable 
of  being  happy ;  ^  and  men,  (said  he  to  himself,)  who 
for  centuries  have  been  contented  without  superfluities, 
deserve  to  be  so.  I  will  make  them  happy.*  He  con- 
cealed his  project  for  a  long  time ;  because  he  justly 
thought  that  he  must  make  the  first  impression  by  his 
example.  He  settled  therefore  among  us,  lived  at  home 
as  thou  hast  seen  us  live,  and  brought  us  acquainted 
with  a  number  of  conveniences  and  amusements  which 
could  not  but  excite  desire.  Scarsely  had  he  gained 
this  step,  when  he  set  about  his  great  plan.  A  friend, 
who  had  accompanied  him,  and  who. was  skilled  in  a 
high  degree  in  all  the  fine  arts,  assisted  in  accelerating 
the  execution.  Many  of  our  young  men,  after  having 
obtained  from  the  two  friends  the  necessary  prepara- 
tion, laboured  under  their  direction  with  astonishing 
enthusiasm.  Wild  tracts  were  cultivated.  Artificial 
meadows  and  gardens,  blooming  with  fruitful  trees, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  301 

supplanted  arid  deserts  of  thistle  and  heath.  Rocks 
were  shaded  with  newly-planted  vines.  In  the  middle 
of  a  small  elevation^  which  overlooks  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  our  valleys^  ascended  a  round  temple  open  on 
all  sides,  which  was  encircled  at  some  distance  by  a 
grove  of  myrtle,  covering  the  whole  hill.  Within  the 
columns  of  the  temple  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  an 
estrade,  a  few  steps  higher  than  the  floor ;  and  on  this 
were  placed  three  statues  of  white  marble,  which  could 
not  be  contemplated  without  emotions  of  love  and  de- 
light. This  last  work  was  a  riddle  to  our  whole  peo- 
ple, and  Psammis  (such  was  the  name  of  the  extraor- 
dinary stranger)  delayed  giving  them  an  explanation  of 
it,  until  he  perceived  that  the  affectionate  but  reveren- 
tial awe  which  they  had  conceived  for  him  was  no 
longer  able  to  repress  their  inquisitive  curiosity. 

^*  At  length,  on  the  morning  of  a  6ne  day,  which  has 
since  been  the  holiest  of  our  festivals,  he  conducted  a 
number  of  our  people,  whom  he  had  selected  as  the 
most  adapted  for  his  purpose,  to  the  summit  of  the  hill ; 
and^  having  seated  himself  among  them,  beside  the 
myrtles,  he  gave  them  to  understand  that  he  had  come 
to  them  with  no  other  view  than  to  make  them  and 
their  posterity  happy ;  that  he  expected  no  other  re- 
ward than  the  pleasure  of  attaining  his  end ;  and  that 
he  required  no  other  condition  from  them  than  a  vow 
to  preserve  inviolate  the  laws  which  he  was  about  to 
give  them.     It  would  take  too  long  a  time  to  relate 
what  he  said  to  convince  his  hearers^  and  what  he  did 
to  accomplish  his  enterprize,  and  to  give  it  all  the 
stability  which  a  project  founded  on  nature  may  derive 
from  wise  institution.  A  sample  of  his  morality,  which 
forms  the  first  part  of  his  legislation,  will  be  sufficient 
to  give  thee  some  idea  of  his  scope. 


302  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

"  Each  of  us  receives,  at  entering  on  his  fourteen 
year,  when  he  takes  a  vow  in  the  temple  of  the  Ki 
ritaiy  to  live  agreeably  to  nature,  some  tablets  of  ebon 
on  which  this  morality  is  written  in  golden  letters^ 
We  always  carry  them  about  us^  and  consider  them 
holy  things,  as  a  talisman  with  which  our  happiness  i 
associated.  Whoever  should  undertake  to  introduce' 
other  principles  would  be  considered  as  the  corrupter' 
of  our  morals,  as  the  enemy  of  our  welfare,  and  wouI(H 
be  banished  from  our  precincts.  Hear,  if  thou  art  in-^ 
clined,  a  fragment  which  I  will  read  from  these  tablets.  ^ 

"  ^  The  Being  of  Beings^  (thus  Psammis  begins  the ' 
introduction  to  his  laws,)  who  is  invisible  to  our  eyes,  ^ 
incomprehensible  to  our  understandings,  and  who  has  ^ 
made  us  acquainted  with  his  existence  only  by  his  be-  ' 
nefits,  hath  no  need  of  us ;  and  requireth  no  other 
acknowledgement  from  us,  than  that  we  suffer  our- 
selves to  be  made  happy. 

"  ^  Nature,  however,  whom  he  hath  appointed  to  be 
the  universal  foster-mother,  inspires  with  our  first 
sensations  those  instincts,  on  the  temper  and  concord 
of  which  our  happiness  depends.  Her  voice  now  ad- 
dresses you  through  the  lips  of  Psammis ;  his  laws  are 
no  other  than  her  laws. 

'^  ^  She  wills  that  you  rejoice  in  your  existence. 
Joy  is  the  ultimate  wish  of  every  feeling  b^ing;  it  is 
to  man  what  sunshine  is  to  the  plant.  By  a  smile 
is  announced  the  first  evolution  of  humanity  in  the 
suckling,  by  its  absence  the  approach  of  the  dissolution 
of  our  being.  Reciprocal  love  and  benevolence  are 
the  purest  springs  of  joy ;  innocence  of  heart  and  man- 
ners are  the  purest  channels  through  which  they  flow. 

"  *  These  beneficent  emanations  of  the  divinity  are 
what  you  have  seen  represented  by  the  images^  to 


OF  GERMAN  POETRT.  303 

ich  your  common  temple  has  been  consecrated, 
sider  them  as  emblems  of  love,  of  innocence,  and 
joy.  As  often  as  the  spring  returns,  as  often  as  the 
est  has  been  ended,  and  on  every  other  holiday, 
emble  in  the  myrtle-grove — strow  the  temple  with 
es — and  crown  these  graceful  statues  with  wreaths 
fresh  flowers: — ^renew  before  them  the  inviolable 
to  live  faithful  to  nature — embrace  each  other 
id  these  vows — ^and  let  the  young  conclude  the  fes- 
al  under  the  delighted  eyes  of  the  old  with  dances 
d  with  songs.  Let  the  shepherdess^  when  her  heart 
ins  to  awake  from  the  long  dream  of  childhood, 
eal  alone  into  the  myrtle-grove,  and  offer  to  love  the 
t  sighs  which  heave  her  swelling  bosom.  Let  the 
other  with  the  smiling  babe  in  her  arms  often  wan- 
er  hither,  and  lull  him  by  her  songs  into  sweet  slum- 
r  at  the  feet  of  the  benevolent  goddesses. 
^  Hear  me,  ye  children,  of  nature  :  by  this  and  by 
bo  other  name  shall  your  people  henceforth  be  called. 
'^  ^  Nature  has  framed  all  your  senses,  has  framed 
levery  fibre  of  the  wondrous  web  of  your  being,  has 
Iframed  your  brain  and  your  heart  for  instruments  of 
pleasure.  Could  she  more  audibly  declare  for  what 
purpose  she  created  you  ? 

^^ '  Had  it  been  possible  to  fashion  you  capable  only 
of  pleasure,  and  incapable  of  pain,  it  would  have  been 
done.  As  far  as  was  possible,  she  has  shut  ev^ry  avenue 
to  pain.  As  long  as  ye  follow  her  dictates,  it  will  sel- 
dom interrupt  your  enjoyments :  when  it  intervenes, 
it  will  sharpen  your  sensibility  to  every  fresh  pleasure, 
and  thus  become  a  benefit.  It  will  be  to  life  as  the 
shadows  fleeting  over  a  sunshiny  landscape,  as  the 
dissonances  in  a  symphony,  as  the  salt  in  your  food. 
^^  ^  All  good  resolves  itself  into  pleasure ;  all  evil  into 


304  ^  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

pain  :  but  the  highest  pain  is  the  consciousness  of  hav« 
ing  made  one's  self  unhappy,  (here  the  emir  fetchd 
a  deep  sigh,)  and  the  highest  pleasure  is  a  calm  retro- 
spect over  a  well-spent,  remorseliess  life. 

"  ^  Never,  children  of  nature,  never  be  born  among 
you  the  monster,  who  finds  a  joy  in  seeing  others  suf- 
fer, or  who  is  unable  to  rejoice  in  their  felicity!  Sa 
unnatural  an  abortion  cannot  originate,  where  inno- 
cence and  love  unite  to  shed  the  spirit  of  delight  on  all 
that  breathes.  Rejoice,  my  children,  in  your  existence, 
in  your  humanity.  Enjoy  as  much  as  possible  every 
moment  of  your  lives  ;  but  nfever  forget  that,  withoat 
moderation,  even  the  ipost  natural  desires  become  a 
source  of  pain ;  that,  by  excess,  the  purest  pleasures 
become  poisons,  which  wear  out  the  capability  of  fu- 
ture gratification.  Temperance  and  voluntary  absti- 
nence are  the  surest  preservatives  against  inanition  and 
exhaustion.  Moderation  is  wisdom,  and  to  the  wise 
alone  it  is  granted  to  empty  unto  the  last  drop  the  full 
cup  of  unmingled  bliss,  which  nature  offers  to  every 
mortal.  The  sage  often  declines  a  present  pleasure; 
not  because  he  is  a  foe  to  joy,  not  because  he  weakly 
trembles  at  some  imaginary  daemon  who  is  angry  when 
man  is  glad,  but  in  order  by  his  continence  to  lay  by 
for  the  future  a  larger  ho^rd  of  more  perfect  enjoy- 
ment. 

"  ^  Hear,  O  ye  children  of  nature,  hear  her  unalter-  * 
able  law.  Without  labor  there  is  no  health  either  of 
soul  or  body ;  without  health,  no  happiness.  Nature 
has  therefore  refused  to  you  the  means  of  preserving 
and  sweetening  existence,  unless  you  win  them  from 
her  bosom  by  moderate  toil.  Nothing  but  labor  pro- 
portioned to  your  strength  will  obtain  for  you  the 
essential  condition  of  all  enjoyment,  health. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  305 


cc 


^  A  sick  or  a  sickly  man  is  in  every  respect  an  un- 
fortunate creature.  All  the  energies  of  his  being  suf- 
fer from  it ;  their  natural  proportion  and  counterpoise 
are  disturbed^  their  vigor  is  enfeebled,  their  bent  is 
altered.  His  senses  convey  to  him  false  impressions 
of  objects ;  the  light  of  his  understanding  is  obscured ; 
and  his  judgement  of  the  value  of  things  bears  to  that 
of  a  sound  man  the  same  relation,  as  the  sallow  glim- 
mer of  a  dying  sepulchral  lamp  to  the  radiance  of  the 
sun. 

"  *  From  the  instant  at  which — and  O  that  from  that 
time  the  day  were  to  you  extinct! — from  the  instant 
at  which  intemperance  or  artificial  gratifications  shall 
have  sown  in  your  veins  the  seeds  of  lurking  and  pain- 
fdl  diseases,  will  the  laws  of  Psammis  have  lost  their 
power  to  render  you  happy.  Then,  wretches,  cast 
them  into  the  flames :  then  will  the  goddesses  of  plea- 
sure be  changed  for  you  into  furies :  then  return  hastily 
into  a  world,  in  which  uncorrected  ye  may  wish  your 
existence  at  an  end,  and  in  which  ye  will  at  least  enjoy 
the  sad  comfort  of  beholding  on  all  sides  partners  of 
your  misery ! 

"  ^  Never  pursue,  my  children,  a  higher  degree  of 
knowledge  than  I  have  vouchsafed  you.  Ye  know 
enough  when  ye  have  learned  to  be  happy. 

"  ^  Accustom  your  eyes  to  the  beautiful  in  nature ; 
and  from  her  variously  fair  forms,  her  rich  combina- 
tions, her  charming  colouring,  store  your  fancy  with 
ideas  of  beauty.  Take  pains,  on  all  the  works  of 
your  hands  and  of  your  intellect,  to  impress  the  seal 
of  nature,  simplicity,  and  ornament  unstrained.  Let 
every  thing  that  surrounds  you  in  your  dwellings,  re- 
call to  you  her  beauties,  remind  you  that  you  are  her 
children. 

VOL.  II.  X 


306  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

^^  ^  All  the  other  works  of  nature  appear  but  as  the 
sports  and  exercises  by  which  she  was  preparing  her- 
self for  the  formation  of  her  master-piece^  man.  In 
him  alone  she  seems  to  have  united  every  excellence 
possible  on  this  side  of  heaven.  On  him  alone  she 
seems  to  have  laboured  with  the  love  and  glow  of  an 
enkindled  artist.  Yet  has  she  calmly  left  it  in  onr 
power  to  finish  or  to  mar  the  sketch.  Why  did  she 
so  ?  I  know  not.  From  what  she  has  done,  however, 
we  must  infer  what  we  are  to  do.  Every  harmonious 
movement  of  our  bodies,  every  soft  sensation  of  joy, 
of  love,  of  tender  sympathy,  embellishes.  Every  irre- 
gular or  over- violent  movement,  every  impetuous  pas- 
sion, every  envious  and  malevolent  emotion,  distorts 
our  features,  envenoms  our  looks,  and  degrades  the 
lovely  form  of  man  to  a  visible  resemblance  with  that 
of  some  disagreeable  brute.  As  long  as  goodness  of 
heart  and  cheerfulness  of  soul  shall  inspire  your  ac- 
tions, ye  will  remain  the  fairest  of  mankind. 

"  ^  Next  to  the  eye,  the  ear  is  the  most  perfect  of 
senses.  Accustom  it  to  artless  expressive  melodies, 
which  breathe  the  finer  feelings,  which  thrill  the  heart 
with  sweet  vibrations,  or  lull  the  slumbering  soul  into 
soft  dreams.  Joy,  love,  innocence,  attune  man  to  har- 
mony with  himself,  with  all  good  men,  and  with  all 
nature.  As  long  as  they  dwell  within,  the  habitual 
tone  of  your  voice,  all  your  language,  will  be  music. 

"  ^  Psammis  has  unfolded  to  you  new  sources  of  agree- 
able sensations :  through  his  means,  the  .repose  is  vo- 
luptuous which  you  enjoy  when  wearied  with  your 
daily  labor :  through  his  means,  agreeable  fruits,  trans- 
plantlld  into  this  foreign  soil,  delight  your  palate: 
through  his  means,  wine  inspires  you  to  higher  hila- 
rity, to  open-hearted  converse,  and  to  sportive  wit. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  307 

without  which  its  hest  relish  is  wanting  to  the  social 
feast.  In  love,  which  ye  knew  but  in  the  low  shape 
of  'a  natural  want,  he  taught  you  to  find  the  soul  of 
life,  the  source  of  the  fairest  enthusiasm,  and  of  the 
purest  voluptuousness  of  the  heart. 

*^  *  O  my  children,  what  pleasure,  what  agreeable  sen- 
sation, could  I  wish  to  withhold  from  you  ?  Not  any 
one,  certainly  not  any  ond — ^that  nature  intended  for 
you :  in  this,  unlike  those  who  would  annihilate  the 
many  in  order — vain  and  ridiculous  attempt! — ^to  evolve 
a  god  from  his  ruins.  I  recommend  to  yon  modera** 
tion  ;  but  for  no  other  reason  than  because  it  is  indis- 
pensable toward  defending  you  from  pain,  and  pre- 
serving you  capable  of  enjoyment.  Not,  out  of  indul- 
gence toward  the  frailness  of  nature,  I  aflbei?—no, 
out  of  obedience  to  her  laws,  I  command  you  to  gran 
tify  your  senses.  I  abolish  the  deceptions  distinction 
between  the  useful  and  agreeable.  Know  that  nothing 
deserves  the  name  of  a  pleasure  which  is  to  be  pur- 
chased with  the  suffering  of  another,  or  with  posterior 
repentance  ;  and  that  the  useful  is  only  useful  because 
it  preserves  from  disappointment,  or  is  a  fountain  of 
satisfaction.  1  abolish  the  absurd  opposition  between 
different  kinds  of  pleasure,  and  establish  an  eternal 
compatibility  betiveen  them,  by  revealing  to  you  the  na- 
tural share  which  the  heart  takes  in  every  sensual,  and 
the  senses  in  every  internal  pleasure.  I  have  multipli- 
ed, refined,  ennobled,  your  joys — ^what  can  I  do  more? 
^  One  thing,  and  the  most  important  of  all ! 
*  Learn,  my  children,  the  easy  art  of  extending  your 
happiness  into  infinity,  the  sole  secret  for  approaching 
as  nearly  as  may  be  to  the  felicity  of  the  gods,  dnd,  if 
so  bold  a  thought  may  be  allowed,  for  imitating  the 
bliss  of  the  author  of  nature. 

X2 


€6 


308  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

" '  Extend  yonr  benevolence  over  all  nature — love 
whatever  partakes  with  you  of  her  most  universal  gift, 
existence. 

" '  Love  every  one  in  whom  ye  behold  the  honoured 
traces  of  humanity,  even  where  they  seem  in  ruin. 

"  ^  Rejoice  with  all  who  rejoice :  wipe  the  tears  of 
remorse  from  the  cheeks  of  punished  folly ;  and  kiss 
from  the  eyes  of  innocence  the  tears  of  sympathy. 

"*  Multiply  your  existence  by  accustoming  yourselves 
to  love,  in  every  man,  the  image  of  your  common  na- 
ture ;  and,  in  every  good  man,  another  self. 

"  *  Taste,  as  often  as  ye  can,  the  godlike  pleasure  of 
rendering  others  happier; — and  thou  unfortunate, 
whose  bosom  heaves  not  with  fellow-feeling  at  the 
mere  thought  of  this,  fly,  fly  for  ever  from  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  children  of  nature !' 

"  The  rest  of  our  legislation,*'  continued  the  old 
man,  ^^  is  equally  mild  and  simple.  Our  little  com- 
munity, which  consists  of  about  five  hundred  families, 
subsists  in  perfect  equality.  We  need  no  other  dis- 
tinctions thau  those  which  nature  makes  between  man' 
and  man.  A  love  of  our  constitution,  and  a  reverence 
for  the  aged,  whom  we  consider  as  its  natural  guard- 
ians, suffice  to  preserve  among  us  order  and  tranquility. 
We  consider  ourselves  as  a  single  family,  whose  little 
differences  need  only  a  friendly  arbitration. 

"  Our  lawgiver,  conceiving  that,  in  order  to  preserve 
such  institutions,  it  would  be  necessary  we  should  al- 
ways remain  an  incoiysiderable  tribe,  has  ordered  a 
periodical  examination  of  our  young  people.  Those 
of  unusual  abilities,  those  who  are  infected  with  the 
love  of  fame,  even  those  who  have  a  mere  curiosity  to 
see  the  world,  are  advised  to  seek  employment  and 
fortune  in  some  city  of  Egypt,  Syria,  or  Persia.    We 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  309 

thus,  every  five  years,  part  with  our  superfluous  popu- 
lation ;  and  when  it  happens,  as  is  often  the  case,  that 
in  old  age  some  of  our  emigrants  wish  to  return,  a  jury 
sits  in  judgement  on  their  conduct  and  disposition,  be- 
fore we  permit  them  to  settle  among  us/' 

The  emir  was  projecting  to  ask  many  questions^  and 
to  visit  in  company  with  the  old  man  the  whole  of  this 
lovely  and  delightful  district;  when  his  attendants, 
whOj  according  to  previous  instructions^  had  got  every 
thing  in  readiness  for  departure,  came  to  summons  him 
for  the  journey.  He  was  too  much  accustomed  to  be 
moved  about  by  others,  to  persist  in  a  tour  of  mere 
curiosity;  and  having  presented  a  roll  of  muslin  to  his 
hostess,  he  proceeded  on  his  way  toward  Palmyra. 


The  history  of  Danishmend  is  exactly  comprehend- 
ed in  the  eighth  volume.  It  narrates  the  conduct  of  this 
excellent  vizir  during  his  disgrace  with  Shah-Gebal ; 
and  it  represents  him  as  choosing  his  residence  under 
a  fictitious  name  among  the  simple  mountaineers  of  a 
remotely  eastern  province,  and  as  endearing  himself 
to  their  gratitude  by  his  wisdom  and  his  example. 
During  his  sojournment,  some  Hindoo  priests,  or  ca- 
lenders, and  Devedassi^  a  dancing  girl,  introduce  them- 
selves among  the  innocent  tribe.  The  vices  and  cor- 
ruptions of  a  factitious  civilization  now  break  in.  The 
-worth  of  Danishmend  becomes  odious ;  and  he  is  ex- 
pelled by  the  corrupted  people.  At  length  they  dis- 
cover their  error ;  and,  after  having  tasted  of  the  tree 
of  the  knowledge  of  evil,  they  agree  to  revert  to  their 
pristine  rectitude.  They  send  an  embassy  to  Danish- 
mend; who,  in  the  meantime,  has  been  reconciled  with 
Shah-Gebal,  and  he  returns  to  them  as  governor  of  the 


310  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

province.  The  flower*gardens  of  loxoriant  description, 
which  adorn  this  novel,  hardly  conceal  the  tameness  of 
the  incidents.  Jets  d*eaux  of  liberalism  dot  occasion- 
ally the  parterre ;  bat  these  spurts  of  philosophy  neither 
rise  high  nor  volaminonsly,  and  seem  to  imitate  the 
timid  irresolntion  of  the  Austrian  cabinet,  which  they 
were  erected  to  gratify. 

Musarion  is  a  didactic  poem  of  three  books,  in  an 
epic  form.  Fanias,  an  Athenian  spendthrift,  is  come 
to  reside  on  a  small  farm  by  the  sea-shore,  the  only 
remnant  of  bis  patrimony.  He  begins  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  despises  the  splendid  pleasures  which 
he  is  no  longer  able  to  purchase,  and  that  he  sincerely 
is  the  Stoic  which  he  professes  to  be.  His  guests  are 
Theophron  a  Platonist,  and  Cleanthes  a  Cynic ;  two 
disputatious  philosophers,  who  at  length  fairly  attempt 
to  decide,  by  weight  of  fist,  the  preference  between  their 
systems.  Musarion,  an  accomplished  courtezan  whom 
Fanias  had  pursued  in  vain  during  his  prosperity,  ar- 
rives. The  Stoic  flies  from  her  converse,  and  refuses 
to  shelter  her  under  his  roof;  she  banters  him  about 
his  system ;  and  she  quarters  herself  in  the  house.  It 
is  supper-time.  A  female  slave  of  Musarion  has  brought 
an  elegant  dessert  of  conserves  and  delicate  wines.  Mu- 
sarion defends  the  Epicurean  system,  in  opposition  to 
the  three  philosophers,  with  exquisite  courtesy.  By 
and  by,  the  Cynic  is  carried  drunk  into  the  stable:  the 
Platonist  is  overcome  by  a  very  sensual  passion  for  the 
female  slave ;  and  the  Stoic  falls  in  love  anew,  and 
consents  that  the  generous  Musarion  should  embellish 
his  farm  with  her  residence  and  her  fortune. 

Of  all  the  poems  of  Wieland  this  is  the  most  exqui- 
sitely finished ; — ^there  is  not  a  line  of  which  the  con- 
struction, the  melody,  the  imagery,  has  not  undergone 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  311 

the  severest  investigation,  and  been  retouched  with  an 
ever-sharpened  chisel.  It  retains  withal  an  inexpressi- 
ble ease  and  grace.  The  playful  and  delicate  wit  with 
which  the  whole  narrative  is  conducted^  the  accurate 
view  which  it  exhibits  of  the  spirit  of  Athenian  philo- 
sophy, and  the  dexterity  with  which  the  unrestrained 
incidents  are  made  to  come  in  aid  of  the  theoretical 
propositions,  give  to  the  whole  an  interest  and  an  ex- 
cellence not  attained,  perhaps,  in  any  other  didactic 
poem  of  equal  compass. 

Other  poems,  on  subjects  of  Grecian  philosophy, 
and  a  legend  entitled  Sixtus  and  Clara,  complete  the 
ninth  volume.  The  tenth  opens  with  The  Graces,  a 
narrative  originally  intended  to  be  in  rime,  but  with 
which  the  author  was  imperfectly  satisfied : — ^he  has 
therefore  retained  in  verse  the  fragments  which  pleased 
him,  and  has  connected  them  with  intervals  of  prose. 
It  also  contains  four  comic  tales,  Diana  and  Endymion, 
the  Judgement  of  Paris,  Aurora  and  Cephalus,  and 
Combabus,  a  tale,  of  which  the  fable  indeed  is  not 
strictly  delicate,  but  of  which  the  narration  is  conduct- 
ed with  admirable  skill.  It  is  terminated  by  Shah  Loh, 
an  eastern  tale. 

This  edition,  with  respect  to  orthography,  differs 
considerably  from  all  preceding  impressions.  In  the 
German,  some  analogies  have  been  extended,  and  some 
silent  consonants  suppressed;  by  which  means  the  lan- 
guage appears^  to  a  foreigner,  at  first  sight,  more  in- 
telligible and  less  rugged  than  before :  still  the  practice 
has  been  continued  of  expressing,  by  sch,  the  articula- 
tion which  other  European  nations  express  by  sh.  The 
Roman  character  has  been  employed.  In  words  de- 
rived from  the  Greek,  the  cappa  is  expressed  by  /f,  the 
phi  hyfy  but  not  the  chi  by  q\  as  if  we  wrote  Faidra, 


312  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Filoktetes,  Filosofy^  Fantasy :  a  practice  resembling 
that  of  the  Italians.  The  style  itself  has  througfaoat 
been  delicately  retouched.  It  has  gained  in  precision, 
abounds  more  with  compounds,  and  less  with  exotics ; 
yet  realisieren  for  verwirklicheny  and  some  others,  no 
doubt  for  good  reasons,  remain.  It  probably  possesses 
the  highest  degree  of  elegance  and  polish  to  which  the 
German  language  has  attained.  A  spirit  of  innovation 
in  dialect  is  however  still  afloat  in  that  country :  new 
words,  provided  they  obey  the  established  analogies, 
are  continually  received,  and  anomalies  are  gradually 
subjected  to  the  more  prevalent  rules  of  the  language: 
so  that  the  beauty  of  still  greater  precision,  regularity, 
and  melody,  may  perhaps  yet  be  obtainable. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  313 


§  10. 

^viewal  of  Wieland's  Collective  Works  continued^  vol,  xi — 
XVII — Don  Silvio  of  Rosalva — Diogenes  of  Sinope — Kox^ 
kox  and  Kikeqtietzel — Dissertations— Travels  of  Abulfau- 
arts — Cyrus — Idris  and  Zenide. 

rHE  second  decad  of  volumes  would  famish  too  much 
natter  for  a  single  section  :  let  us  be  content  with  the 
lext  seven.  The  eleventh  and  twelvth  offer  to  perusal 
Don  Silvio  ofRosalva^  a  novel  already  known  in  Great 
Britain  by  an  accurate  translation.  No  important  vari- 
itions  have  been  made  in  this  history  of  a  Quixote  of 
Fairyism ;  who,  accustomed  in  his  early  years  to  the 
exclusive  study  of  Mother  Goose's  Tales,  of  the  Thou- 
sand and  One  Nights,  of  the  Persian  Fables,  &c.  is  pre- 
pared to  discover  in  the  real  world  personages  similar 
to  those  with  whose  existence  and  celebrity  he  is  ex- 
clusively acquainted.  If  he  pursues  a  butterfly,  some 
disguised  Perie  lurks,  in  his  imagination,  beneath  its 
motley-powdered  wings.  If  he  finds  a  portrait,  some 
patron  Genie  dropt  it  in  his  path  to  stimulate  his  search 
after  a  spell-bound  princess  predestined  to  his  arms.  If 
he  is  hospitably  received  by  an  old  maid,  the  cats  in  her 
parlour  are  human  attendants  of  his  beloved  unknown, 
metamorphosed  by  the  spells  of  some  bewitching  rival. 
Many  diverting  misapprehensions  occur :  but,  by  de- 
grees the  illusions  of  youth  give  way  to  the  realities  of 
experience  :  and  the  disenchanted  enthusiast  is  tempt- 


314  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

ed  to  discover  in  Donna  Felicia  a  mere  mortal  capa^ 
ble  of  rendering  him  happy,  without  the  aid  of  anj< 
supernatural  circumstance.  This  novel  is  in  fact  il 
lecture  against  superstition,  in  which  the  miracles  od 
fairyism  supply  the  place  of  those  that  are  incnlcatei 
in  the  legendary  writings  of  the  several  deceivers  d 
mankind.  M.  Wieland,  in  this  narrative,  displays  aii 
astonishingly  comprehensive  familiarity  with  all  thi| 
more  fanciful  tales  of  the  fairies :  but  he  observes  ioi 
it,  notwithstanding  the  change  of  personage  and  place,^ 
his  usual  march  of  mind.  It  is  still  the  Orphic  theo-^^ 
sophy  of  Agathon,  dispelled  by  the  epicurism  of  Hip*^ 
pias; — it  is  still  the  Platonic  Venus  Urania  of  Peregri*^ 
nus  Proteus,  resolving  herself  into  a  human  beanty:— ! 
but  it  is  ever  a  series  of  pleasing  scenes,  of  rounded^ 
periods,  of  urbane  satire,  and  of  characters,  not  strong- 
ly marked  perhaps,  nor  heroic,  nor  new,  but  strictly 
conformable  to  the  nicest  claims  of  etliic  probability. 
The  humor  of  this  story  is  less  recondite,  and  the 
comic  features  have  more  relievo,  than  in  most  other 
productions  of  the  author. 

The  Remains  of  Diogenes  qfSinope,  which  are  com- 
prized in  the  thirteenth  volume,  have  formerly  been 
translated  into  English  under  some  other  title,  and 
were  received  with  utter  indifference  by  the  public. 
It  is  one  of  those  writings  of  Wieland  which  it  requires 
classical  learning  to  appretiate^  and  a  prejudice  in  favor 
of  his  manner  thoroughly  to  relish.  It  has  been  sta- 
dionsly  altered,  but  not  powerfully  enlivened,  in  this 
new  edition.  The  most  interesting  portion  is  the  ideal 
republic. 

The  fourteenth  volume  opens  with  a  Mexican  storj 
entitled  Koxkox  and  Kikequetzel,  worth  all  the  Arca- 
dian romances  and  supposititious  descriptions  of  the 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  315 

Lmners  of  the  early  golden  age^  with  which  some  ob- 
iete  poets  have  inundated  the  fields  of  fiction.  The 
ills  of  Mexico  are  jast  emerging  firom  a  prodigious 
,  occasioned  by  a  comet's  transit. '  Koxkox,  a.  boy, 
poses  himself  to  be  the  only  person  who  escaped 
m  the  all-engorging  waters.  After  some  years  of 
itary  wandering,  he  meets  Kikequetzel,  a  young 
pri,  preserved  singly  by  a  no  less  extraordinary  ac- 
ident.  They  mntually  make  love  according  to  the 
tes  of  nature :  they  invent  a  language  by  help  of 
eir  few  recollections ;  and  they  are  happy  with  the 
kHght  toil  of  providing  for  themselves  and  their  ofi*^ 
^ring,  for  whose  improvement  they  endeavour  to  re- 
Hve  a  few  of  the  simpler  antediluvian  arts.  Unfortu- 
iKtely,  in  one  of  her  excursions,  Kikequetzel  is  sur- 
^zed  by  a  strong  middle-aged  man,  Tlaquatzin,  who 
Ittd  also  weathered  the  deluge  on  some  distant  moun- 
kuD ;  and  who  eagerly  detains  and  forcibly  enjoys  her. 
Uoconscious  of  crime,  she  brings  him  to  her  home. 
Koxkox  experiences  a  diminution  of  happiness  by  the 
iivision  of  her  attentions.  He  now  rambles  to  a  dis* 
tance,  and  finds  some  women  whom  he  brings  to  the 
polony.  A  promiscuous  intercourse  establishes  itself: 
^11  are  made  miserable  and  inimical  to  each  other, 
rhe  loss  of  domestic  happiness  by  the  cessation  of  re- 
ciprocal attentions,  the  annihilation  of  the  paternal  and 
Elial  afiections  by  the  uncertainty  of  relationship,  a 
consequent  carelessness  for  the  progeny,  the  premature 
exhaustion  of  the  young,  and  the  utter  desertion  of  the 
»ld,  afflict  the  incipient  community.  They  sink  into 
n  brutal  savagism,  and  are  dispersed  by  reciprocal  war. 
This  novel,  written  in  1770,  is  a  fortunate  attack  on 
Plato's  system  of  agamy,  as  it  has  been  called,  which 
some  foreign  philosophers  had  then  lately  revived.    It 


316  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

well  describes  to  the  speculatist  the  real  state  of  nat 
It  may  assist  in  conyincing  the  practical  world 
other  inconveniences^  beside  the  breach  of  civil 
religious  laws,  are  brought  on  society  by  transient 
adulterous  intercourse ;  and  that  it  is  highly  expedi 
for  all,  that  each  should  confine  himself  to  a  sin 
companion  for  life ; — in  a  word,  that  he  should  snbmi 
to  the  political  institution  of  marriage.  A  translation 
of  this  novel  closes  the  Tales  of  Yore,  3  vol.  1810.  \ 

To  this  volume  are  annexed  ybtir  dissertations:-' 
on  Rousseau's  Idea  of  our  Original  Condition,  on  hk 
suggested  Experiments  for  ascertaining  the  true  State 
of  Nature,  on  the  perpetual  Improveability  of  Mao* 
kind,  and  on  the  supposed  Decrease  of  the  Hamai 
Stature.  These  disquisitions  display  an  universal  ac* 
quaintauce  with  the  appertaining  literature,  with  the 
voyages  and  travels  of  those  who  have  visited  the  rader 
nations,  and  with  the  sagas  and  romances  of  those  who 
have  described  the  heroic  ages  of  now  civilized  socie- 
ties. They  are  not  drawn  up  with  logical  regularity, 
but  with  an  excursive  fanciful  playfulness,  with  ire- 
quent  flashes  of  mild  wit,  with  an  apparent  desultori- 
uess  ever  mindful  of  its  end,  and  with  a  cornucopian 
opulence  of  thought  and  allusion. 

The  fifteenth  volume  contains  the  Travels  of  Aid- 
fauarisj  a  novel  written  in  ridicule  of  the  missionary 
spirit.  Abulfauaris  was  a  priest  at  Memphis;  who, 
having  visited  the  interior  of  Africa  and  found  a  nation 
of  negroes,  naked,  innocent,  idle,  and  happy,  but  pos- 
sessed of  many  things  highly  prized  in  j3£gypt,  con- 
trives to  be  put  at  the  head  of  a  mission  to  introduce 
the  mysteries  of  Isis,  and  to  traffic  with  the  manii&c- 
tures  of  ^gypt.  He  teaches  them  a  multitude  of 
wants  and  vices :  he  gratifies  his  avarice  at  the  expense 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  317 

^  of  their  collective  toil,  and  his  lust  at  the  price  of  their 
domestic  felicity.  He  leaves  the  negroes,  clad  indeed, 
and  industrious,  but  tending  to  a  servile  dependence 
on  the  few ;  and  a  prey  to  the  licentiousness  and  mis- 
trust, to  the  envy  and  rapacity,  of  semi-civilization. 

Some  dialogues,  in  which  the  student  of  Shaftes- 
bury's Characteristics  may  be  discerned,  with  several 
political  and  occasional  essays  and  letters,  terminate 
this  portion  of  the  collection. 

The  sixteenth  volume  of  the  works  of  this  singular 
and  voluminous  writer  opens  with  the  fragment  of 
Cyrus^  an  epic  poem,  attempted  in  German  hexameter, 
but  broken  off  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  book,  either  by 
the  weariness  or  the  prudence  of  the  author.  The  Cyro- 
paedia  of  Xenophon  was  to  have  supplied  the  fable,  and 
to  have  furnished  the  outline  of  those  exploits  which 
raised  the  great  Cyrus  to  the  throne  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians.  The  Manichaean  system,  which  ascribes  to 
two  distinct  gods  the  formation  and  government  of 
the  universe,  and  to  their  hostile  interference  the  good 
and  evil  of  nature ; — which  surrounds  Oromaz  with 
an  hierarchy  of  beneficent  angels,  the  messengers  of 
blessing  to  men  ;  and  environs  his  antagonist  Ahriman 
with  subordinate  legions  of  daemons,  the  instruments 
of  mischief,  vengeance,  and  desolation  ; — which  as- 
cribes to  every  human  individual  a  good  and  evil  spi- 
rit, a  guardian  and  a  tyrant  of  his  conduct ; — which 
encourages  the  emblematic  worship  of  Mithras,  the 
seraph  of  the  sun,  the  mediator  to  mankind  of  the  best 
gifts  of  creation: — this  system,  which  the  Magi  taught, 
even  before  it  was  ratified  by  the  miracles  of  Zerdusht, 
was  to  have  Jfurnished  an  appropriate  mythology  for 
the  machinery  of  the  poem.  Yet,  in  all  probability, 
the  peruser  of  these  five  books  will  not  deeply  regret 


318  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  snspension  of  so  magnificent  a  task.  The  hei 
a  very  Tamerlane  in  sentiment  and  in  conduct,  is,  10 
the  pions  ^neas,  less  interesting  than  faultier  mei 
The  versification  is  smooth,  indeed,  and  stately,  ai 
ornamented,  according  to  all  the  mles  of  art,  with  tb^ 
usual  contrivances  and  figures  of  sublime  poetry:  bd 
it  wants  glow,  originality,  and  fascination.  The  max* 
ims  of  morality  are  turned  with  the  same  neatness,  and 
scattered  with  the  same  profusion,  as  those  which  ren- 
der Voltaire's  Henriad  so  instructive:  but  the  epic 
poet  should  teach  more  by  example  than  by  precept; 
— when  most  didactic,  he  is  commonly  least  attractive. 
The  fine  story  of  Araspes  and  Panthea,  originally 
intended  for  an  episode  to  this  epopaea,  has  been  casf 
by  the  author  in  a  more  dramatic  mould,  and  is  dif- 
fusely related  and  delicately  commented  in  a  series  of 
long  philosophical  prose  dialogues.  Through  this  whole 
volume,  the  lover  of  Xenophon*s  writings  will  wander 
with  patient  reminiscefvce. 

The  seventeenth  volume  exactly  includes  another  epic 
fragment,  of  less  lofty  pretensions.  Idris  and  Zemde 
is  a  fairy-tale,  left  half-tald,  like  "  the  story  of  Cam- 
boscan  bold,*'  and  the  four  Facardins  of  Count  Hamil- 
ton ;  to  which,  in  the  spirit  of  its  incident,  it  bears 
considerable  resemblance.  In  merry  mood,  the  ghost 
of  Gabalis,®  or  the  sytph  Capriccio, 

iUe  dens  anhnos  et  pectora  ven«u 


Spiritus,  a  capreis  montanis  nomen  adeptusy 

with  airy  fingers  wove  the  shot-silk  tissue  of  this  mot- 
ley story.    Idris  has  seen  and  loves  the  beautiful  Zen- 

8  As  the  mythology  of  Idris  and  Zenide  is  derived  from  the  Entretietu  sur  ^ 
Sciences  secretes  du  Comte  de  GabeUisi  and  as  Pope,  although  the  English  comaiear 
tatora  have  omitted  to  notice  it,  is  also  indebted  to  this  singular  work  of  M.  de  VH- 
Ian  for  the  machinery  employed  in  his  Rape  of  the  Lock,  perhaps  it  may  not  be  is- 
welcome  to  subjoin  a  short  extract 

"  If  you  have  this  noble  ambition,  as  the  figure  of  your  nativity  convinces  oKr 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  319 

ide  queen  of  Ginnistan.  To  the  possession  of  her  is 
annexed  dominion  over  the  four  races  of  genies :  but 
this  honor  is  reserved  for  a  spotless  mortal^  who  shall 

consider  maturely  whether  you  are  capable  of  renouncing  every  thing  which  might 
prove  an  obstacle  to  your  views." — He  paused,  and  looked  at  me  attentively,  as 
\i  desirous  of  reading  in  my  very  heart.  The  word  renounce  had  startled  me.  I 
doubted  not  he  was  about  to  propose  my  renouncing  baptism  or  salvation.  "  Re- 
nounce !"  said  I  with  inquisitive  hesitation.  "  Yes,  (replied  he,)  and  begin  by  so 
doing.  Sages  will  never  admit  you  into  their  society,  unless  you  immediately  re- 
nounce whatever  is  incompatible  with  the  true  wisdom :  it  cannot  dwell  along  with 
sin.     You  must  (added  he,  in  a  whisper)  renounce  all  carnal  intercourse  with  wo- 


men." 


I  burst  into  laughter  at  the  odd  proposal.  **  You  let  me  off  very  cheap,  (I  re- 
plied,) if  only  women  are  to  be  renounced,  that  has  been  done  this  many  a  year  : 
but  as  Solomon,  who  was  no  doubt  a  greater  sage  than  I  shall  ever  be,  could  not 
help  relapsing,  will  you  tell  me  how  you  initiated  gentlemen  manage  ?  of  what  sort 
of  itgntts  castus  is  your  tree  of  knowledge,  and  what  inconvenience  would  there  be, 
if,  in  the  paradise  of  philosophers,  every  Adam  had  his  Eve  ?" 

"  You  ask  mighty  questions  ;  (said  he,  deliberating  within  himself  whether  he 
should  vouchsafe  an  answer ;)  but  as  I  perceive  you  can  so  easily  detach  yourself 
from  womankind,  I  will  tell  you  one4)f  the  reasons  which  have  obliged  the  adepts  to 
exact  this  condition  from  their  aspirants.  When  you  shall  be  enrolled  among  the 
children  of  the  philosophers,  and  your  eyes  fortified  by  the  use  of  the  holy  elixir, 
you  will  discover  that  the  elements  are  inhabited  by  very  perfect  creatures,  of  the 
knowledge  of  whom  the  sin  of  Adam  deprived  his  unfortunate  posterity.  The  im- 
mense space  between  earth  and  sky  has  other  inhabitants  than  birds  and  flies ;  the 
ocean  other  guests  than  whales  and  sprats :  the  earth  was  not  made  for  moles  alone, 
nor  is  the  desolating  flame  itself  a  desert. 

"  The  air  is  full  of  beings  of  human  form,  proud  in  appearance,  but  docile  in  re- 
ality, great  lovers  of  science,  officious  toward  sages,  intolerant  toward  fools.     Their 

wives  and  daughters  are  masculine  Amazonian  beauties '" 

"  How  !  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  spirits  marry  ?" 

'*  Be  not  alarmed,  my  son,  about  such  trifles :  believe  what  I  say  to  be  solid  and 
true,  and  the  fsdthful  epitome  of  cabalistic  science,  which  it  will  only  depend  on 
yourself  one  day  to  verify  by  your  own  eyes.  Know  then  that  seas  and  rivers  are 
inhabited  as  well  as  the  air ;  and  that  ascended  sages  have  given  the  name  of  lin- 
danes, or  Nymphs,  to  this  floating  population.  They  engender  few  males ;  women 
overflow ;  their  beauty  is  extreme ;  the  daughters  of  men  are  incomparably  inferior. 
**  The  earth  is  filled  down  to  its  very  centre  with  Gnomes,  a  people  of  small  sta- 
ture, the  wardens  of  treasures,  mines,  and  precious  stones.  They  are  ingenious, 
friendly  to  man,  and  easy  to  command.  They  furnish  the  children  of  sages  with  all 
the  oaoney  they  want,  and  ask  as  the  reward  of  their  service  only  the  honor  of  being 
commanded.  Their  women  are  small,  very  agreeable,  and  magnificent  in  their  attire. 
"  As  for  the  salamanders,  who  inhabit  the  fiery  region,  they  wait  on  the  sages, 
but  without  any  eagerness  for  the  task :  their  females  are  rarely  to  be  seen." — **  So 
much  the  better :  (interrupted  I :)  who  wishes  to  fall  in  with  such  apparitions,  and 
to  converse  with  so  ugly  a  beast,  as  a  male  or  female  Salamander?" — "  You  are 
under  a  mistake ;  (replied  he ;)  such  may  be  the  idea  of  ignorant  painters  or  statu- 
aries, but  the  women  among  the  Salamanders  are  very  beautjful,  and  more  so  than 
any  others,  inasmuch  as  they  belong  to  a  purer  element.  I  pass  over  the  descrip- 
tion of  these  nations,  because  you  may  yourself,  if  so  disposed,  see  them  at  your 
leisure,  and  observe  in  person  their  raiment,  their  food,  their  manners,  their  won- 
derful laws  and  subordination.  You  will  be  yet  more  charmed  by  the  beauty  of  their 
minds  than  of  their  bodies  :  but  you  will  not  be  able  to  avoid  pitying  these  unfortu- 
nates, when  they  inform  you  that  their  souls  are  mortal,  and  that  they  have  no  hope 
of  that  eternal  fruition  of  the  Supreme  Being,  whom  they  know  and  adore  religious- 
ly.     They  will  tell  you  that  being  composed  of  the  purer  particles  of  the  elements 


320  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

resist  the  amorous  enticements  of  the  most  beautiful 
females  of  each  subordinate  class  of  elemental  spirits. 
The  first  canto  introduces  the  knight  unlacing  his  ar- 
mure,  in  order  to  bathe  in  a  wood-girt  rivulet.  He  is 
surprised  by  a  wympA  of  exquisite  loveliness,  who  vainly 
assails  his  constancy,  and  who  is  at  length  seized  by 
the  supervening  Itifal,  a  Sacripant  of  knighthood.  The 
adventures  in  general  are  spun  out  and  interrupted  by 


which  they  inhabiti  they  live  indeed  for  a^s,  but  then  dissolve.  Ah,  what  is  time 
compared  with  eternity  !  The  thought  of  separating  into  unconscious  atoms  deeply 
afflicts  them  :  we  have  great  difficulty  in  consoling  them. 

"  Our  forefathers  in  true  wisdom,  who  spoke  with  God  face  to  face,  compl^ned 
to  him  of  the  lot  of  these  people.  God,  whose  mercy  is  without  end,  revealed  to 
them  that  a  remedy  might  be  found  for  tliis  woe,  and  inspired  them  with  the  infor- 
madon,  that  in  like  manner  as  man,  by  contracting  an  alliance  with  God,  has  be- 
come a  partaker  in  the  divine  nature,  so  the  Sylphs,  Gnomes,  lindanes,  and  Sala- 
manders, by  an  alliance  contracted  with  man,  may  become  co-heirs  of  immortality. 
Thus  a  Nymph  or  a  Salamander  becomes  immortid,  and  capable  of  that  beatitude  to 
which  we  aspire,  when  she  is  fortunate  enough  to  marry  a  sage,  and  a  Gnome  or  a 
Sylph  ceases  to  be  mortal  the  day  he  marries  a  human  virgin. 

"  Hence  the  error  of  the  first  century  into  which  Justin  the  Martyr,  Tertullian, 
Clement  the  Alexandrian,  the  christian  philosopher  Athenagoras,  Cyprian,  and 
other  writers  of  those  days  have  fallen.  They  were  aware  that  these  elemental 
semi-men  pursued  An  intercourse  with  g^rls,  and  were  thence  led  to  believe  that  the 
fall  of  the  angels  proceeded  from  their  having  indulged  a  love  of  women.  Some 
Gnomes,  desirous  of  becoming  immortal,  had  wooed  with  presents  of  jewels  certain 
daughters  of  men :  and  these  authors,  rashly  trusting  to  their  own  misinterpretations 
of  the  book  of  Enoch,  imagined  that  by  sons  of  God,  (are  not  all  creatures  such  ?) 
the  angelic  race  was  to  be  understood.  But  undoubtedly  the  Sylphs,  and  other 
elementary  spirits,  are  the  real  children  of  Elohim. 

"In  order  to  obtun  an  empire  over  the  Salamanders,  it  is  necessary  to  purify 
and  exalt  the  element  of  fire  which  is  within  us :  for  each  of  the  elements,  purified, 
is  a  loadstone  which  attracts  the  corresponding  spirits.  The  familiarity  of  the  infe- 
rior orders  is  most  easily  had.  Swallow  daily  ever  so  little  pure  air,  water,  or  earth, 
which  has  been  alchemically  exposed  to  the  sun's  rays  in  a  globe  of  glass  hermeti- 
cally sealed,  and  you  will  behold  in  the  atmosphere  the  fluttering  republic  of  the 
Sylphs,  Nymphs  will  swim  to  meet  you  at  every  river's  brink,  and  the  treasure- 
wardens  display  before  you  their  imperishable  hoards. 

'*  How  do  you  know  that  Nymphs  and  Sylphs  die  ?" — "  Because  they  tell  us  so, 
and  we  see  them  die." — "How  should  that  be,  since  intercourse  with  you  renders 
them  immortal !" — "  That  would  be  a  difficulty,  if  the  number  of  sages  approached 
that  of  these  nations,  and  if  there  were  not  many  among  them  who  prefer  dying  to 
the  risk  of  such  an  immortality  as  they  see  in  possession  of  the  daemons.  Satan  in- 
spires these  apprehensions ;  there  is  nothing  he  would  not  do  to  prevent  these  poor 
creatures  from  becoming  immortal  by  an  alliance  with  us.  But,  my  son,  as  Sylphs 
acquire  an  immortal  soul  by  contracting  an  alliance  with  men  predestined  to  salva- 
tion, so  those  men  who  have  no  right  to  eternal  glory,  those  vessels  of  wrath  to 
whom  immortality  would  be  a  fatal  gift,  and  for  whom  the  Messiah  has  not  died, 
can  acquire  absolute  mortality  by  an  alliance  with  the  elemental  spirits.  Thus  yoj« 
see  the  adept  is  every  way  a  winner :  if  predestined  for  election,  he  leads  with  hirf 
into  paradise  the  Sylph  whom  he  has  imortalized ;  if  for  reprobation,  she  delivei 
him  from  the  horrors  of  the  second  death." 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.*  321 

flat  conversations.  In  the  fifth  book,  the  charms  of 
Amenoe,  a  salamandrine,  equally  fail  in  exciting  reci- 
procal ardor  in  the  faithful  hero.  Lila,  a  sj/lph,  and 
Salmacina,  a  gnome,  were  probably  intended  in  some 
future  canto  also  to  endanger,  without  overpowering 
the  continence  of  Idris  : — but  Wieland  no  doubt  be- 
gan to  feel  that,  however  he  might  interrupt  such  in- 
cidents by  the  single  combat  with  Itifal,  by  the  adven- 
ture of  the  Centaur's  castle,  or  even  by  the  elegant  and 
tender  history  of  Zerbin,  the  possessor  of  Aladdin's 
lamp ;  yet  the  perpetual  recurrence  of  a  Zulica  wooing 
a  reluctant  Joseph  (but  too  familiar  already  in  his  other 
works)  would,  in  a  single  poem,  pall  on  the  imagina- 
tion even  of  the  libidinous.  He  began  to  feel  that  it 
would  be  unworthy  of  his  growing  powers  to  unlock 
the  whole  seraglio  of  his  beauty-stored  fancy,  and  to 
lead  out  in  antic  dance  the  untired  graces  of  his  meta- 
morphosing descriptions,  for  the  embellishment  of  ad- 
ventures scarsely  less  whimsical  than  those  of  the 
modern  Amadis,  and  scarsely  less  ignobly  indecent 
than  those  with  which  the  younger  Crebillon  was  in- 
spired in  the  musky  atmosphere  of  the  toilette  and  the 

boudoir.     The  versification  is  in  ottave  rime  of  loose 

« 

structure,  the  two  triplets  being  interwoven  at  plea- 
sure: the  stanzas,  though  less  condensed  and  less 
rounded,  are  no  less  easy  and  lively  than  those  of 
Tiissoni? 

9  Author  of  La  Secchia  rapita* 


VOL.  II.  •      Y 


322  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


§   11. 

Beviewal  of  WieUmd^s  Collective  Works  continued^  vol.  xviii 
— Geron  the  courteous — The  Water-trough — Pervonte — 
Winter's  Tale—  The  Mule  without  a  bridle — Hann  and  Gul- 
penheh — Lai/  of  the  Utile  Bird — Translations  of  Geron — 
and  of  the  King  of  the  Black  Isles — Criticism. 

The  eighteenth  volume  consists  of  Fabliaux  in  verse, 
and  contains  some  of  the  most  fortunate  energies  of  the 
epic  muse  of  Wieland ;  who  always  excels  in  execution 
rather  than  in  invention,  and  is  more  successful  in 
improving  on  the  rude  fablers  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury,  than  iu  the  composition  of  adventures  wholly 
new. 

The  first  tale  rehearses  a  natural  and  fine  incident, 
detached  from  the  old  French  romance  entitled  Gyron 
le  Courtois;  whence  also  Luigi  Almanni  drew  the 
basis  of  his  tedious  heroic  poem.  In  the  Bibliothdqtte 
Universelle  des  Romans,  an  abridgement  of  this  story- 
book occurs,  executed  by  the  skilfiil  hand  of  Tressan; 
who  considers  it,  next  to  Tristan de LeonnoiSydiS  the  most 
important  record  concerning  the  knights  of  the  Round 
Table.  The  adventure  of  Sir  Geron  with  the  lady  of 
M alouen  is  here  separately  told  in  a  species  of  blank 
verse,  of  which  the  antiquated  simplicity  well  suits  the 
honest  spirit  of  the  history.  In  this  little  but  admir- 
able story,  as  in  every  other  production  of  our  author, 
no  feature  is  more  remarkable  than  his  profound  know- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  323 

ledge  of  the  subject.  Of  the  many  champions  intro- 
daced,  each  is  mentioned  in  a  manner  strictly  consonant 
with  the  mass  of  tradition ;  no  where  do  we  find  an 
aberration  from  the  fictions  received;  no  where  an 
anachronism  of  costume  or  idea:  the  device  on  every 
shield  is  allotted  aright  with  the  accuracy  of  an  anti- 
qnary:  every  speech^  every  gesture,  harmonizes  with 
the  established  character  of  the  personage.  Such  leaves 
as  these  should  be  turned  over  with  daily  with  nightly 
liand  by  those  who  aspire  to  relate  our  tales  of  yore, 
in  a  manner  worthy  of  amusing  the  nineteenth  century. 

The  fVater-trough  is  selected  from  Legrand*s  Contes 
devotSy  pour  servir  de  suite  aux  Fabliaux  du  treizihne 
si^cle,  &c.  and  is  well  adapted  by  its  comic  peculiarity 
to  inculcate  the  authors  favourite  philosophy, 'which 
is  industrious  in  satirizing  asceticism. 

Pervonte,  a  comic  tale,  in  three  parts,  is  borrowed 
from  the  Pentamerone  of  Giam-battista  Basili,  who, 
under  the  feigned  name  of  Abbatutis,  published  at 
Naples,  in  1674,  a  volume  of  tales :  it  will  serve  to 
recommend  the  virtue  of  contentment. 

The  Winters  Tale,  which  is  taken  from  the  first 
volume  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  comprises  the  story  of 
the  fisherman,  and  of  the  young  King  of  the  Black 
Isles;  and,  by  very  slight  modifications  of  the  incidents, 
it  has  acquired  a  wholeness  and  a  connection  which 
are  seldom  apparent  in  eastern  composition,  without 
having  lost  any  of  its  native  hold  on  the  fancy. 

The  Mule  without  a  Bridle  is  well  known  to  the 
metrical  romancers  of  our  oAvn  country.  This  refash- 
ioDment^  ^g^iii?  by  a  slight  but  exquisitely  dextrous 
improvement  of  the  circumstances,  is  become  a  most 
lively  lay.  Hann  and  Gulpenheh,  and  the  Lay  of 
the  little  Bird,  also  occur :  but  as  the  two  best  poems 

Y2 


324  HISTORIC  SUEVEY 

in  the  volame  probably  are  the  first  and  tbe  fonrth ; 
that  is,  Geron  the  Courteous,  and  the  Winter  s  Tale ; 
I  shall  content  myself  with  translating  these. 


GERON  THE  COURTEOUS. 

Arthur,  before  his  hall  at  Cramalot, 
Begirt  with  thirty  knights,  was  holding  court, 
Under  a  dase  of  velvet,  fring'd  with  gold. 
Between  him,  and  her  Lancelot,  the  queen 
Guenara  sat.    Twelve  maidens,  couth  to  give 
The  sweetest  meed  of  love  to  whoso  earns  it. 
Stood  bashfully  the  royal  dame  beside ; 
And  round  about,  on  the  tall  branchy  oaks. 
Hung  glittering  in  the  sun-shine  shields  and  spears. 
While  thirty  lads  held  in  the  shade  hard  by 
As  many  horses,  well  caparison'd. 

When  lo !  from  forth  the  forest  a  black  knight 
Alone  came  riding.    He  drew  near,  alighted, 
On  his  right  knee  made  to  the  queen  obeisance. 
Then  rose,  and  stood  before  king  Arthur,  taller 
By  head  and  shoulders  than  the  other  knights. 
He  bow'd  and  said,  "  King,  wilt  thou  grant  a  boon. 
Such  as  one  knight  may  of  another  ask  ?" 

The  king  with  wonder  look'd  upon  the  stranger. 
And  all  with  wonder  view'd  his  stately  form. 
And  heard  his  speech,  and  silently  awaited 
What  boon  he  was  to  sue  for.     Arthur  spake : 
"  Sir  knight,  make  known  thy  wish ;  I  grant  thy  prayer." 

The  stranger  bow'd  a  second  time,  and  said : 
"  To  you,  puissant  sir,  and  to  these  knights 
Beside  you,  let  it  not  unwelcome  prove. 
In  honor  of  all  lovely  wives  and  maids, 
As  well  as  to  make  known,  whether  the  prize 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  326 

Of  knighthood  appertains  to  the  new  knights, 
Or  to  the  old^  with  me,  one  after  the'  other, 
Here  in  the  open  green  to  try  a  joust." 

King  Arthur,  and  his  band  of  thirty  knights, 
Fellows  of  the  Round  Table  all  of  them, 
Were  not  the  men  to  let  a  boon  like  this 
Be  ask'd  a  second  time.     Instead  of  answer, 
Toward  the  trees  whereon  their  lances  leaned, 
And  where,  beside  their  steeds,  the  pages  stood, 
They  severally  ran  with  cheerful  speed. 

Now  Arthur  and  his  thirty  famous  peers, 
With  bucklers  on  their  arms,  their  horses  mounted. 
And  rode,  with  levell'd  shafts,  on  to  the  plain. 
Where  the  strange  knight  had  taken  stand  already. 
Foremost  king  Arthur  rode.  Both  couch'd  their  spears, 
And,  cover'd  with  their  shields,  their  vizors  louted, 
Spurring  their  horses,  at  each  other  ran 
So  forcibly,  the  ground  beneath  them  shook ; 
When,  as  they  were  about  to  meet  in  onset, 
The  stranger  held  his  spear  aloof,  received 
On  his  firm  shield  the  stiff  thrust  of  the  king, 
So  that  the  ^pear  shiver'd  in  many  splinters. 
And  Arthur  scarsely  could  with  effort  keep 
Firm,  in  his  stirrups.     But  unshaken  sat 
The  sable  knight,  and,  soon  as  his  warm  steed 
Had  spent  his  spring,  he  turn'd,  rode  to  the  king. 
And  courteously  address'd  him :  "  God  forbid 
That  I  should  use  against  you,  noble  sire. 
My  arm  or  weapon ;  order  me,  as  one 
Bound  to  your  service  both  by  choice  and  duty." 

The  lofty  Arthur  look'd  on  him  amaz'd. 
And  to  the  tent  return'd.  Then  Galaric, 
His  nephew,  second  son  to  Lot  of  Orcan, 
Steps  rashly  forth,  for  combat  eager.  Sure 
Of  victory,  he  swings  the  quivering  spear, 
And  couches  it ;  against  his  broad  breast  clanks 


326  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  golden*eagled  shield.    Now  with  fierce  thrust 

He  rushes  on,  but,  by  a  gentle  bend 

Avoided,  harmless  slid  his  weapon's  point 

*Neath  the  black  knight's  left  arm,  whose  surer  shaft 

Just  then  smote  him  a  stunning  blow,  so  home, 

His  senses  quell,  his  tottering  knees  unknit. 

He  drops,  and  covers  with  his  length  the  ground. 

To*  avenge  his  brother's  fall,  Sir  Galban  came. 
The  elder  son  of  Lot,  his  name  is  heard 
When  of  invincibles  discourse  is  held ; 
But  this  time  to  his  lady  he  forgot 
To  recommend  himself,  or  fortune  mock'd  him  ; 
For  the  black  knight  served  him  like  Galaric. 

An  equal  fate  fell  on  the  other  nephews 
Of  Arthur,  Egerwin  and  Galheret, 
And  on  Bliomberis,  and  Lionel, 
The  noble  sons  of  king  Boort  of  Gannes, 
Eke  on  the  never-weary,  ever-merry. 
Sir  Dinadel  of  Strangor.    All  of  these 
Had  often  stretched  a  brave  man  on  the  earth ; 
Now  came  their  turn  to  be  for  once  o'erthrown. 

''Heigh !"  says  Sir  Gries,  king  Arthur's  seneschal. 
In  words  the  courtier  but  in  deeds  the  knight, 
''Ne'er  be  it  said  or  sung,  in  foreign  lands. 
That  Arthur's  messmates,  like  as  many  nine-pins. 
By  the'first  strolling  champion  were  knock'd  down; 
Black  as  he  is,  the  stranger  is  no  devil." 
Half  jesting,  half  in  earnest,  with  these  words 
He  spurr'd  his  courser.    He  had  carefully. 
Out  of  a  heap  of  spears,  beside  the  tent. 
Chosen  the  heaviest ;  but  him  nought  avail'd 
His  foresight,  his  rash  courage,  or  the  glibness 
Of  his  keen  tongue.    The  black  knight  lifted  him 
High  in  the  air,  and  let  him  fall  amain. 
His  squire  soon  helped  him  on  his  legs  again  : 
Back  to  the  tent  with  muttering  limp'd  Sir  Gries. 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  327 

The  others  followed  in  their  turns,  bold  knights, 
Unwont  to  turn  their  backs  on  any'  adventure 
Howe'er  unpromising,  or  yield  to  man : 
To  break  a  lance  was  but  a  sport  to  them, 
They  would  have  stripped  a  forest  of  its  wood  ; 
Yet  of  them  all  not  one,  not  one  withstood 
The  forceful  onset  of  the  unknown  knight ; 
Each  in  his  turn  was  from  the  saddle  hurl'd. 

Thus  to  behold  the  whole  Round  Table  foiPd, 
Griev'd  to  the  heart  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake, 
The  only  one  of  all  the  thirty,  who 
Remain'd  unconquer'd.    This  Sir  Lancelot 
Was  the  fair  queen's  own  knight ;  for  love  to  her 
He  had  done  many  deeds,  and  in  repayment 
Many  a  sweet  kiss,  and  many  a  glowing  clasp, 
Had  been  vouchsaf 'd  in  secret.    No  one  messmate 
Of  the  Round  Table  was  than  him  more  fraught 
With  manliness  and  beauty.    In  the  presence 
Of  his  fair  mistress^  nothing  seems  so  easy 
As  to  unhorse  the  stoutest  javelin-splitter 
On  the  wide  earth.    And  yet  he  look'd  astonish'd 
At  the  black  knight ;  for  what  had  newly  chanc'd 
Ne'er  chanc'd  before,  since  the  Round  Table  stood. 

^' If  the  black  art  it  be  which  shields  this  heathen,'* 
Says  Lancelot  softly  to  the  queen,  "Fair  lady, 
I  pray  thee  don't  forsake  thy  faithful  knight ; 
Though  hell  for  the  black  champion  strive  united, 
If  but  your  eye  smile  on  me,  on  my  side 
Is  heaven."    When  he  thus  had  said,  the  queen 
AJlow'd  him  in  her  lovely  eyes  to  read 
(For  seemliness  before  so  many  hearers 
Closed  up  her  lips)  an  answer,  which  upswell'd 
The  big  heart  in  his  bosom.    With  loose  rein. 
His  shield  aloof,  his  lance  press'd  to  his  side, 
He  ran,  and  both  the  knights  so  forcibly 
Jostled  against  each  other,  horse  and  man, 
That  the  snapt  shafts  were  shiver*d  in  their  fists, 


328  HISTORIC  SURVEY  ' 

And  shield  and  helmet  met  together  clanging. 

But  nought  avaii'd  to  Lancelot  his  lady's 

Kind  glances ;  him  the  black  knight's  force  outweighs. 

He  totters,  drops  the  rein,  grows  giddy,  sinks, 

And  lies  where  lay  before  him  all  his  meissmates. 

Calmly  the  stranger  from  his  horse  alights, 
Coaxes  with  friendly  hand  his  reeking  back, 
And  his  warm  chest,  takes  off  the  foamy  bit, 
Ungirds  the  saddle,  and  dismisses  him. 
With  a  kind  pat,  to  graze  about  the  green ; 
Then  turns,  as  came  he  from  an  airing  merely. 
Cheerful  and  unreserv'd,  with  his  accustom'd 
Grave  elderly  slow  step,  back  to  the  tent. 

With  eyes  askance  the  knights  avoid  his  gaze, 
And  look  at  one  another,  as  if  asking 
Can  you  bear  this  ?  but  Arthur  from  the  tent 
Advanc'd  with  dignity,  held  out  his  hand. 
And  thus  address'd  the  stranger :  "  Noble  knight, 
We  have,  I  think,  bought  of  you  dear  enough 
The  right  to  see  the  face  of  one,  who  thus 
Can  heave  my  thirty  comrades  from  the  saddle." 

No  sooner  had  the  king  vouchsaf 'd  these  words, 
Than  the  strange  knight  unhasp'd  his  helm,  and  rais'd  it ; 
When  lo!  the  curls  were  white  as  snow  that  hung 
About  his  skull ;  in  all  the  majesty 
Of  unepfeebled  age  the  hero  stood, 
A  stately  handsome  man,  though  manifold 
The  wrinkles  were  that  furrow'd  his  high  forehead. 
And  though  his  shoulders,  still  unstooping,  bore 
The  burden  of  a  hundred  years  of  toil. 

On  seeing  him.  King  Arthur  and  his  knights 
Again  grew  warm  about  the  heart,  they  throng'd 
Wondering  around  the  stranger,  clasp'd  his  hand. 
While  on  his  countenance  their  looks  repos'd 
Kindly,  like  sons  who  meet  unhop'd  a  father. 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  329 

"  My  name  is  Branor,  (said  tbe  ancient  knight^) 
Branor  the  Brown.     Thy  father,  royal  Arthur, 
The  far-renow.n'd  Pendragon  Uther,  still 
Trotted  his  horse  of  stick  about  the  court, 
When  Branor  sallied  forth  o'er  hill  and  dale 
In  quest  of  ventures.    These  old  mossy  oaks 
I  recollect  no  taller  than  a  spear. 
Thy  father  was  to  me  an  honoured  master, 
And  a  kind  friend.    We  often  rode  together, 
And  broke,  in  jest  and  earnest,  many  a  lance. 
May  blessings  light  upon  his  noble  son ! 
It  does  my  old  eyes  good  to  see  young  men 
Not  yet  quite  fallen  off  from  their  forefathers." 

While  thus  they  spake,  the  sun  was  setting.    Arthur, 
His  queen,  the  ladies,  and  the  thirty  knights. 
With  Branor  in  the  midst,  now  turn'd  their  steps 
Toward  the  castle-gate  at  Cramalot, 
Where  a  repast  stood  waiting  in  the  hall. 

A  purfled  canopy  o'erhung  the  seat 
Of  Arthur  and  his  queen ;  an  ivory  stool 
Was  plac'd  between  them  for  the  worthy  Branor. 
When  these  were  seated,  others  took  their  places. 
In  order  due,  beside  the  spacious  board. 
Now  twenty  youths  in  pewter  dishes  brought 
The  steaming  food,  and  twenty  others  waited 
At  the  rich  side-board,  where  from  silver  ewers 
Stream'd  ale,  mead,  wine;  and  trumpets  shook  the  hall. 
As  often  as  the  two-eared  cup  went  round. 

When  appetite  was  sated,  lofty  talk 
Of  deeds,  of  champions,  and  of  court-emprize, 
Prolonged  their  stay  till  midnight,  and  all  eyes 
Fastened  upon  the  stranger ;  whensoe'er 
He  op*d  his  lips  to  parley,  one  might  then 
Have  hefivi  a  spider  on  the  cornice  spin. 


330  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

King  Arthur  took  the  old  man's  hand,  and  said  r 
"  Until  to-day  my  eyes  have  ne'er  beheld. 
Sir  Branor,  one  so  stout  and  merciful : 
God  help  me,  but  I  should  have  lik*d  to  know 
The  fathers  who  begot  such  sons  as  these." 

Him  the  old  knight  replied  to  in  this  wise : 
"  Sire  king,  I  've  lived  a  hundred  years  and  more. 
Many  a  good  man  upon  his  nurse's  lap 
I  've  seen,  and  many  a  better  help'd  to  bury. 
As  yet  there  is  no  lack  of  doughty  knights, 
Or  lovely  ladies  worthy  of  their  service ; 
But  men,  like  those  of  yore,  I  see  not  now. 
So  full  of  manhood,  firmness,  frankness,  sense, 
To  honor,  right,  and  truth,  so  tied  and  steadfast. 
With  hand  and  heart,  and  countenance,  so  open, 
So  without  guile,  as  were  king  Meliad, 
Hector  the  Brown,  and  Danayn  the  Red, 
And  my  friend  Geron,  still  surnamed  the  Courteous, 
Such  men,  by  God !  I  ne'er  shall  see  again." 

Here  the  old  man's  voice  faulter'd,  and  he  bow'd 
His  head,  and  paused.    And  all  were  silent  too 
For  a  long  time :  none  dared  to  interrupt 
The  holy  stillness,  till  at  length  Guenara 
Wink'd  to  Sir  Lancelot,  who  understood  her. 
And  thus  to  Branor  said :  '^  We,  ancient  sir. 
Are  all  too  young  to  have  known  the  knights  you  mention ; 
Only  in  you,  who  knew  them,  they  still  live. 
'T  would  be  some  solace  to  us,  from  the  one 
Spar'd  to  our  times,  to  hear  of  them  and  theirs." 

King  Arthur  and  the  queen,  and  all  the  knights, 
Chim'd  in  with  Lancelot's  prayer :  not  aloud. 
Yet  not  unheeded,  the  young  ladies  plead. 
And  by  the  stooping  eye,  and  colouring  cheek. 
Bewray  a  bashful  curiosity. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  331 

Then  Branor,  nodding  friendly,  looked  at  them. 
And  said,  "  Your  very  prayer  is  courtesy ; 
Old  age  prates  willingly,  as  w.ell  you  know, 
And  loves  to  talk  about  the  good  old  times 
That  are  no  more,  in  which,  as  in  a  dream 
Of  bliss,  it  still  can  lingering  stray  delighted. 
I  '11  tell  you  of  the  noblest  man  I  knew, 
Of  Geron, — ^'t  is  full  seventy  years  and  more 
Since  a  strange  accident  brought  us  together. 

*^  I  was  on  horseback,  strolling  through  the  forest 
In  quest  of  some  adventure,  when  a  storm 
AssaiFd  me  suddenly :  I  sought  for  shelter 
Under  a  cavern,  where  I  soon  perceiv'd 
A  narrow  path,  which  led  into  the  mountain. 
Downwards,  and  ever  darker,  grew  the  way, 
Then  bent  aside ;  and  I  beheld  before  me 
What  seem'd  a  sepulchre — a  hollow  vault 
Hewn  in  the  solid  rock  by  human  hands. 
Within  it  hung  a  lamp,  at  whose  faint  light 
I  could  discern,  as  were  they  hallow'd  corses, 
Two  ancient  knights  in  still  solemnity 
Sitting  beside  each  other.    Even  now. 
Though  seventy  years  have  since  that  time  gone  by. 
An  awful  shudder  comes  with  the  remembrance. 

*^  It  was  as  if  the  sight  of  me  awaken'd 
Them  both  from  gentle  slumber.    Not  astonish'd. 
With  friendly  calmness  their  eyes  turn'd  upon  me. 
And  seem'd  to  welcome  once  again  the  strange 
And  long-miss'd  sight  of  man.    With  hollow  voice 
They  greeted  me,  and  said  they  had  been  toss'd 
Full  long  enough  upon  the  waves  of  life. 
And  were  retir'd  to  this  deep  hermitage. 
Here  in  the  tomb  to  wait  the  stroke  of  death; 
That  with  the  world  they  pass'd  for  dead  already, 
As  those  who  sought  them  found  them  there  no  longer. 
Their  narrow  wants  the  spirits  of  the  mountain. 
Who  sometimes  told  them  what  the  living  do, 


332  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Came  to  supply.    The  name  of  one  was  Brehus : 
The  other's  Geron, — Geron  senior, 
He  who  in  France  had  reign*d,  and  to  his  son 
Gave  up  the  sovereignty,  that  he  might  live 
To  knighthood  wholly.     Soon  a  like  resolve 
Came  on  the  son ;  he  too  resigned  his  kingdom 
To  a  still  younger  brother, — sought  adventures 
For  many  years,  and  finally  came  hither. 
With  his  old  father  in  this  sepulchre  / 

To  pass  in  prayer,  and  penitence,  and  fasting. 
The  weary  remnant  of  a  busy  life. 
*  There  you  behold  his  grave,'  the  old  man  added ; 
'  But  where  my  second  son  has  been  inter'd 
I  cannot  learn.    The  French  king  Faramond 
Robb'd  him  of  life  and  throne.     One  more  remains 
Yet  of  my  race  and  blood, — my  namesake  too, — 
Geron  the  Courteous.    What  from  time  to  time 
The  spirits  tell  me  of  him  is  the  food 
That  will  not  let  me  die.    He  is  a  man, — 
May  God  reward  him  for  it, — who  preserves 
My  name  and  house  in  honor.'    Then  he  paus'd. 

"  Upon  the  spot  I  form'd  the  resolution 
To  seek  this  Geron ;  and  to  Uther's  court 
I  bent  my  quest ;  and  there  I  heard  much  praise 
Of  Geron's  virtues :  but  he  was  afar. 
I  follow'd, — found  him, — and  admir'd  his  beauty. 
The  vigor  of  his  arm,  his  dauntless  courage, 
And,  above  all,  his  honourable  heart. 
He  became  gracious  to  me.    I  went  with  him 
To  many  a  tournament, — to  many  a  venture, — 
And  was  the  witness  of  his  latter  deeds. 

"  He  was  but  a  mere  boy  when  his  poor  father 
Lost,  in  the  strife  with  Faramond,  his  throne 
And  life.    An  old  friend  of  his  ancestors, 
Hector  the  Brown,  contrived  to  save  the  stripling ; 
Fled  with  him  into  Britain,  and  became 
The  teacher  of  his  youth,  his  willing  master 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  333 

In  all  the  arts  of  knighthood.     Geron  was  to  hitn 
As  his  own  son.     Once,  when  in  a  great  battle 
The  old  man  was  much  wounded,  Geron  caught  him 
Up  in  his  arms,  struck  down  with  lion-fury 
Whoever  sought  to  lay  hands  on  his  friend. 
Bore  him  on  his  own  back  into  the  tent ; 
But  to  preserve  his  life  it  not  avail'd. 

"  Old  Hector,  dying,  handed  his  good  sword 
To  the  young  man.    '  There,'  said  he,  *  take  this  gift ; 
I  know  none  other  who  is  after  me 
Worthier  to  wield  it.'    Mighty  was  the  virtue 
Of  this  tried  weapon,  rich  its  studded  hilt. 
And  richer  still  th'  enamell'd  sheath  of  steel. 
Upon  the  blade  in  golden  letters  stood : 

'  This  trusty  blade  let  none  essay 

For  any  purpose  of  foul  play ; 

Fairly  let  him  fight  his  way. 

Honor  be  his  proudest  stay ; 

Shame  to  him  who  can  betray. 

Clad  in  lion-like  array.' 
The  noble  youth  receiv'd  this  holy  sword 
Out  of  his  dying  foster-father's  hand 
With  tearful  eyes,  and  thought  himself  as  rich 
As  had  a  kingdom  been  the  last  bequest. 
And  how  he  handled  it,  I  now  will  give  you 
A  proud  example,  if  you  are  not  already 
Weary  of  listening  to  an  old  man's  tale." 

Then  Lancelot  of  the  Lake,  and  his  dear  lady, 
The  lovely  queen,  assur'd  the  hoary  Branor, 
In  their  own  name,  and  that  of  all  the  guests, 
They  should  be  nothing  loth  to  sit  and  listen, 
Were  he  to  talk  to  them  the  whole  night  long. 
The  old  man,  from  beneath  his  gray  eyelashes, 
Shot  a  keen  glance  on  Lancelot,  and  the  queen ; 
And  both  their  eyes  sank  down  before  the  look 
Of  earnest  worth, and  a  short  silence  follow'd. 


334  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Branor  continu'd  thus :  '*  At  that  time  Iiv*d 
In  Britany  a  noble  knight^  surnam'd 
Danayn  the  Red,  who  dwelt  at  Malouen ; 
Geron  the  Courteous  was  his  constant  comrade. 
And  dearest  friend ;  together  they  had  sworn 
The  bond  to  die  for  one  another,  and 
Their  fast  affection  was  become  a  proverb. 
The  dame  of  Malouen,  the  wife  of  Danayn, 
Was  in  all  Britany  the  fairest  woman. 
Though  't  is  a  shire  renown*d  for  handsome  ladies. 
To  look  at  her  without  quick  thoughts  of  love. 
Was  held  impossible.     The  first  time  Geron 
Laid  eyes  upon  her,  in  his  heart  he  said. 
Troth  it  would  not  be  a  dear  purchase,  if. 
To  pass  a  night  in  this  sweet  lady's  arms, 
A  man  forwent  his  life.    And  from  that  moment 
He  steadily  forbore  to  meet  her  eyes ; 
Spoke  seldom  to  her, — never  by  himself, 
Nor  else  but  in  the  presence  of  his  friend, 
Into,  whose  honest  heart  and  open  eye 
Suspicion  came  not.    Months  together  sometimes. 
And  longer  even,  into  foreign  lands 
They  travelled  for  adventures  to  the  courts 
-    Of  princes, — where  at  tournaments  and  skurries. 

Fame  could  be  earn'd ;  and,  when  they  were  come  back 

To  Malouen,  Sir  Geron  kept  his  way. 

Renewed  the  silent  covenant  with  his  eyes. 

So  that  who  saw  him  always  would  have  fancied 

The  lovely  dame  of  Malouen  to  him 

Was  nothing  more  than  any  other  woman. 

**  Unluckily,  the  lovely  lady's  heart 
Was  not  so  guarded  as  his  own.     She  thought, 
At  the  first  glance,  that  Geron  was  the  man. 
Above  all  other  men,  to  whom  a  lady 
Could  not  refiise  the  recompense  of  love. 
And  heedlessly  she  let  her  eyeballs  rove 
Along  his  stately  form,  and  gaz'd  at  him, 
And  ever  and  anon  unconsciously 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  335 

Her  looks,  her  heart,  observed  how  fair  he  was. 
She  calls  it  in  her  inmost  soul  but  friendship, 
But  courtesy,  and  cheats  herself  with  names. 
Till  she  no  longer  from  herself  can  hide 
How  deep  the  wound  has  eaten,  nor  from  him 
Who  only  can  administer  the  cure. 

*^  A  woman's  passion  has  a  falcon^eye. 
However  Geron  may  conceal  himself. 
Soon  as  his  eye  meets  hers,  she  can  discern, 
Or  thinks  she  can  discern,  a  secret  glow 
Beneath  the  smother'd  fire, — a  flush  of  love ; 
And,  in  this  hope,  she  watches  the  occasion 
To  be  with  him  alone ;  and,  when  she  finds  it, 
Bewrays  to  him  her  hidden  painfulness. 

"  Sin  never  tempted  in  a  fairer  form 
A  thing  of  flesh  and  blood.    From  her  soft  lips 
All  the  persuasion  of  the  ancient  serpent 
Flow'd ; — on  her  heaving  bosom  breath'd  seduction. 
And  beckon'd  from  her  arms.     Geron  ne'er  fought 
So  hard  a  fight  before ;  but  friendship, — truth, — 
Hector  and  Danayn, — stand  in  stern  array 
Between  him  and  tbe  consort  of  his  friend, 
Like  angels  of  the  Lord  with  swords  of  flame. 
'  God  wills  it  not,  that  I  should  dare  abuse 
A  momentary  weakness  of  the  wife 
Of  my  best  friend,' — ^he  said,  and  broke  away. 

"  Embarrass'd, — speechless, — to  behold  her  hopes 
Thus  disappointed,  as  he  quitted  her. 
The  culprit  stood  awhile,  and  would  have  sunk 
With  shame  and  grief,  had  it  been  doubtful  to  her. 
Even  for  a  moment,  whether  the  coy  knight 
Had  separated  from  her  with  contempt. 
Her  eyes,  alas !  had  serv'd  her  but  too  well. 
*  He  loves  me,'  so  she  thought ;  *  I  could  discern 
The  struggle  in  his  soul ;  't  is  not  his  heart 
That  is  in  fault ;'  and  now  the  knight  appears 


336  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

To  ber  the  nobler  for  bis  sense  of  bonor, — 
Her  love  tbe  nobler  for  his  lofty  worth. 
She  even  for  her  weakness  priiis'd  herself, 
And  let  him  read  more  freely  in  her  eyes. 
She  gloried  in  it. 

"  This  became  to  Geron 
A  hint  no  longer  to  expose  himself 
Beside  the  fair  seducer ;  he  set  off 
From  Malouen,  and  went  to  Bruneval, 
To  visit  in  his  castle  there  a  knight. 
Days  slid  awi^  in  hunting,  jousting,  feasting, 
But  Geron  soon  grew  tired.     *Ah,'  thought  he, 
*  If  Danayn  were  but  here !  without  my  friend 
To  live  among  these  cold  and  stranger-people, 
I  can  endure  no  longer.'    Whether  share 
Of  his  annoy  the  dame  of  Malouen 
Perhaps  occasion'd,  Geron  hardly  car*d 
To  ask  himself;  but,  calling  for  his  armure. 
He  got  on  horseback,  and  rode  home  again. 

'^  Great  was  the  joy,  to  see  him  there  once  more. 
Of  Danayn  the  Red,  his  faithful  friend. 
Who  lov'd  him  so,  as  two  twin-brothers  hardly 
Can  love  each  other ;  and  although  so  long 
They  had  been  comrades,  and  so  seldom  parted, 
Yet  in  the  castle  neither  squire  nor  damsel 
Were  wont  to  call  him  by  his  name,  save  Danayn 
And  his  fair  wife, — the  rest,  they  always  knew  him 
As  the  Good  Kmght;  no  other  phrase  had  they 
In  all  the  castle,  when  they  spoke  of  him. 

"  It  happen'd  now,  while  Geron  was  abiding 
At  Malouen,  there  came  a  dapper  squire 
Who  brought  to  Danayn  a  message,  that 
In  seven  days  there  would  be  held  at  Morlaix 
A  jtately  tournament.    '  So,  help  me  God,' 
Said  Danayn,  *  I  '11  be  there  if  I  can.' 


* 


•  mt 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  337 

*'  Then  Danayn  the  Red  went  to  his  friend. 
And  they  agreed  to  be  both  at  the  tourney, 
But  unbeknown,  and  clad  in  common  armure. 

"  The  news  of  this  soon  spread  throughout  the  castle, 
And  reach'd  the  dame  of  Malouen,  who  gladly 
Heard  of  the  festival ;  for,  as  Morlaix 
Was  but  a  half-day's  journey  from  their  dwelling. 
She  hoped  Sir  Danayn  would,  as  is  the  custom, 
Take  her,  too,  to  this  splendid  tournament ; 
For  in  those  days  there  was  in  all  the  land 
No  form  so  fair  to  grace  the  public  sittings. 

'*  And  Geron  too,  she  thought,  would  come  with  them. 
And  she  should  have  the  pleasure  to  behold 
How  he,  among  the  kings,  and  knights,  and  nobles, 
Would  show  himself  the  bravest  and  most  handsome. 
For  still  her  heart  on  Geron  hung,  though  he 
Had  so  repell'd  her  love.    He  was,  and  is. 
Still  in  her  eyes  the  only  man ; — with  him 
By  day  and  night  her  inmost  soul  is  busy ; 
His  beauty,  and  his  noble  sense  of  honor. 
Is  all  her  thought,  and  she  would  rather  be 
His  lady  than  the  wife  of  higher  men ; 
And  secredy  she  vow'd  within  herself 
Never  to  turn  her  heart  to  any  other : 
And  could  she,  at  the  cost  of  life,  become 
His  love,  she  should  esteem  it  her  best  glory. 

*'  Thus  was  the  dame  of  Malouen  disposed 
When  she  determin*d  to  attend  the  tourney ; 
And  the  same  evening  she  conversed  about  it 
Much  with  her  husband.    Then  Sir  Danayn, 
Benignant-smiling,  gave  her  leave  to  go. 
^  Lady,'  said  he,  '  as  you  are  bent  i(pon  it, 
I  am  quite  content  it  be  so ;  and  will  give  you 
A  stately  escort,  such  as  may  become  ' 
A  person  of  your  rank,  and' Age,  and  figure ; 
Damsels  to  wait  on  you,  and  (nights  to  guard  you  i 

VOL.  II.  1  55 


338  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

In  safety  to  and  fro^  shall  not  be  wanting. 
Still  I  cannot  be  one.    Geron  and  I 
Have  laid  a  plan  to  go  in  vulgar  armure, 
And  namelessly  to  step  into  the  lists.' 

**  Now  when  the  time  was  come,  the  faithful  friends. 
With  but  one  squire  to  carry  shields  and  swords, 
Set  off,  and  through  bye-ways  arriv'd  at  M orlaix, 
As  if  they  came  elsewhence ;  but  the  fair  lady, 
By  six-and-twenty  knights  accompanied, 
On  the  high  road  in  loitering  state  proceeded. 

*^  When  the  two  friends  approach'd  the  moated  castle 
Upon  the  plain,  Sir  Flounce  accosted  them, 
A  young  conceited  boaster,  who  in  knighthood 
Pretended  to  be  mightily  accomplished. 
And  who  at  all  times,  proper  or  improper, 
Would  crow  and  sneer  most  manfully  at  any 
Who  came  across  the  pathway  of  his  speech. 
When  he  beheld  the  knights  so  calmly  trotting, 
And  mark'd  their  rough  black  armure,  their  coarse,  cheap. 
And  unassuming,  plain  caparisons, 
He  galloped  toward  them,  and  at  once  defy'd  them 
To  break  a  lance  with  him  upon  the  spot. 
They  civilly  excus'd  themselves ;  they  wish*d 
Against  to-morrow  to  reserve  their  efforts. 
But  all  was  said  in  vain, — the  more  politely 
They  spoke,  the  ruder  grew  Sir  Flounce's  tongue ; 
And  when,  unheeding  him,  they  went  their  way, 
He  jested,  with  a  knight  of  the  Round  Table 
Who  stood  beside  him,  at  the  two  black  fellows 
So  loudly,  that  they  overheard  his  speech. 

"  Thereat  Sir  Danayn  was  moved  to  anger. 
And  said  to  Greron^ '  Brother,  do  you  hear 
Those  knights,  who  fancy  they  may  scorn  unpimish'd 
Men  such  as  we.'    But  Geron  answer'd  him, 
*  Do  as  I  do,  and  let  them  say  their  say, 
Their  empty  prate  will  neither  make  us  better, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  339 

Nor  make  us  worse;  and  if  they  scoff  at  us 

To-day,  perhaps  to-morrow  they  *U  repent  it, 

And  think  themselves  the  simpletons,  and  wish 

They  'd  held  their  tongues.    Too  many  such  are  seen 

To  stroll  about  the  country,  full  of  airs, 

And  fond  of  cutting  jokes  at  every  one, 

And  spitting  their  conceit  'twixt  every  tooth. 

I  never  trouble  myself  what  they  say ; 

And  when  they  speak,  't  is  just  the  same  to  me 

As  were  they  silent.'    *  You  are  right,  by  God,* , 

Said  Danayn,  '  let  them  cackle  as  they  will. 

He  is  a  blockhead  who  gives  heed  to  that.' 

"  Sir  Irwin,  one  of  the  most  noble  knights 
Of  the  Round  Table,  heard  with  pain  the  language 
Of  the  young  man,  who  unprovoked  had  taunted 
The  quiet  strangers ;  but  Sir  Flounce,  to  show 
He  fear'd  them  not,  renew'd  his  gibes.    For  this 
Small  was  his  gain,  as  both  the  knights  rode  on. 
Not  heeding  him,  and  either  thought  apart 
To-morrow 't  will  be  seen  what  stuff  we  are  made  of. 

"  Just  as  their  hearts  foretold,  so  happen'd  it 
Upon  the  day  of  tourney.    Danayn 
And  Geron  ousted  all  the  other  knights 
From  off  their  saddles.    No  one  could  prevent 
Their  carrying  off  the  prize.    And  now  began 
A  busy  questioning  from  mouth  to  mouth 
Who  were  these  knights ;  but  no  one  knew  about  them. 
Except  the  dame  of  Malouen,  who  beheld 
With  heart's  delight  her  Geron  and  his  deeds ; 
For,  though  he  came  into  the  ring  so  plainly 
In  common  armure,  yet  there  was  no  other 
Like  him  in  grace  and  dignity  of  port. 
And,  when  she  saw  him  with  the  bickering  blade 
Drawn  in  his  fist,  and  with  the  sable  shield 
Before  his  neck,  though  troops  of  knights  rode  by. 
In  plumed  helmets,  harness-waistcoats  gay 
With  gold  embroidery,  bearing  blazon'd  shields, 
Yet  mark'd  she  none  in  the  career  but  him.  z  2 


340  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

**  Of  handsome  women  and  of  lovely  damsels 
Many  had  come  to  Morlaix  on  that  day 
To  see  and  to  be  seen ;  but  all  of  them 
Beside  the  dame  of  Malouen  appeared 
Like  meadow-flowers  around  a  blooming  rose-bush ; 
And  all  the  knights  who  gaz'd  upon  her  beauty 
Grew  warm  at  heart ;  but  none  more  ardently 
Than  Lak,  the  comrade  of  King  Meliad, 
Who,  as  if  fetter'd  by  some  powerful  spell, 
Could  never  turn  from  her  his  countenance. 
He  *s  caught,  thought  Meliad  within  himself; 
And,  to  make  out  the  feelings  of  his  friend. 
Began  to  talk  about  her  stately  train 
Of  six-and-twenty  knights.    Sir  Lak  replied, 
*  Those  six-and-twenty  knights,  however  manful 
They  may  believe  themselves,  would  surely  prove 
For  such  a  woman  but  a  feeble  guard. 
So  help  me  God,  my  dear  king  Meliad, 
If  in  a  forest  this  fair  lady  met  me. 
With  only  six-and-twenty  for  her  escort, 
I  think  I  'd  snatch  her  from  them  every  one.' 

**  Sir  Danayn,  intent  upon  the  jousting, 
Caught  nothing  of  this  speech.    But,  by  some  chance. 
Sir  Geron  had  been  standing  near  enough 
To  hear  what  Lak  was  saying  to  the  king ; 
And  though  his  heart  burnt  in  him,  that  a  man 
Should  dare  so  speak  concerning  his  friend's  wife. 
Yet,  thought  he,  this  must  be  no  vulgar  knight. 
Who  feels  within  him  such  a  daring  spirit. 

'*  Geron  then  went  up  to  him,  and  address'd  him 
In  friendly  jguise,  and  let  him  understand 
He  was  aware  of  what  to  Meliad 
Sir  Lak  had  spoken :  *  I  acknowledge  it,' 
Retorted  Lak,  '  nor  should  I  shun  the  trial, 
If  you  were  one  of  these  same  six-and-twenty.' 

"  *If  so,'  said  Geron,  'and  for  woman's  sake 
You  would  engage  with  six-and-twenty  of  us. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  341 

It  would  no  doubt  be  very  easy  for  you 

To  snatch  from  us  the  honors  of  the  tourney/ 

*'  *  Done :  let  us  try/  said  Lak.    King  Meliad, 
And  Danayn  who  now  approach'd,  took  part 
In  the  defial,  and  it  was  agreed 
Three  times  to  joust ;  Sir  Geron  against  Lak, 
And  Danayn  against  king  Meliad. 
At  the  first  onset  Danayn  and  Geron 
Ran  down  amain  their  two  antagonists. 
The  second  time  the  chances  were  reversed. 
And  the  two  friends  were  ousted  firom  their  saddles. 
But,  the  third  time,  they  both  again  prevaiFd, 
And  kept  with  loud  applause  their  twice-won  prize. 

"  When  night  approached,  there  came  to  Danayn 
A  hasty  messenger,  w|th  tidings  that 
The  murderers  of  his  nephew,  whom  he  loured  for, 
Had  a  few  hours  ago  been  seen  about 
At  no  great  distance.     Instantly  the  knight 
Set  off  in  the  pursuit,  but  said  to  Geron, 
'  Brother,  a  private  business  calls  me  hence, 
Which  cannot  be  delay'd ;  meanwhile  go  you 
To  Malouen,  and  there  wait  for  me.'    Then 
He  said  as  much  to  his  wife,  and  she  prepared 
Next  morning  with  her  escort  to  return. 

*'  Sir  Geron  had  not  yet  forgot  the  words 
Which  Lak  had  spoken, — half,  it  seem'd,  in  earnest. 
No  sooner  was  the  dame  of  Malouen 
Gone  from  Morlaix,  than  he  at  distance  followed. 
And,  sure  enough,  Sir  Lak  had  risen  early. 
In  order  not  to  miss  his  lovely  booty, 
And  deep  within  a  lonely  woody  valley. 
Through  which  she  had  to  pass,  was  hid  in  ambush. 
Soon  as  the  escort  came,  he  fell  upon  them. 
Like  to  a  sudden  thunder-bolt  from  heaven, 
Drove  all  the  six-and-twenty  to  disperse, 
Seiz'd  on  the  lady,  and  rode  off  with  her. 


342  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

'^  Sir  Geron  had,  by  some  misapprehension^ 
Not  taken  just  the  road  the  lady  took, 
Andy  turning  on  one  side  to  seek  the  traces, 
By  great  good  luck  he  pounc'd  upon  the  robber, 
Who,  with  his  lovely  booty  well  content. 
Came  trotting  on.    The  precious  burden  well 
Deserved  a  combat  unto  life  or  death. 

"  Wringing  her  lovely  hands,  most  anxiously 
The  lady  call'd  on  every  saint  in  heaven ; 
Made  more  vows  for  her  friend  than  for  herself; 
But  soon  the  brave  one  had  remov'd  all  fear 
About  the  issue :  with  a  lion's  fury 
He  grasp'd  the  rude  aggressor,  flung  him  down. 
And  made  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  lady 
Owe  a  dishonour'd  life. 

**  How  great  the  joy 
Was  hers,  when  thus  she  felt  herself  delivered 
And  by  the  hand  of  him  whom  best  she  lov'd. 
Nor  scarsely  less  was  his  to  see  her  rescu'd, 
And  to  have  fitly  punish'd  the. presumption 
Of  a  wild  rival.    Both  gaz'd  on  each  other. 
And  remain*d  speechless ;  their  whole  souls  were  seated 
Now  in  their  eyes.    Around  is  only  wood, 
Silent  and  solitary ;  she  and  he 
The  only  in  the  world.    Ah !  what  a  moment 
For  to  forget  a  friend  in. 

"But  Sir  Geron, 
Soon  to  himself  restored,  stept  back  and  said, 
'  Lady,  you  now  are  ridded  of  this  knight, 
And  can  return  to  Malouen  in  peace, 
At  your  own  pleasure.' 

"  Him  the  lady  answer'd, 
*  Most  noble  sir,  to  Gt>d  and  to  your  arm 
Be  everlasting  thanks  for  my  deliverance ! 
I  had  been  else  dishonour'd,  if  your  courage 


i 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  343 

Had  not  preserv'd  me  in  the  threatened  danger. 
But  what  can  I  do  now  ?    My  sorry  people 
Are  all  dispers'd,— the  damsek  and  the  knights ; 
And  I  am  left  alone«' 

"  The  knight  replied, 

*  Lady,  be  not  uneasy ;  all  your  escort 
Cannot  be  far  away ;  they  11  soon  collect 
Again,  and  come  about  you.    Let  us  ride, 

« 

Meanwhile,  along  this  path,  which  certainly 

Must  lead  us  back  into  the  beaten  road.' 

And  with  these  words  they  rode  together  onwards. 

"Now  when. the  lovely  dame  of  Malouen, 
Freed  from  her  terrors,  saw  herself  alone, 
And  with  the  man  above  all  others  dear 
To  her  whole  soul,  and  thought  within  herself, 
How  at  the  tourney  he  surpassed  them  all, 
How  nobly  brave,  how  gently  courteous,  he 
In  every  thing  behav'd,  her  inner  heart 
Was  so  much  mov'd,  she  hardly  could  conceive 
What  was  the  matter  with  her,  what  she  ought 
To  say  or  to  withhold.    She  wants  to  speak, 
And  yet  the  fear  of  being  once  again 
Put  off  had  terrors  for  her. 

"  Love  invites  her   . 
Once  more  to  tell  him  plainly  what  her  heart 
Desires;  but  Shame  presses  her  lips  together 
When  she  would  speak.     On  one  side  murmurs  Love, 

*  Now,  lady,  without  apprehension  say 

All  that  you  feel,  he  11  not  ^gdn  draw  back ; 
You  are  so  sweetly  made  in  form  and  face. 
He  were  not  worthy  of  the  name  of  knight. 
If  he  could  a  third  time  decline  the  offer : 
Venture  it  now  securely.'    Shame  replies, 
'  Lady,  beware  to  speak ;  the  noble  Geron 
So  truly  and  so  steadily  loves  Danayn, 
He  would  not  for  the  world  be  faithless  to  him  ; 


344  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Depend  upon  it  he  withdraws  again.' 

And  thus  between  her  prompters  she  sat  still, 

And  they  rode  on  in  silence  a  long  while. 

"  Meanwhile  Sir  Geron,  on  his  side,  had  also 
No  easy  struggle  to  achieve ;  as  often 
As  on  the  lady  he  let  fall  his  eyes. 
He  grew  so  widhful  that  the  thought  would  cross  him : 
O  but  for  one  full  time  to  press  that  heart 
Against  his  own,  he  *d  give  his  soul  away. 
To  struggle  any  longer  hardly  seems 
E'en  possible,  or  fair  to  such  a  woman. 
Who  is  so  given  to  him.    All  conspires 
To  meet  their  common  wishes ;  time  and  place, 
So  still,  so  lonely,  can't  occur  again. 
But  thy  friend's  wife,  thy  brother-warrior's. 
Who  holds  thee  dearer  than  his  very  eyes.. 
No,  God  forbid  that  such  a  worthy  knight 
Should  be  dishonour'd  by  the  man  he  trusts, 
Against  whose  conduct  he  could  ne'er  permit 
The  least  suspicion  to  shoot,  cross  his  soul ! 
How  could'st  thou  ever  in  thy  life  again 
Bear  but  to  meet  his  eye-beam,  or  the  look 
Of  any  other  man,  who  feels  for  honor ; 
How  bear  thyself  with  such  a  loaded  conscience? 

**  In  this  turmoil  of  thought  he  journey 'd  on. 
Riding  behind  her;  yet  he  could  not  help 
Each  now  and  then  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  her. 
And  aye,  the  oftener  he  beheld,  the  more 
Her  beauty  seem'd  embellish'd.    Twice  or  thrice 
'T  was  on  his  tongue  to  tell  her  so,  had  shame 
Not  shut  his  mouth. 

*^  At  length  the  lady  fair. 
Her  bosom  wanted  to  exhale  its  feelings. 
Began  to  parley  with  Sir  Geron,  saying : 
*  God  send  you  good  adventures :  my  dear  sir. 
Inform  me  what  of  all  things  in  the  world 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  345 

Best  prompts  a  knight  to  deeds  of  bravery 
And  lofty  courage  V 

"  Geron  thus  replied^ 

*  True  love,  fair  lady.    Such  a  force  hath  love. 
That  it  can  make  a  daring  man  of  cowards.' 

*  If  it  be  so/  the  lady  recommenc'd, 

'  Love  must  indeed  possess  a  mighty  power.' 

'  Yes,  truly/  said  Sir  Geron,  *  so  it  does ; 

And,  lady,  know,  I  should  not  now,  nor  ever 

In  all  my  life  have  been  the  man  Sir  Lak 

Felt  me  to  be  this  day,  had  not  my  arm 

Deriv'd  its  strength  from  love.    Nor  would  Sir  Lak, 

Tho'  one  of  the  best  knights,  have  had  the  power 

To  drive  to  flight  the  six-and-twenty  riders 

From  Malouen,  had  love  not  steel'd  his  arm.' 

'  How,'  said. the  lady,  *  from  your  speech  it  seems 

You  too  have  felt  the  mightiness  of  love.' 

'  Lady,  you  speak  the  truth,'  replied  the  knight ; 

*  And  I  esteem  myself  a  lucky  man. 
That  I  can  truly  boast  my  heart  is  bound 
Unto  the  fairest  woman  in  the  world ; 
And  only  therefore  I  accomplish  what 

I  else  should  not  attempt.    Believe  me,  lady. 
If 't  were  not  for  the  mightiness  of  love, 
I  should  hot  in  this  tourney  have  perform'd 
What  you  beheld.    To  love,  and  to  my  lady, 
I  am  beholden  for  my  every  deed.' 

**  The  noble  dame  of  Malouen,  when  thus 
She  heard  her  hero  speak,  was  inly  pleas'd; 
For  her  heart  said  to  her.  If  Geron  loves. 
He  must  love  thee,  and  not  another  woman. 
And,  when  he  ceas'd  to  speak,  she  took  the  word. 
And  said, '  My  sir,  God  send  you  good  adventures ! 
But  tell  me,  without  jesting,  who  the  lady 
May  be,  who  seems  to  you  the  fairest  woman 
Of  all  the  dames  on  earth,  and  is  the  dearest !' 
'  So  help  me  God,'  replied  he, '  but  the  fairest 


346  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

And  dearest  woman  on  the  &ce  of  earth 
To  me,  is  no  one  other  than  yourself. 
And  this  your  own  heart  must  already  tell  you 
Is  naked  truth.    Yes,. my  dear  lady,  you 
Are  she  I  love,  as  none  e'er  loy'd  before.' 

"  *  Sir,'  sdd  the  dmne  again, '  what  must  I  think 
Of  this  strange  speech  ?    You  cannot  be  in  earnest. 
And  are  but  watching  my  too  ready  answer 
To  make  a  game  of  me.    It  is  not  long 
Since,  I  too  well  remember  the  occasion. 
When  I  said  to  you  what  you  say  to  me. 
And  you  a  little  harshly  put  me  by. 
And  would  you  now  persuade  me,  that  you  love 
So  wholly  me.    My  dear  good  sir,  what  would  you 
Have  me  believe  V 

"  *  My  dearest  lady,'  said 
Sir  Geron  then,  *  for  God's  sake,  do  not  give  me 
Such  speeches  any  more.    If  I  was  then 
Foolish  and  blind,  don't  piwish  me  just  now ; 
Accept  me  for  your  knight,  and  be  assur'd. 
Queen  of  my  h%art,  there  is  no  love  more  heartfelt 
In  all  the  world  than  mine.' 

s 

"  The  dame  of  Malouen 
Glow'd  with  such  glee  to  hear  her  knight  talk  thus ; 
It  seem'd  to  her,  as  were  she  listening  still. 
When  he  had  ceas'd  to  speak.    She  doubts  no  longer 
Aught  of  his  love,  and  feasts  upon  the  thought 
So  comfortably,  that  she  seems  to  breathe 
And  swim  in  floods  of  love, — ^is  full  of  joy 
And  happiness ;  yet  she  can  utter  nothing, 
As  if  afraid  to  break  into  her  bliss 
By  speaking. 

%  *  "  Thus  awhile  they  rode ; 

%'     When  a  small  pathway  cross'd  them  in  the  forest, 
t:^i  Which  led  down  to  a  well.    And  thither  Geron 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  347 

Ouided  his  horse's  rein,  and  said,  *  My  lady, 
A  weariness,  remaining  ^om  the  tourney 
And  from  this  morning's  toil,  is  come  upon  me. 
If  you  approve,  I  very  much  should  like 
To  take  some  rest  beside  the  well  that 's  yonder.' 
*  Sir,'  said  the  lady,  blushing,  *  do  your  pleasure.' 

"  He  took  the  pathway  to  the  well,  and  she 
Rode  silent  after  him.    When  they  were  there. 
Sir  Geron  first  alighted,  to  a  tree 
Fasten'd  his  horse,  and  then  put  forth  his  hand 
To  help  the  dame  of  Malouen  to  dismount. 

**  A  fresh  green  turf,  hedg'd  round  with  copse  and 
bqshes. 
And  pleasantly  o'ershadow'd  by  the  trees, 
Grew  there ;  it  was  a  place  as  snug  and  quiet, 
And  fashion'd  for  repose,  as  could  be  wish'd. 
There,  when  he  took  his  lady  from  the  horse 
Into  his  arms,  he  gently  sat  her  down. 
Then  he  began  to  take  his  armure  off 
Slowly,  and  piece  by  piece ;  laid  down  his  helmet, 
And  his  black  shield ;  unbuckl'd  from  his  shoulders 
The  heavy  pouldrons,  plac'd  them  on  the  rim 
Of  the  wall'd  well ;  and  the  good  sword  upon  them, 
Which  once  the  spotless  knight,  Hector  the  Brown, 
Had  wielded,  and  bequeath'd  to  him  when  dying ; 
And  which,  for  its  first  owner's  sake,  to  him 
Was  still  so  dear,  he  'dnot  have  taken  for  it 
The  very  best  of  all  King  Uther's  castles. 

''  But,  in  this  moment  of  intoxication. 
He  thought  but  little  of  his  sword,  but  little 
Of  the  high  duties  to  which  he  was  pledg'd 
Who,  after  Hector,  should  presume  to  wield  it. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  whole  life  forsook  him 
His  faithfulness,  his  honor.     A  hot  hunger 
For  the  sweet  fruits  of  love,  alas !  had  stifled  ^  ■* 

The  nobler  feelings  of  his  4oui :  and  Geron 


1 


348  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Is  Greron  now  no  longer^  has  forgotten 

His  Danayn, — forgotten  hb  best  self; 

He  hastens  now,  with  wild  and  rash  impatiencey 

Quite  to  disarm  himself. 

**  Meanwhile  the  lady. 
Sweetly  asham*d,  her  lovely  eyes  cast  down 
Upon  her  lap,  sat  silent,  scarsely  daring 
Even  to  breathe. 

"  And  lo !  it  somehow  happen'd. 
That,  just  as  Geron  was  approaching  her. 
He  brush'd  against  the  low  wall  of  the  well. 
Where  he  had  pil'd  his  weapons  on  each  other, 
And  the  good  sword  slid  down  into  the  water. 
Now,  when  he  heard  the  splash,  he  quickly  leaves 
The  lovely  lady,  runs  to  save  the  sword. 
And  draws  it  out,  and  wipes  it  very  dry ; 
And,  as  he  look'd  along  it  narrowly 
To  see  if 't  was  uninjured,  his  eye  caught 
The  golden  letters  on  the  blade  inscrib*d 
By  Hector's  order.    As  he  read,  he  trembled. 
He  reads  again ;  it  was  as  had  the  words 
Never  before  impressed  him.    All  the  spell 
At  once  was  broke. 

"  He  stands  with  the  good  sword 
Bare  in  his  hand,  and  sinks  into  himself: 
'  Where  am  I  ?   God  in  heaven !  what  a  deed 
I  was  come  here  to  do.'    And  his  knees  totter'd 
Now  at  the  thought.    The  sword  still  in  his  hand. 
He  on  the  margin  of  the  well  sat  down, 
His  back  toward  the  lady,  full  of  sorrow, 
And  sinking  from  one  sad  thought  to  another. 

"  Now  when  the  lady,  who  so  late  ago  ^ 

Beheld  him  blithe  and  gay,  thus  suddenly 
Perceiv'd  him  falling  in  strange  melancholy. 
She  was  alarm'd,  and  knew  not  what  to  thinks 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  349 

And  came  to  him  with  gentle  timid  step. 

And  said,  ^  What  ails  you.  Sir;  what  are  you  planning V 

^*  Geron,  unheeding  her,  still  bent  his  eyes 
Steadfast  upon  his  sword,  and  made  no  answer. 
She  waited  long,  and,  as  he  gave  her  none. 
She  stepp*d  still  nearer,  and  with  tenderest  voice 
Again  repeated, '  My  dear  sir,  what  ails  you  V 
He,  deeply  sighing,  answer'd,  *  What  I  ail, — 
May  God  in  heaven  have  mercy  on  my  soul ! 
Against  my  brother  Danayn  I  have  sinn'd. 
And  am  not  worthy  now  to  live.'    He  spoke. 
And  once  again  began  to  eye  his  sword. 
Then  said,  with  broken  voice :  *  Thou  trusty  blade. 
Into  whose  hands  art  thou  now  &llen  ?    He 
Was  quite  another  man  who  us'd  to  wield  thee. 
No  &ithless  thought  e'er  came  across  his  heart 
In  his  whole  life.    Forgive  me :  I  no  more 
Can  now  deserve  to  wear  thee.    I  '11  avenge 
Both  thee  and  him,  who  once  hop'd  better  of  me. 
When  to  my  keeping  he  intrusted  thee.' 
And  now  he  rais'd  his  arm ;  and,  ere  the  lady. 
Helpless  from  terror,  could  attempt  to  hinder. 
He  ran  his  body  through  and  through, — then  drew 
The  weapon  out,  and  would  have  given  himself 
Another  stab,  but  that  the  dame  of  Malouen, 
With  all  the  force  of  love  and  of  despair. 
Fell  x>n  his  arm. 

**  *  Good  knight,  for  God's  sake  spare 
Your  precious  life ;  slay  not  yourself,  and  me, 
So  cruelly  for  nothing.' 

**  *  ILbAj!  said  he,  » 

'  Leave  me  my  will.    I  don't  deserve  to  live. 
And  wish  to  perish,  rather  than  be  false.' 
The  lady  sobb'd  aloud,  and  clung  around  him. 


f 


350  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

^' While  this  was  passings  Danayn  return'd 
From  his  excursion.    He  had  found  and  punish'd 
The  murderers  of  his  nephew ;  both  had  fallen 
Beneath  his  hand,  and  he  was  hastening  home 
To  join  his  wife  and  friend  at  Malouen. 
And  as  he  pass'd  this  forest,  near  the  well 
A  shriek  of  woe  assaJl'd  him,  and  he  turn'd 
His  horse,  to  seek  the  cause, — when,  lo !  he  saw, 
Stretch'd  in  his  blood.  Sir  Geron,  bleeding  still ; 
And  by  him  kneel'd. alone,  in  speechless  anguish. 
Wringing  her  hands,  the  lady.     Danayn, 
Instead  of  asking  questions,  from  his  horse 
Sprang,  and  proceeded  to  assist  his  friend. 

"  Geron  refuses  to  accept  relief, — 
He  will  not  live, — and  to  his  friend  accuses 
Himself  most  bitterly, — ^hides  nothing  from  him. 
But  his  wife's  weakness, — takes  upon  himself 
The  load  of  all  the  guilt, — and,  when  he  thus 
Had  ended  his  confession,  he  held  out 
His  hand,  and  said,  ^  Now  then  forgive  me  brother. 
If  you  are  able.    But,  O  let  me  die. 
And  do  not  hate  my  memory ;  for  repentance 
Did  come  before  the  deed.    My  faithlessness 
Was  only  in  my  heart.     Be  my  heart's  blood 
The  fit  atonement.' 

"  Noble  Danayn 
Felt  at  this  moment  all  the  loftiness 
Of  his  friend's  virtue,  more  than  he  had  ever ; 
So  wholly  bare  lay  Geron's  heart  and  soul 
Clear  as  his  own  before  him ;  and.  he  ask'd  him 
Most  pressingly  yet  to  forgive  himself, — 
Conjures  him  by  their  holy  friendship  still 
To  live, — and  swears,  to  him,  that  more  than  ever 
He  now  esteems  and  loves  him.     Overcome 
By  such  affection,  Geron  then  consents 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  361 

For  his  dear  friend  to  live,  accepts  his  care, 
And  on  a  bier  is  carried  to  a  castle. 
Where  dwelt  a  good  old  knight^  a  friend  of  Danayn, 
Whose  daughter,  beauteous  in  the  next  degree 
To  the  fair  dame  of  Malouen,  was  much  skilled 
In  healing  wounds.    She  knew,  and  secretly 
She  loy'd.  Sir  Geron ;  and  her  gende  care 
In  .a  few  weeks  restor'd  him. 

"  But  the  wound, 
Which  this  adventure  of  the  well  had  given 
To  the  fair  dame  of  Malouen,  was  fatal. 
To  bear  such  sudden  deep-felt  rending  pangs 
Her  soft  heart  was  too  weak.    In  heavy  woe 
She  lay  the  whole  long  night,  as  in  a  fire ; 
Next  day  the  fury  of  the  fever  broke 
In  wildness  loose ;  and  grew  with  such  rapidity 
That  there  was  soon  no  hope.     On  the  third  day 
She  died ;  and  Geron's  name  was  her  last  word.*' 

Here  aged  Branor  paus'd.   With  earnest  look 
Silent  he  scann'd  the  ladies,  and  the  knights. 
Who  sat  around ;  and  from  the  damsels'  eyes 
Still  tears  were  trickling  down  their  glowing  cheeks, 
And  the  knights'  looks  were  downcast.     But  Guenara 
The  queen,  who  during  the  narration  often 
Grrew  pale  as  death,  then  red  as  fire  again. 
To  cover  her  confusion,  sighuig,  said, 
**  'T  is  a  most  melancholy  story." — **  What 
Became  at  last  of  Geron  ?"  asked  Sir  Lancelot. 
"  After  this  story,"  said  the  aged  Branor, 
"  F  have  nothing  more  to  tell." 

Then  royal  Arthur 
Rose  from  the  table,  and  the  rest  arose ; 
And  Arthur  said  to  Branor,  "  Worthy  knight,^ 
There  's  an  apartment  ready  in  the  castle 
For  you  to-night,  and  for  as  many  days 


352  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

As  it  may  please  you  to  remain  with  ds.** 

**  Sir  king/'  replied  the'  old  man,  **  Grod  give  you  health 

And  fame ;  hut  I  have  made  a  solemn  vow 

To  pass  no  night  at  courts  on  any  errand." 

The  knights  look'd  at  each  other  sQently ; 
While  Branor  bow'd  respectfully  to  Arthur 
And  to  the  queen, — resum'd  his  dress  of  armure. 
Mounted  his  horse,  and  by  the  starlight  rode 
Back  to  his  forest. 


Mr.  Robert  Southey,  great  as  a  poet,  greater  as  an  historian,  has  so  adnuraUj 
given  the  antiquities  of  die  romance  on  which  the  foregoing  poem  is  founded,  tfast 
I  take  the  liberty  of  transcribing  the  entire  passage  from  his  erudite  pre&ce  to  the 
MORTE  D'ARTHUR,  4to.  London,  1817. 

After  observing  (p.  xvi)  that  the  author  of  the  Brut  professes  to  have  composed, 
or  recompiled,  the  slory  of  Meliadus  de  Leonnoys,  at  the  request  of  King  Henry  of 
England,  from  the  Latin,*  in  which  it  had  been  rudely  and  confusedly  written  by 
Master  Rusticien  de  Pise,  at  the  desire  of  an  English  king  Edward  ;  Mr.  Southey 
proceeds  thus : 

"  XIV.  Gyron  le  Courtoys  is  the  work  of  the  same  author,  whose  style  indeed  is 
distincdy  marked,  especially  in  dialogue,  and  who  in  his  tone  of  morals  is  infinitely 
superior  to  all  the  other  Romancers  of  this  school. 

"  Le  Roman  de  Gyron  le  CourtoU ;  translate  de  Branor  le  Brun,  le  vieil  Chevalier 
qui  avoit  plus  de  cent  ana  d'djge,  lequel  ^nt  a  la  Cour  du  Rot  Artus,  accomjK^ni  d'wu 
Demoiselle f  pour  s*6prouver  a  Vencontre  desjeunes  Chevalier s,  lesquels  itoient  lesphs 
VttUlans,  ou  les  jeunest  ou  les  vieux ;  et  comment  il  abbatit  le  Rot  Artus,  et  quatoru 
Rota  qui  en  aa  compagnie  6toient,  et  pareillement  toua  lea  Chevaliera  de  la  Table  Roniit 
de  coupa  de  lance :  et  traiie  ledit  Livre,  dea  plua  grandea  Adventurea  que  jadia  ad- 
vinrent  out  ChevaUera  Errana  ;  avec  la  deviae  et  lea  armea  de  toua  lea  Chevaiiers  de 
la  Table  Ronde.     Paris,  Ant.  Verard,  aana  date,  infoL  gotiq* 

"  Imprime  a  porta  pourAnthoine  Ferard  marchant  libraire  demourant  a  Porta  pra 
petit  pont  deuant  la  rue  neufite  noatre  dame  a  lenaeigne  Saint  iehan  leuangeUste.  Ou 
au  palaia  ou  premier  pillier  deuant  la  ehappelle  ou  Ion  chante  la  meaae  de  meaaeigneurt 
lea  preaidena, 

"  This  romance  begins  with  an  adventure  of  Branor  le  Brun,  a  knight  above  sn 
hundred  and  twenty  years  of  age,  who  though  he  had  not  borne  arms  for  forty  years, 
comes  to  Camelot  to  try  whether  the  knights  of  King.  Arthur's  court  were  as  good 
as  those  of  his  days.  He  b  however  so  persuaded  of  their  inferiority,  that  he  only 
invites  them  to  run  at  him,  as  at  a  quintain,  Palamedes,  Gawain,  and  many  othen 
unhorse  themselves  in  doing  this ;  but  the  old  knight  honours  the  king.  Sir  Tiistiam, 
and  Sir  Lancelot  so  much  as  to  take  a  spear  against  them,  and  he  overthrows  them 
like  so  many  children.  An  adventure  of  Tristram  and  Palamedes  then  follows  (with- 
out any  connection)  which  is  in  the  Morte  Arthur. 

Gyron  is  now  introduced,  and  goes  to  Maloanc,  the  castie  of  his  friend  Danayn 


« 


*  Was  not  Latin  used  for  rime  ?  Montfaucon  cites :  "  Le  Roman  de  Triatan  et 
laeult,  traduit  de  Latin  en  Fran^aia  par  Lucaa,  chevalier  aieur  du  chaatel  du  Goat, 
prea  de  Saliaberi,  Anglaia,  ooec  Jigurea,  Cod.  No.  6776.  Now  the  adventures  oif 
Trystan  and  Essylda  are  not  likely  to  have  been  originally  written  in  Latin,  either 
in  Wales,  Cornwall,  or  Britany ;  but  they  are  likely  to  have  been  written  in  rime, 
as  metrical  romances  abounded  there. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  353 

le  Rouz.  The  lady  of  Maloanc,  Danayn's  wife,  falls  in  love  with  him,  and  tempts 
him  twice,  but  without  effect  iThey  go  to  a  tournament,  where  Meliadus  and  his 
friend  Sir  Lac  are  present ;  Sir  Lac  becomes  enamoured  of  the  lady,  waylays  her 
after  the  tournament,  and  wins  her  from  her  escort  of  five  and  twenty  knights,  but 
loses  her  himself  to  Gyron.  Gyron  unluckily  has  now  caught  from  Sir  Lac  the  love 
with  which  the  lady  herself  had  not  been  able  to  inspire  him ;  his  heart  gives  way 
to  the  temptation ;  he  leads  her,  '  nothing  loth,'  to  a  fountain  in  the  forest,  and 
takes  off  his  armour.  *  At  this  point  of  time,  when  they  were  in  this  guise,  ready 
to  commit  the  villainy,  then  it  happened  that  the  spear  of  Gyron  which  was  placed 
against  a  tree,  fell  upon  bis  sword  and  made  it  fall  into  the  fountain.  And  Gyron 
who,  as  ye  have  heard,  loved  this  sword  greatly,  as  soon  as  he  saw  it  fall  into  the 
water,  ran  towards  it,  and  left  the  lady.  And  when  he  came  to  the  fountain,  and 
saw  that  the  sword  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  water,  he  took  it  out,  being  greatly 
vexed,  and  drew  it  from  the  scabbard,  and  began  to  wipe  it.  And  then  he  began 
to  regard  the  letters  which  were  written  upon  the  sword ;  they  had  been  cut  there 
by  reason  of  the  good  knight  Hector  le  Brun.  And  these  were  the  proper  words 
which  were  there  written :  LoyauUe  passe  toutt  el  faulsete  si  honnit  tout,  et  deceit 
tons  kommes  dedans  quals  elk  se  herherge.^  Upon  this  his  conscience  smites  him 
with  such  remorse  for  having  sinned  in  intention,  that  he  instantly  stabs  himself. 
The  lady,  who  is  called  by  no  other  name  than  La  Belle  Dame  de  Maloanc,  prevents 
him  from  repeating  the  blow,  and  after  a  while  Red  Danayn  finds  them  in  this  situ- 
ation. The  whole  truth  is  acknowledged  to  him,  and  he,  not  to  be  wanting  in  gen- 
erosity, loves  Gyron  more  than  ever  for  this  his  courtesy,  as  it  is  termed,  and  takes 
him  home  to  Maloanc,  where  he  is  soon  healed.  During  all  this  time  Gyron  is  only 
known  to  this  family,  the  rest  of  the  world  supposing  him  to  be  dead.  A  great  deal 
concerning  Hector  le  Brun  is  related  by  way  of  episode  to  King  Meliadus,  and  Gy- 
ron occasionally  hears  stories  of  himself  introduced  with  considerable  skill,  as  well  as 
interest,  to  raise  his  character. 

**  This  part  of  the  Romance,  though  interrupted  with  some  episodical  matter,  has 
more  unity  of  purpose  than  is  usual  in  such  works.  There  is  no  other  division  than 
that  of  chapters ;  but  in  what  may  be  called  the  second  part,  the  character,  or  more 
properly  the  conduct  of  the  two  friends  is  reversed.  Red  Danayn  going  to  escort  a 
damsel  for  Gyron,  to  whom  she  appertains,  betrays  his  trust,  and  carries  her  off; 
Gyron  pursues  him,  and  overtaking  him  at  last,  defeats  him  after  a  desperate  com- 
bat, and  though  he  had  determined  to  take  his  life,  spares  him  for  the  sake  of  cour- 
tesy. Immediately  afterwards  he  rescues  him  from  a  giant  The  incidental  parts 
in  this  division,  are,  a  story  of  Galahalt  le  Brun,  with  whom  Gyron  in  his  youth  had 
been  companion ;  and  a  curious  adventure  of  Breus  sans  pitie,  in  which  he  finds  the 
bodies  of  Febus  and  the  damsel  of  Northumberland  in  a  house  hewn  in  a  rock ;  and 
learns  their  history  from  the  son  of  Febus,  a  very  old  man,  who  in  this  habitation 
leads  a  life  of  penance  with  his  son,  which  son  is  the  father  of  Gyron,  a  fact  of  which 
Gyron  is  ignorant,  he  it  appears  being  in  the  predicament  of  Prince  Prettyman. 
Then  comes  an  excellent  adventure  of  the  knight  sans  paour  in  the  valley  of  Serfage, 
where  Naban  the  black  makes  serfs  of  every  person  who  enters  :  the  reader  is  refer- 
red for  the  sequel  to  the  Romance  of  Meliadus.  Danayn  in  his  turn  delivers  Gyron 
and  his  damsel,  who  had  been  betrayed,  and  were  tied  to  a  tree  that  they  might 
suffer  from  the  severity  of  the  weather  in  the  cold  country  of  Sorolois.  These  knights 
are  now  reconciled ;  they  separate,  each  seeking  adventures,  both  are  made  prison- 
ers ;  and  we  are  referred  to  the  history  of  Meliadus  for  their  release,  *  the  Latin 
book  from  which  this  was  translated  saying  no  farther.'  The  Romance  ends  with 
a  chapter  in  which  Galineus  the  white,  son  of  Gyron  and  the  Damsel,  who  was  bom 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  defeats  the  best  knights  of  the  Round  Table  one  after  an- 
other ;  but  he  is  a  wicked  knight  himself,  having  been  wickedly  brought  up  by  the 
false  traitor  who  imprisoned  his  father. 

"  Francis  the  first  of  France  preferred  this  to  all  other  books  of  chivalry,  and  for, 
that  reason  commanded  Luigi  Alamanni  to  versify  it  in  Italian  ;  the  command  was 
repeated  by  his  successor  Henry  11 ;  but  Alamanni  added  little  to  his  reputation  by 
the  poem ;  the  easy  sweetness  of  his  verse  is  less  delightful  than  the  simplicity  and 
strength  of  the  old  prose.  The  poet  has  justly  praised  the  morality  of  his  story ;  I 
know  no  other  Romance  so  completely  free  from  all  impurities  of  thought  or  language ; 
there  are  indications  enough  in  it  of  an  immoral  age,  but  it  seems  as  if  the  vmter 
had  escaped  the  contagion." 

VOL  II  A  A 


354  HISTORIC  SCTRYEY 

These  Arabian  Nights  are  translated  from  Wieland's 
Wintermarcheny  a  German  constellation  of  Tales^  first 
published  by  him  in  1776.  The  original  prologue, 
which  introduces  Sheherezade  as  the  narratress^  has 
been  suppressed,  because  it  seemed  to  interfere  with 
the  integrity  of  the  poem,  which  may  conveniently  be 
separated  into  five  segments : 

1.  The  Fisherman  and  the  Genius. 

2.  The  Fishes  and  the  Sultan. 

3.  The  Sultan's  Pilgrimage. 

4.  The  King  of  the  Black  Isles. 

5.  The  Asses  Head. 

THE  FISHERMAN  AND  THE  GENIUS. 

A  fishermany  in  days  of  yore^ 
Was  lingering  weary  on  the  shore 
Of  Malabar ;  his  hair  so  gray, 
And  wetted  with  the  salt  sea-spray, 
Wav*d  in  the  chilly  morning-air. 
He  stood,  and  gaz'd  with  gloomy  glance 
Upon  the  billows'  idle  dance, 
And  sighing  bnish'd  his  brows  askance, 
And  wrung  bis  withered  hands  for  care. 
^'  Thus  to  toil  on  with  all  my  might 
In  wet  and  cold  the  live-long  night. 
And,  now  the  sky  is  getting  bright, 
Not  to  have  caught  a  single  fin. — 
My  four  poor  children,  and  my  wife, 
Are  waiting  for  the  staff  of  life ; 
Ere  this  their  hungry  bellies  yearn :  . 
If  empty-handed  I  return, 
'T  will  make  my  heart  grow  sick  within. 
Four  children — not  a  bit  of  bread — 
Allah,  take  pity  on  my  head  ; 
Thy  blessing  on  this  hawl  be  sent ! 
With  little  I  can  be  content." 


I 


•     OP  GEMIAN  POETRY.  355* 

Once  more  he  rows  his  narrow  boandi 
And  flings  the  circling  net  around^ 
Then  lands,  and  draws  the  ends  aground. 
Plies  his  alternate  handiworks, 
Watches,  the  lessening  ring  of  corks, 
-And  feels,  j^ith  palpitating  joy, 
His  is  not  now  a  vain  employ : 
He  pulls  against  some  weighty  burden. 
"  Thank  God !  I  now  shall  have  my  guerdon ; 
My  luck  is  tum'd,  my  chance  is  coming ; 
How  my  poor  brats,  and  my  good  woman. 
Will  jump  for  joy,  and  laugh,  and  cry. 
That  father's  load  is  of  good  omen." 
So  thought  he,  looking  thankfully 
Up  to  the  dawn-embellish'd  sky. 

Hope's  blushes  are  but  transient  glows ; 
Soon  were  to  follow  ohs,  and  woes ; 
When  he  has  slowly  dragg'd  his  treasure 
Upon  the  pebbly  beach. 
He  only  finds  in  sad  displeasure 
Within  his  reach, 

O'ergrown  with  sea-weed,  slime,  and  shells. 
An  asses  skull,  and  nothing  else. 

The  old  man's  arms,  and  spirits,  sink. 
Standing  beside  the  ocean-brink. 
He  stares  in  silent  fury  round 
Now  on  the  skeleton  aground, 
Now  on  his  net,  so  tatter'd,  broke. 
Now  casts  to  heaven  a  bitter  look. 
The  mournful  miurmurs  of  the  wave. 
The  mournful  gusts  athwart  the  cave. 
Seem  to  repeat  each  heavy  groan. 
"  Why  stand  you  here  in  hopeless  moan  ? 
(So  comes  a  thought  across  his  soul,) 
Plunge  in ;  and  that  will  end  the  whole." 

Just  then  the  earliest  sun-beams  glow'd, 
And  clad  in  glory  every  cloud, 

Aa  2 


356  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

He  feels  the  all-enlhreniiig  day 
Shoot  through  hb  frame  a  cheering  ray; 
Like  melting  mists  his  sorrows  fly ; 
And  faith  and  hope  again  are  nigh. 
For  the  third  time,  with  moil  and  sweat. 
He  rinses,  spreads,  and  hawls  his  net. 

"  'T  is  heavier  now  sure  than  before." 
With  pain  he  tugs  it  to  the  shore, 
Lands  the  last  loop,  pries  anxiously. 
Finds  he  has  caught  no  fish  to  fry. 
Though  he  discovers  in  the  place 
A  rusty,  brazen,  oval  vase. 
To  lift  it  asks  a  sturdy  hand. 
*'  A  treasure,  on  my  life,  a  treasure  !*' 
He  cries,  and  drops  for  very  pleasure 
His  ponderous  burden  on  the  sand. 
"  Should  there  be  nought  within  the  rand," 
Thinks  he,  ^^  1 11  take  it  to  the  brazier, 
*T  will  fetch  at  least  wherewith  to  keep 
My  little  ones  a  week  from  famine." 
He  kneels  beside  it  to  examine. 
Finds  on  the  rim,  indented  deep, 
A  spacious  hieroglyphic  seal. 
Whose  hidden  meaning  to  reveal 
Might  puzzle  a  Benares  bramin. 
This,  without  crushing,  he  removes. 
The  lifted  lid  aside  he  shoves, 
Looks,  reaches  in — with  such  strange  gear 
To  seal  up  nothing,  he  thinks  queer. 

Slowly  a  dingy  smoak  unrolls 
Out  of  the  vesseFs  hollow  womb. 
Steeping  the  land  and  sea  in  gloom. 
Wider  and  wider  seems  to  creep. 
And  cowers  a  mountain  o'er  the  deep. 
The  billows  swell,  the  storm-wind  howls. 
Quenched  is  the  sun,  pale  lightnings  sweep 
The  skies,  and  hollow  thunder  growls. 


OF  OBRMAN  POETRY.  357 

The  fishermaiii  with  fear  aghast, 
Stands,  like  a  statue,  rooted  fast* 

A  deadly  stillness  follows  now. 
The  billowing  mist  heaves  to  and  fro, 
Thickens,  contracts,  above,  below, 
Conglomerates,  dimly  gathers  shape. 
And,  through  the  grayer  robe  of  cloud. 
Which  falls  aright,  aleft,  around. 
In  many  a  sweeping  dusky  fold, 
.  A  formidable  spirit  showed 
His  monstrous  limbs  of  giant  mold. 
Beneath  his  footstep  flames  escape, 
And  quakes  and  rocks  the  solid  ground. 

The  fisherman,  with  fear  unmann*d, 
Be^ns  to  think  of  his  last  hour ; 
Totter  his  knees,  he  sinks  before 
The  presence  of  a  higher  power. 
And  tumbles  prostrate  on  the  shore. 
The  Grenius  caught  him  by  the  hand ; 
*T  was  like  a  drop  of  comfort  to  him, 
And  shoots  new  life  and  courage  through  him, 
Hb  heart  grows  warm,  his  hopes  expand. 

The  spirit  said  with  gentle  voice ; 
'*  You  are  my  saviour.    Know  my  name 
Is  Eblis.    You  have  freed  my  firame. 
And  once  again  the'  Immortal  lives, 
And  in  his  being  can  rejoice. 
No  less  than  seven  thousand  Divs 
Obeyed  me  always  as  their  master, 
Until  that  hour  of  dark  disaster. 
When  Solomon,  not  overcame, 
The  will  not  e'en  a  god  can  tame; 
For  while  his  spell-girt  hand  confin'd  me 
Within  this  cursed  caldron's  brim. 
Bent  for  a  thousand  years  to  bind  me, 
Defiance  strain'd  each  struggling  limb. 
He  felt  I  yielded  not  to  him. 


358  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

"  Stm  to  uplift  this  charmed  lid, 
Closed  by  the  all-might  of  his  seal. 
The  strongest  spirit  is  forbid ; 
Whose  spurn  might  crush  a  world  to  dust. 
Or  bid  the  planets  backward  wheel, 
This  seal  alone — respect  he  must. 
While  you,  weak  child  of  flesh  and  blood, 
Have  lifted  it,  or,  by  your  hand, 
That  Destiny,  which  none  withstand. 
But  *t  is  all  one.    I  mean  your  good. 
Your  date  of  sorrow  too  is  spent. 
You  Ve  had  hard  measure  in  your  prime, 
And  not  enjoy'd  the  goods  of  time ; 
Come,  follow  me,  your  fates  relent.*' 

The  fisherman,  perplex'd  full  sore. 
And  wondering  ever  more  and  more, 
Lets  his  conducter  stalk  before, 
Up  hiU,  down  hill,  o'er  rock  and  rill. 
Through  bush  and  ru^h,  through  wood  and  moor. 
Through  thick  and  thin,  through  field  and  heath. 
He  tramps,  scarse  venturing  to  fetch  breath, 
And  doubting  if  he  's  broad  awake. 
The  march  was  silent,  long  and  dreary ; 
And  the  old  man  grew  rather  weary, 
When  he  and  EbUs  reach'd  a  lake. 
Amid  a  desert  valley  spread, 
Smooth  as  a  mirror,  bright  and  clear 
As  the  blue  heavens  overhead, 
With  woody  hiUs  on  all  sides  near. 

The  startled  fisherman  stood  still. 
^'  I  ought,  methinks,  to  know  each  station. 
That 's  hereabouts  in  reputation ; 
I  've  fished  in  every  pool  and  rill : 
And  yet  I  never  saw  this  water. 
I  hope  it  is  not  conjuration. 
By  means  of  which  it  has  been  brbught  here." 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  369 

The  spirit  read  his  every  thought, 
As  were  it  written  on  his  brow : 
But  only  said :  "  Observe  me  now ; 
Once  every  morning,  if  you  wish. 
You  may  provide  yourself  with  fish 
In  this  lone  lake ;  but  oftener  not : 
Remember  well  the  road^  the  spot.'* 

So  with  a  voice  of  thimder  spake 
The  spirit-king,  and  vanish'd  strait. 
Long  trenibled  both  the  land  and  lake ; 
And,  from  the  many  hills  around, 
Like  waters,  that  with  headlong  weight 
From  rock  to  rock  rebound  and  break. 
Was  echoed  back  the  awful  sound. 

*'  Is  this  a  dream  ?"  the  old  man  cries. 
Rubbing  his  forehead  for  surprize, 
"  Does  the  seraub^  but  entertain 
With  mimic  waves  my  cheated  brain  ? 
No :  't  is  a  lake ;  and  deep,  and  clear. 
And  full  of  fish.    How  brisk  they  play, 
And  swarm,  and  scriggle  every  where ! 
How  fine  they  seem !   Troth,  they  are  able. 
Presented  in  a  golden  tray, 
To  decorate  a  sultan's  table. 
I  '11  try  my  luck."    With  glee  he  spread 
A  casting  net  beside  his  head. 
Gave  it  a  fuU-orb'd  fling,  pulls  in,  and  finds 
Four  noble  fish  of  sundry  kinds. 
"  Enough  for  once,"  quoth  he,  bereaves 
The  willows  of  some  twigs  and  leaves. 
Packs  up  his  severalities. 
And  to  the  tower'd  metropolis, 


1  Seraub.  The  seraub,  or  mirage,  is  thus  described  in  Morier's  Persia^  vol.  i, 
p.  193.  **  The  greatest  part  of  the  plain  is  of  a  soil  strongly  impregnated  with  salt ; 
and,  as  in  every  other  distiict  of  the  same  quality,  we  witnessed  the  curious  effects 
of  the  vapor  called  ser-aub,  which  overspread  the  plain,  giving  it  the  appearance  of 
a  pool  of  standing  water." 


360  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Rich  as  an  emir  in  conceit, 
Returns  with  wings  upon  his  feet. 

What  most  of  all  delights  his  view 
Is  the  strange  fishes*  motley  hue. 
Of  the  four  captives  in  his  trammel 
The  one  is  yellow,  t*  other  red. 
Silver  a  third,  a  fourth  is  blue, 
Each  all  alike  from  tail  to  head, 
Yet  bright  and  sparkling  as  enamel. 
*'  If  dealings  there  have  been  undue — 
But  mush !  our  withers  are  unwrung, 
Use  the  good  luck,  and  hold  our  tongue.*' 

The  fisherman,  a  little  harassed 
With  all  these  unexpected  sallies. 
And  eager  to  be  disembarass'd. 
Was  glad  to  reach  the  city-gate. 
And  hasten'd  to  the  sultan's  palace. 
Who  in  divan,  at  hour  of  noon. 
Sat  pondering — smoaking  a  kaieoon.^ 
When  the  divan  broke  up  its  state. 
The  fisherman  sent  in  his  present. 
The  sultan,  tike  a  man  of  mind. 
Made  light  of  it,  yet  inly  smiVd, 
Counts  on  his  dinner,  like  a  child, 
And  felt  his  temper  vastly  pleasant, 
"  The  fish  be  to  the  cook  consigned. 


2  Kaleoon,  The  water-pipe,  or  smoaking  apparatus  of  the  orientals,  is  called  a 
kaleoon.  Although  the  herb  tobacco,  which  is  said  to  have  been  first  brought  from 
America  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  has  now  by  universal  consent  obtained  the  prefer- 
ence as  the  material  of  inhalation :  yet  some  other  form  of  smoaking,  hemp-leaves 
perhaps,  was  in  use  among  the  ancients ;  for  Athenseua,  in  his  first  book,  quotes  from 
the  Greek  comic  poet  Crobylus  these  words : 

Kafjuvog  oux  av^^ca^og. 

And  I  will  sweetly  bum  my  throat  with  cuttings— 
A  chimney,  not  a  man. 

Now,  as  in  the  preceding  line,  the  smoaker  boasts  of  his  Idsean  fingers,  it  is  plain, 
that  every  one  rolled  up  his  sharoot  for  himself. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  361 

With  hints  to  do  thpm  proper  honor ; 
And,  tell  my  treasurer,  I  please 
To  issue  for  the  loyal  donor 
A  purse  of  forty  gold  roopees." 

A  purse  of  forty  gold  roopees 
For  the  poor  naked  fisherman ! 
Guess  if  he  trotted  home  at  ease. 
There  let  us  leave  the  good  old  man, 
Surrounded  by  his  household  clan, 
Counting  his  inonies  one  by  one. 
Holding  them  up  before  the  sun. 
Telling  his  wife  the  wondrous  story. 
Which  she  has  no  desire  to  shorten. 
^^  The  spirit,  troth,  has  kept  his  word ; 
This  is  for  me  a  day  of  glory : 
Jf  every  morning  this  occurr'd. 
But  for  a  week,  't  would  make  my  fortune." 


THE  FISHES  AND  THE  SULTAN. 

What  past  at  court  be  next  our  bent ; 
Where,  as  the  chronicle  avers. 
The  grand  vizier,  whose  foresight  went 
As  far  as  most  prime  ministers*. 
Was  wisely  versed  in  kitchen  matters, 
And  the  philosophy  of  platters. 
And,  well  convinc'd,  that,  in  a  state. 
The  stomach  is  the  real  gate 
To  favor  with  the  high  and  great. 
Accordingly  his  way  was  clear. 
With  his  own  gracious  hands  he  took 
The  fishes  to  the  master-cook. 
And,  though  he  thought  them  rather  dear, 
Urg'd  him  to  spare  nor  cost,  nor  pains, 
But  to  develop  all  his  brains, 
In  making  them  quite  palateable. 
And  worthy  of  the  sultan's  table. 


362  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The*  obedient  cook  lost  not  a  minute ; 
He  scales^  embowels,  trims  the  fishes. 
Calls  for  a  saucepan  of  red  wine, 
Washes  them  out  and  inside  in  it, 
Minces  the  mingled  farce-meat  fine. 
Rubs  in  the  spices,  warms  the  dishes ; 
In  short  fulfils  the  sacred  rites 
Of  kitchen-worship,  as  behights 
A  priest  of  Comus  in  renown. 
Scarse  were  the  fishes  nicely  brown, 
When  he,  with  fork  in  hand,  begip 
To  turn  them  in  the  frying  pan.    f. 

0 

At  once  a  maiming  shudder  thrills 
Through  every  limb,  and  stays  his  arm 
Spell-bound  by  some  mysterious  charm. 
A  radiance,  as  of  sunshine,  fills  9* 
The  dingy  vault ;  and  firom  the  wall, 
Which  silently  was  cleft  asunder. 
Forth  stept  a  lady  stately,  tall. 
For  beauty  quite  a  dazzling  wonder. 
As  were  she  of  the  Perie  race ; 
Power  in  her  eye,  her  movement  grace. 
A  garment  of  white  satin  strolFd 
About  her  hips  in  many  a  fold, 
And  at  the  bosom  was  controFd 
By  diamond  clasps.    Beside  her  face 
Light^yellow  curling  tresses  play. 
And  shade  a  neck,  which  to  embrace 
Some  kings  would  give  whole  towns  away. 
The  coil  of  pearls,  that  on  it  lay, 
Against  her  snowy  skin  seem'd  gray. 
Her  arms  so  taper,  plump  and  round. 
Were  each  with  rubv  bracelets  bound. 

The  cook  look'd  up  in  fixt  amaze. 
Wishing  he  had  a  hundred  eyes 
To  bask  in  such  a  beauteous  gaze. 
The  lady  heeds  not  his  surprize ; 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  363 

But  solemnly  approached  the  pan. 
Thrice  with  a  sprig  of  myrtle  smote   • 
The  quiet  fishes,  and  began : 
"  Fishes  are  you 
To  duty  true  ?" 
The  fishes  utter'd  not  a  note. 
A  second  time  the  lady  said : 
"  Fishes  are  you 
To  duty  true  ?" 
The  fishes  did  not  lift  a  head. 
For  the  tAaf/^  time  the  lady  spoke : 
"  Fiil^s  are  you 
To  duty  true  ?" 
And  now  the  %h  began  to  croak. 
And  rais'd  thefr  heads,  and  sang  amain, 
In  choral  notes,  this  mystic  strain : 

'^  Fishes,  ^&es,  insects,  birds, 

Alike  ob^y  allmighty  words. 

Mosle%4^hristian,  Giaour,  Jew, 

At#>all  alike  to  duty  true* 

We  spend  the  day  in  ceaseless  moil, 

And  fare  but  poorly  for  our  toil. 

We  faithfully  come  forth  to  reckon. 

When  you  and  yours  are  pleas'd  to  beckon. 

We  pay  your  debts  as  well  as  ours. 

Nor  murmur  at  the  higher  powers. 

We  hope,  and  wish,  and  pray,  and  prate. 

But  cannot  guess  the  will  of  fate." 
Now  the  four  fish  gave  o'er  their  hum. 
And  bow'd  their  heads,  as  stricken  dunib : 
The  lady  overturn'd  the  pan ; 
And  through  the  wall,  whence  she  had  come. 
She  disappear'd  again. 

The  cook  stood  petrified,  aghast, 
Scarsely  believing  what  had  past; 
And  hesitates  if  to  aspire 
To  save  the  fishes  from  the  fire : 
And  when,  with  his  long  fork,  he  caught  'em. 


364  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Lo !  they  were  charcoal  top  and  bottom. 
Now  the  poor  fellow,  frightened  sore. 
Ran  up  and  down  the  kitchen  stair. 
Tore  out  whole  handfuls  of  his  hair, 
And,  in  his  terrible  despair, 
Howl'd  like  a  madman,  stamped  and  swore 
"  What  can  I  say  to  gain  belief? 
No  lion  rages  like  our  chief: 
With  sultans  't  is  in  vain  to  reason : 
He  '11  hang  me  by  the  neck  for  treason." 

Mean  while  appears  the  grand  vizier 
To  take  the  fishes  up  to  table  ; 
And  only  finds,  O  lamentable ! 
Charcoal,  instead  of  dainty  cheer. 
The  cook  fell  prostrate  at  his  view. 
And  told  him  all  the  wondrous  scene, 
With  such  an  honest  air  and  mien. 
An  atheist  would  have  felt 't  was  true. 
"  I  read  the  fact,  friend,  in  your  face," 
Says  the  vizier ;  ^'  but  to  the  sultan 
I  dare  not  certify  the  case : 
He  'II  think  me  hoaxing  and  insulting : 
Strange  things  no  doubt  may  come  to  be ; 
But  to  believe  them  one  must  see. 
I  '11  smooth  him  down  with  idle  gear. 
From  which  he  '11  turn  his  head  away. 
Or  listen  with  but  half  an  ear; 
He  11  hardly  care  to  own  much  sorrow : 
And  if  he  gets  his  fish  to-morrow. 
We  '11  make  him  easy  for  to-day." 

The  fisherman  receives  a  warning. 
And  under  pain  of  high  displeasure. 
To  bring,  at  breakfast  time  next  morning. 
Four  fishes  of  the  former  measure. 
The  old  man  flinches  in  his  hide : 
"  What  if  the  place  cannot  be  found — 
Who  takes  a  spirit  for  his  guide 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  365 

Not  always  walks  on  solid  ground." 

So  thought  he,  yet,  by  day-break  bolder, 

He  hoists  his  net  upon  his  shoulder, 

Tramps  the  strange  road  he  took  before, 

Up  hill,  down  hill,  o'er  rock  and  rill, 

Through  bush  and  thicket,  wood  and  moor. 

He  finds  again  the  lonely  lake ; 

Again  four  fish  his  trammels  take  ; 

One  red,  one  yellow,  't  other  blue, 

The  fourth  of  glistening  silver  hue. 

He  bears  th«n  home,  obtains  for  fees 

Another  forty  gold  roopees ; 

And  leaves  contentedly  his  seizure 

In  keeping  of  the  cook  and  vizier. 

His  excellency,  bent  to  look 
On  all  with  scrutinizing  eye. 
Shut  himself  up  with  the  chief  cook. 
Who  felt  the  honor  sensibly. 
And  did  his  utmost  to  display 
More  genius  still  than  yesterday. 
Hoping  to  earn  a  high  renown. 
When  on  one  side  the  fish  were  brown. 
The  cook,  with  fork  in  hand,  began 
To  turn  them  in  the  frying  pan. 

At  once  a  flash  of  brightness  tore 
The  dingy  vault,  and  from  the  wall 
Forth  stept  the  lady  as  before. 
So  beautiful,  majestic,  tall. 
In  her  white  satin  garment  drest, 
With  clasps  of  diamond  at  the  breast, 
On  either  wrist  a  ruby  band. 
And  holding  in  her  small  white  hand 
With  graceful  state  a  myrtle  wand. 
She  solemnly  approach'd  the  pan. 
Thrice  with  her  verdant  sceptre  prest 
The  conscious  fishes,  and  began : 

"  Fishes,  are  you 

To  duty  true  V 


366  HISTORIC  StTRVEY 

Andy  when  for  the  thurd  time  she  spoke^ 
The  fishes  all  began  to  croak, 
And  rais*d  their  heads  and  sang  amain 
In  choral  notes  their  mystic  strain : 
'^  Fishes,  fleshes,  insects,  birds. 
Alike  obey  aUmighty  words. 
Moslem,  Christian,  Giaour,  Jew, 
Are  all  alike  to  duty  true. 
We  spend  the  day  in  ceaseless  moil. 
And  fare  but  poorly  for  our  toil. 
We  faithfully  come  forth  to  reckon, 
When  you  and  yours  are  pleas'd  to  beckon. 
We  pay  your  debts,  as  well  as  ours, 
Nor  murmur  at  the  higher  powers. 
We  hope,  and  wish,  and  pray,  and  prate. 
But  cannot  guess  the  will  of  fate.'* 
And  now  the  fish  gave  o'er  their  hum, 
And  bow'd  their  heads,  as  stricken  dumb ; 
The  lady  overtum'd  the  pan ; 
And  through  the  wall,  whence  she  had  come, 
She  disappeared  again. 

''  By  all  my  beard !  this  is  too  bad," 
Quoth  the  vizier,  "  for  who  can  own 
He  witness'd  incidents  like  those 
And  pass  for  one  not  crack'd  at  crown  ? 
Sure  't  is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 
Not  to  be  able  to  expose 
What  happens  underneath  one's  nose. 
Seeing  with  one's  own  eyes  is  seeing ; 
And  if  Philosophy  in  person, 
With  all  her  consequential  airs  on, 
Came  dogmatizing,  disagreeing, 
Proving  I  neither  saw  nor  heard : 
With  a  good  kick  I  'd  send  her  packing,     *■ 
And  not  allow  another  word. 
And  yet  the  sultan  will  be  lacking 
Belief  in  what  we  must  declare. 
Nor  can  I  blame  him  to  beware  : 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  367 

It  sounds  so  like  a  fever-dream. 
Stilly  whatsoever  be  may  deem^ 
Our  testimonies  must  agree ; 
So  let  him  come  himself^  and  see" 

The  sultan  listen'd  with  due  patience 
To  both  their  wonderful  narrations^ 
Now  brush'd  his  whiskers,  frownc'd  his  brow, 
Or  shook  his  head,  or  utter'd  "  How  ?" 
And,  when  the  story  was  concluded, 
Said :  "  I  '11  believe  it  when  I  Ve  view'd  it," 

The  fisherman  is  bid  once  more 
His  reservoirs  to  explore : 
Who  begg'd)  as  't  was  some  length  of  way, 
For  four  and  twenty  hours  delay. 
He  left  the  town,  ere  break  of  day. 
Took  the  same  road  he  trudg'd  before. 
Up  hill,  down  hill,  o'er  rock  and  rill, 
Through  bush  and  thicket,  wood  and  nioor, 
And,  finds  with  joy  the  lonely  lake 
Still  in  its  place.    His  txiammels  take 
Again  four  fish  of  several  hue, 
Red,  yellow,  silver-gray,  and  blue. 
**  This  Eblis,"  thought  he,  *^  has  some  feeling ; 
I  hardly  hop'd  such  honest  dealing.". 
His  prize  brought  home,  he  earns  with  ease 
Another  forty  gold  roopees ; 
And  thinks  the  hundred  coins  and  twenty 
Have  stationed  him  in  lasting  plenty. 

The  sultan,  not  without  some  awe. 
Handles  the  fishes,  back  and  belly. 
Admires  their  glistening  scales  so  shelly. 
Examines  head,  tail,  fin,  mouth,  maw. 
Tries  if  they  will  not  speak — in  vain ; 
And,  after  all  his  care  and  pain. 
Only  discovers  they  are  fish  : 
But,  troubled  with  an  anxious  wish 


368  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

To  know  what  further  would  betide^ 
Shuts  himself  up  with  the  vizier, 
The  fishes,  and  the  cooking  gear, 
And  bolts  the  door  on  the  inside ; 
Lets  fire  be  kindled  by  his  guide, 
Watches  in  turn  the  pan,  the  wall. 
Those  stepping-stones  of  the  strange  story. 
Professing,  for  his  safer  glory. 
Not  to  believe  a  word  of  alL 

The  grand  vizier,  long  wont  to  think 
Obedience  to  his  master's  wink 
His  highest  duty,  highest  joy, 
Makes  ready  for  his  new  employ ; 
Binds  a  white  apron  round  his  waist. 
Is  soon  before  the  dresser  placed, 
Picks  each  utensil  to  his  wish. 
Scales,  and  embowels  all  the  fish ; 
Washes  them  thoroughly  in  wine. 
Minces  the  spicy  farce-meat  fine. 
And  dipt  in  egg,  and  dredg*d  with  flour. 
Lays  in  due  order  all  the  four. 
As  if  he  really  hop*d  to  dine. 
He  piles  and  stirs  the  fire  anon. 
Brightens  the  charcoal  with  a  fan, 
Pours  oil  into  the  frying  pan. 
Puts  in  the  fish,  and  sets  it  on. 
The  sultan,  pleas'd  to  apprehend 
Such  novel  talents  in  his  friend, 
Exclaims :  "  Indeed  the  men  that  tell 
Are  those  who  can  do  all  things  well." 

The  fish  were  nicely  brown'd  erelong 
On  the  one  side,  and,  with  a  prong 
Of  gold,  the  vizier  turn'd  them  over. 
Again  the  wall  asunder  tore : 
Stead  of  the  lady,  they  discover 
Fierce  stalking  forth  a  giant  Moor : 
A  fiery  coloured  garb  he  wore. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  369 

And  angrily  approach'd  the  pan, 
Rais'd  the  green  branchlet  in  his  hand, 
Thrice  smote  the  fishes  with  the  wand, 
And  in  a  thundering  voice  began : 

*'  Fishes  are  you 

To  duty  true  ?" 
The  fish  were  more  alert  a  deal ; 
They  did  not  wait  his  third  appeal, 
Perhaps  because  this  ruffian  Moor 
Had  boxed  their  ears  unceremoniously. 
They  lifted  up  their  heads  once  more. 
And  sang  with  open  mouths  harmoniously, 
The  very  words,  which  twice  before 
They  said  by  heart  so  unerroneously ; 
Then  felt  their  closing  lips  in  ban. 
The  negro  overtum*d  the  pan, 
Flung  the  four  fishes  on  the  earth. 
Black  as  the  charcoal  in  the  hearth, 
And,  having  satisfied  his  gall, 
He  vanished  through  the  closing  wall. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  your  highness  so  V 
Says  the  vizier ;  **  except  the  Moor^ 
'T  is  the  same  vision  as  before. 
I  own,  I  should  prefer  to  show 
The  lovely  lady,  and  her  curls. 
In  her  white  satin,  and  her  pearls ; 
But  at  the  last 't  is  all  the  same : 
Both  disappear  just  whence  they  came.*' 

The  sultan  answer'd :  "  What  we  see 
Seems  beyond  possibility ; 
And  robs  me  of  repose  of  mind. 
The  cause  of  this  I  will  outfind ; 
And,  till  I  bring  it  to  the  proof, 
I  '11  sleep  no  more  beneath  this  roof." 

The  fisherman  is  straitway  sent  for. 
"  Those  fish  you  brought  us  yesterday 

VOL.  II.  B  B 


370  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Don't  seem  to  be  what  they  were  meant  for : 
Whence  do  you  get  them^  fellow^  say  ?*' 

"  Out  of  a  lake/'  the'  old  man  replied^ 
"  Spreading  along  yon  mountain-side. 
Which  from  the  window  you  discern; 
On  horse-back  't  is  not  an  hour's  ride." 

"  I  know  the  country  ten  miles  round, 
Resum'd  the  sultan,  wood  and  fern, 
Village  and  waste,  hill,  swamp,  and  brake ; 
I  've  hunted  over  it  many  a  year. 
And  travers'd  every  rod  of  ground : 
Yet  I  can  recollect  no  lake. 
Do  you  remember  one,  vizier?" 

"  I  never  heard,  before  to-day. 
That  there  was  any  lake  so  near." 

"  We  '11  go  there,  and  without  delay. 
You,  fisherman,  must  be  our  pilot. 
Put  all  my  people  in  array. 
The  court  is  free  to  join  my  way ; 
So  pitch  our  tents  there  before  twilight." 


THE  SULTAN'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Scarse  was  the  sultan's  plan  recounted. 
The  court  is  booted,  spurr'd,  and  mounted. 
And  issues  forth  in  fuU  parade ; 
With  well-coil'd  turbans,  snowy  white, 
Each  with  a  damask  sabre  dight, 
A  stately  glittering  cavalcade. 

To  the  main  street  thick  crouds  resort. 
Forgo  then-  work,  their  meaJs,  their  sport, 
And  wonder  what  can  be  the  matter ; 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  371 

And  why  a  fishman  leads  the  troop. 
Whose  awkward  riding  mars  the  groop ; 
Dispute,  and  guess,  and  gaze,  and  chatter, 
And  are  no  wiser  for  their  smatter. 

Not  far  the  throngs  on  foot  pursue 
The  fleeter  horse,  soon  lost  to  view 
In  clouds  of  dust,  and  winding  vallies. 
The  fisherman  before  them  sallies 
Up  hiU,  down  hill,  o'er  rock  and  rill, 
Through  bush  and  thicket,  wood  and  moor. 
And  brings  them  down  the  mountain-side. 
Where  spread  a  lake  its  waters  wide,  « 

Which  no  one  had  observed  before. 

When  they  drew  near^  and  saw  below 
The  fishes  in  the  wavelets  play, 
Blue,  yellow,  red,  and  silver-gray. 
They  fancied  they  were  looking  through 
Some  magic  glasses  at  a  show; 
And  with  one  voice  exclaim'd,  "  'T  is  clear 
Our  senses  can't  be  trusted  here." 
The  sultan  took  a  solemn  vow 
In  the  untrodden  vale  to  pause, 
Were  it  to  cost  a  year  or  more, 
Till  he  had  ascertain'd  the  cause 
Of  the  strange  wonders  of  the  shore. 

Pavilions  they  unfurl,  and  stake 
Along  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
High  in  the  middle  of  the  mead 
A  kitchen  rears  its  smoaky  head ; 
*  For  the  vizier,  who  shunn'd  no  trouble, 
And  whose  capacious  soul  foresaw 
The  universal  wants  and  wishes 
Would  centre  soon  on  savoury  dishes. 
Made  due  provision  for  the  maw ; 
Being  often  wont  to  quote  this  saw : 
To  empty  stomachs  ills  are  double. 


B   112 


* 


372  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Two  hours  before  the  morrow's  dawn^ 
While  scattered  on  the  tented  lawn 
The  sprawling  court  lay  buried  deep 
In  fumes  of  wine,  and  dreams  of  sleep. 
The  sultan  summon'd  his  vizier 
And  said :  **  I  want  your  private  ear : 
No  contradiction  I  beseech : 
To  shake  me  is  beyond  your  reach. 
I  'am  bent  these  wonders  to  explore, 
Whether  it  cost  me  less,  or  more, 
Of  time,  of  toil,  of  thought,  of  wealth, 
I  '11  stake  upon 't  my  strength,  my  health. 
Farewell  for  better  or  for  worse. 

**  If  in  seven  days  I  am  not  before  you, 
'T  is  easy  to  invent  some  story 
To  pacify  the  questioners.— 
I  've  a  stiff  neck,  or  tooth  or  gum  ache, 
Colic,  or  gout,  or  cramp  of  stomach. 
Govern  meanwhile  the  usual  way  : 
Do  only  what  you  must  to-day ; 
Leave  till  to-morrow  all  you  may ; 
And  trust  futurity  to  God." 

After  this  very  sage  adieu. 
Uprose  the  sultan  arm'd  and  shod, 
Whisper'd  his  prayer,  and  stalk'd  abroad. 
Wandering,  till  day-break  met  his  view. 
Along  the  silent  lonely  coast. 
His  mind  in  strange  forebodings  lost. 
Yet  fixed,  intrepid,  proud,  and  fierce. 

Moumfiil  and  still,  as  sepulchres, 
Lay  hill,  and  dale,  and  wood,  and  lake. 
E'en  the  free  airs  their  death  partake. 
Empty  and  desolate  they  lay. 
As  erst  before  creation-day. 

Two  hours  the  sultan  had  been  straying. 
When  from  the  east  horizon  first 


•  * 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  373 

The  gleams  of  early  sunshine  bursty 
In  their  own  sudden  blaze  arraying 
A  castle  of  bright  polished  steely 
The  woods  seemed  planted  to  conceal. 

When,  in  this  scene  of  desolation. 
The  wanderer  first  perceived  the  station 
Of  a  vast  palace,  tall,  and  stately. 
And  bright  as  crystal,  full  of  glee 
He  said  to  himself:  "  We  soon  shall  see. 
So  Allah  pleases,  what 's  the  meaning 
Of  the  strange  facts  befallen  lately. 
Which  for  three  days  were  so  chagreening — 
The  lake,  which  none  had  seen  before, 
The  fish,  red,  yellow,  blue,  and  gray. 
The  lovely  lady,  and  the  Moor, 
Who  through  the  walling  made  their  way. 
And  what  the  fish  to  duty  true, 
Sang  in  the  pan,  when  broil'd  half  through, 
The  purport  of  all  this,  I  feel. 
Lies  hidden  in  yon  hall  of  steel/' 

Urged  by  such  hopes  he  mends  his  pace ; 
The  nearer  the  enchanted  place, 
The  more  his  Highness  feels  a  qualm, 
A  something  sticking  in  his  throat ; 
Still  he  proceeds,  attains  the  entry. 
Where  neither  man,  nor  beast,  stood  sentry, 
Ascends  the  drawbridge,  crost  a  moat. 
Whose  waters  slept  in  weedy  calm; 
But  not  without,  and  not  within, 
Heard  he  of  life  the  voice,  or  din. 
In  court  and  kitchen,  bower  and  hall, 
'T  is  loneliness,  and  silence,  all, 
As  were  it  but  a  home  of  tombs. 
Nor  slave,  nor  diamsel,  pace  the  rooms. 
No  cat  jumps  up,  no  spanief  comes, 
No  mouse  sneaks  by,  no  blue  fly  hums. 
No  sparrow  chirps,  no  spider  weaves. 
Nor  swallow  nestles  'neath  the  eaves.  '** 


V 


* 


374  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  longer  time  the  sultan  ponders. 
The  greater  awe  inspire  the  wonders. 
4       He  passes  on,  and  every  way 
Apartments  royal  pomp  display ; 
Long  galleries  intersect  the  building ; 
The  walls  and  cielings  gleam  with  gilding ; 
Rich  curtains  veil  the  cedar  doors; 
Gay  carpets  deck  the  marble  floors; 
The  furniture  with  broidery  glistens, 
But  every  where  a  deep  repose. 
The  sultan  steals  about,  and  listens, 
Prying,  downstairs,  upstairs,  he  goes. 
Stops  at  least  seven  times  to  bawl, 
In  vain :  from  passage,  arch,  and  hall. 
Only*  echoes  answer  to  his  call, 
Mocking  each  other's  dying  fall. 

When  he  had  well  explored  the  mansion, 
Admir'd  its  intricate  expansion, 
And  redescended  to  the. soil; 
The  loveliest  garden  met  his  view. 
Which  fairy  fingers  could  bedew. 
The  airs  in  fragrant  billows  coil. 
The  walks  with  little  pearls  are  strown. 
Flowers  of  all  months  the  borders  crown. 
The  myrtle-grove's  mysterious  shade. 
The  roseate  bower,  the  turfy  glade. 
Delighted  him,  where'er  he  stray 'd. 
Trees  bending  fruitage  o'er  the  paths, 
White  marble  fountains,  grotto-baths. 
Arbours  for  slumber — all  in  short 
Was  there  to  tempt  the  saunterer's  stay, 
A  god  might  make  it  his  resort. 
One  only  thing  undid  the  whole, 
Undwelt,  unvisited  it  lay, 
A  paradise  without  a  soul. 

The  wood  is  silent  as  a  ruin. 
No  turtle-dove  is  heard  there  cooing. 
No  climbing  skyjark  sings  in  air, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  375 

No  butterfly  quaffs  odor  there. 
O'er  flowrets  trails  no  speckled  snake. 
No  lizard  wriggles  through  the  brake. 
No  green  frog  leaps  along  the  bank, 
No  fishlet  ripples  in  the  tank ; 
What  lives,  what  mimics  life  to  sight 
Was  from  this  garden  banish'd  quite. 

Bewilder'd  in  his  contemplations. 
The  sultan  wanders  to  and  fro ; 
"  As  yet,"  thinks  he,  "  my  cogitations 
Have  not  decypher'd  this  dumb  show ; 
And  still  each  step  of  my  intrusion 
Persuades  me  firmly,  more  and  more, 
That  all  this  scene  is  but  illusion, 
That  divs  and  spirits  hover  o'er. 
Mock  me,  and,  as  I  shrewdly  dread. 
Reserve  for  me  an  asses  head." 
A  laugh  of  sprites  unseen  was  heard 
To  hail  in  air  the  ominous  word. 

The  sultan's  patient  steps  prest  hard  on 
The  utmost  limits  of  the  garden. 
When  first  a  murmur  caught  his  ear, 
As  of  a  man  who  groan'd  in  pain. 
And  felt  his  hour  of  fate  was  near. 
Quicker  he  marches  toward  the  strain. 

Out  of  a  spacious  oval  pool. 
Which  blocks  of  blackish  marble  bound. 
By  fountains  fed  with  waters  cool, 
And  ^t  with  leafy  lindens  round, 
Arose  a  dome  of  sable  stone. 
Whence  seem'd  to  steal  the'  unceasing  moan. 

The  sultan,  ever  kind  aad  brave. 
Felt  anxious  to  behold  and  save. 
The  tones  k^ft  sensibly  enlarging 
The  nearer  to  the  water's  margin. 


376  HISTORIC  SUBVET 

And  there  he  found  a  small  canoe, 
Fast  to  the  brink  with  golden  clue, 
Loosen'd  it,  ferried  himself  o'er. 
Assisted  by  a  single  oar, 
Landed  on  granite  steps,  ascended, 
And,  through  a  half-way  open  door, 
Into  the  house  of  woe  he  trended. 

Lo  there  he  stands!    Where  shall  I  borrow 
Words  tokening  his  surprize  and  sorrow? 
High  from  aloof  the  pale  light  plunging, 
As  through  the  cranny  of  a  dungeon, 
Serv'd  but  to  show,  beneath  its  roam, 
The  awful  darkness  of  the  dome. 
Which  overcanopied  a  throne 
Enrich'd  with  gems,  that  vainly  shone. 
The  shadow  of  a  monarch's  son 
Alive,  unmoving,  sat  thereon. 
A  scarlet  mantle  wrapt  him  round. 
A  diadem  his  forehead  bound. 
Big  drops  his  downcast  eyes  bedew. 
Thin  was  his  form,  and  pale  of  hue. 
As  had  he,  for  a  course  of  years. 
Fed  only  upon  grief  and  tears. 

Bent  on  the  secret  of  the  case. 
With  help  and  pity  in  his  face. 
The  sultan  now  approach'd,  and  said : 
"  Excuse  me,  whosoe'er  you  be. 
Whose  meanings  seem  to  reach  but  me. 
And  tell  me  why  these  tears  are  shed. 
There  's  nothing  I  would  shun,  or  dread. 
To  set  you  from  your  sufferings  free." 

As  had  the  lightning  touched  his  frame, 
The  startled  king  began  to  exclaim : 
**  What  voice  dares  warble  hope  to  me? 
What  heavenly  vision  do  I  see  ? 
Can  mortal  footstep  here  have  trod  ? 
Deceive  me  not :  art  thou  a  god  ?" 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  377 

The  sultan,  with  this  question  struck, 
Drew  back,  observ'd  with  steady  look 
The  princely  youth,  and  calmly  spake : 
'*  A  humble  mortal  man  draws  nigh, 
Like  you  the  slave  of  destiny : 
But  for  your  service  he  would  wield 
Whatever  Vizapoor  can  yield." 

"  You  are  truly  kind  and  good,"  replied. 
Sighing,  and  in  a  feeble  tone, 
The  living  shadow  on  the  throne, 
'*  Relief  to  me  must  be  denied. 
Always  alas !  in  vain  I  pine ; 
So  strange,  so  singular,  my  woe, 
I  firmly  think  that  here  below 
No  other  sorrow  equals  mine : 
In  all  I  feel  of  sufferers  first. 
In  all  I  feel  not,  more  accurst." 

The  sultan  thought  within  himself: 
He  must  be  fond  of  pretty  phrases. 
Who  lays  his  sorrows  on  the  shelf 
To  sport  with  antithetic  graces. 
But  when  the  other,  firom  his  breast 
And  back,  withdrew  the  scarlet  vest, 
God !  what  a  scene  of  ruthless  rigor. 
What  a  sad  Ecce  Homo  figure 
Stood  to  the  aching  view  confest. 
His  body,  to  the  hips  unveiPd, 
By  scourges  had  been  torn  and  waFd, 
As  had  a  thousand  vipers  met, 
And  with  their  venom  fangs  assail'd :, 
The  quivering  flesh  ^as  bleeding  yet. 
The  sight,  e'en  in  the  hellish  deep. 
Had  melted  angry  fiends  to  weep. 
Shuddering  awhile  the  sultan  stands. 
Covers  his  eyes  with  both  his  hands. 
And  cries :  "  Heaven,  can  thy  thunders  sleep  ?" 


378  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

A  pause  ensuing  long  and  deep. 
The  young  man  broke  the  silence  first : 
'^  As  yet  you  have  not  seen  the  worst." 
And  now  he  lifted  from  his  groins 
The  mantle  wrapt  about  his  loins ; 
''See  where  my  other  woes  are  seated. 
Thus  have  I  been  by  love  ill-treated." 
With  eye-balls  swimming  in  their  tears. 
The  leaning  sultan  looks,  and  hears. 
Handles  the  limbs  with  flinching  shock : 
"  How  strange,  transformed  to  stone  below ! 
Into  black  marble  stone,  I  vow. 
Cold,  hard,  inflexible  as  rock. 
Thy  judgements.  Lord,  on  all  alight ! 
What  are  we  mortals  in  thy  sight  ? 
For  might  not  this  have  chanc'd  to  me, 
As  well  as  to  the  wretch  I  see  ? 
However,  when  one  knows  the  worst. 
No  iurther  sorrow  waits  to  burst. 
Take  courage,  prince,  't  is  passing  clear 
Divs,  magic,  have  been  busy  here. 
But  the  last  drop  of  blood  I  owe, 
I  '11  stake  to  rid  you  of  your  woe. 
Or  perish  with  you  on  the  throw." 

His  hands  enfolded  solemnly, 
With  tear-drops  glistening  in  bis  eye, 
The  marble-prince  said  thankfully : 
''  You  see  it  is  no  fault  of  mine. 
If  I  arise  not  from  my  seat. 
To  clasp  your  knees,  to  kiss  your  feet. 
To  worship  you,  as  I  incline." 

And  now  a  confidential  vein 
Of  talk  came  on — the  sultan  fain 
To  tell  the  story  of  the  fishes. 
And  how  the  marvels  in  their  history 
Had  filled  his  inmost  soul  with  wishes* 
To  penetrate  the  mighty  mystery. 


s 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  379 


And  led  him  on  this  spot  to  travel . 
Hoping  the  secret  to  unravel. 
^^  And  I  suspect/'  he  interjected, 
^'That  all  these  matters  are  connected 
With  your  extraordinary  fate. 
I  'm  more  than  curious,  and  aspire 
To  be  of  use,  when  I  inquire 
How  came  you  into  this  sad  state  V 


THE  KING  OF  THE  BLACK  ISLES. 

The  youth  now  motion'd  to  his  guest 
Upon  the  sofa  to  repose, 
Sigh'd  from  the  bottom  of  his  breast, 
And  thus  began  his  tale  of  woes. 

"  What  always  tempted  us  to  riot. 
What  always  was  the  bane  of  quiet. 
And  has  occasion'd  every  woe 
A  god  has  doom'd  us  to  below  ? 
The  lovely  plague,  the  welcome  curse. 
Shame,  glory,  of  the  universe, 
The'  eternal  idol  of  desire. 
The'  eternal  devil  nurst  in  fire. 
The  snake  of  snakes,  whose  magic  noose 
We  ask,  yet  strive  not,  to  unloose. 
In  short  that  heaven  and  hell  conjoin'd. 
Of  five  unhallow'd  letters  coin'd. 
Woman,  the  flower-strown  road  to  ruin. 
Has  been  the  cause  of  my  undoing. 

^'  I  am  that  Uzim,  not  unfear'd. 
Whose  corsair  fleets  bore  vexing  war 
Up  to  the  shores  of  Malabar, 
Till  hostile  magic  interfer'd 
And  the'  iland-empire  disappear'd. 


380  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

"  When  first  I  saw  the  light  of  day, 
Three  Peries,  friendly  to  my  mother, 
Perch'd  round  the  cradle,  where  I  lay, 
Their  hands  entwin*d  in  one  another. 
And  sang  in  hovering  dance  a  lay. 
Which  prophesied,  she  said,  to  me, 
Afiection,  patience,  constancy. 
Who  in  these  gifts  would  have  foreseen 
Dire  disappointment,  endless  teen  ? 
That 't  was  to  be  my  lot  to  grieve 
From  golden  morn  to  jewelFd  eve ; 
To  the  deaf  heavens  aloud  complain. 
And  spend  my  ceaseless  moan  in  vain. 

"  Of  the  black  ilands  I  was  king : 
Chang'd  to  four  hills,  e'en  now  they  cling 
Around  this  lake,  whose  watery  beat 
Was  once  the  town,  my  royal  seat. 

"  Scarse  was  I  mounted  on  my  throne. 
When  I  resolv'd  to  take  a  wife, 
(My  sins  so  destin'd  to  atone,) 
The  fairest  woman  seen  in  life, 
A  figure,  as  my  passion  thought. 
By  Love's  own  plastic  fingers  wrought. 

«  How  happily  my  days  sped  on ! 
How  gilt  with  sunbeams  all  things  shone  ! 
So  mightily  the  enchantress  knew 
My  inmost  being  to  subdue. 
Delighted  in  her  gaze  to  rest, 
Imparadis'd  upon  her  breast. 
My  soul  was  steep'd  in  floods  of  bliss, 
Joy  was  her  smile,  and  heaven  her  kiss. 
Five  years  roll'd  on,  which  seem'd  to  me 
Five  single  days  of  extasy. 

"  Who  thinks  the  dome  of  heaven  will  sever  ? 
I  lov'd,  I  thought  myself  belov'd. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  381 

And  fancied  this  might  last  for  ever. 
Ah !  why  was  the  deceit  remov'd  ? 
Why  to  the  happy  one  deny. 
Ye  gods^  to  feast  on  his  illusion  ? 
Why  wake  him  but  to  misery^ 
And  rouze  him  but  to  his  confusion  ? 
Fate  so  has  will'd,  can  man  gainsay  ? 

"  Once  on  a  sultry  summer's  day, 
The  hottest  day  in  all  my  life, 
Dispos'd  to  slumber  as  I  lay, 
Stretch'd  in  the  garden  on  a  sofa, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  a  shenaar, 
Conning  from  Hafiz  a  sweet  strophe. 
Two  waiting  damsels  of  my  wife. 
Who  had  observ'd  me  from  afar. 
Came,  with  wet  fans  of  sandal  wood, 
To  cool  the  airs  that  round  me  flow'd. 
And  whiff  the  buzzing  flies  away. 
They  knelt  before  me,  thought  me  sleeping ; 
But  I  could  hear  their  whispers  creeping. 
And  still'd  myself  to  catch  their  say. 

'*  *  How  handsome  our  young  monarch  is,' 
Quoth  one,  *  I  dare  not  steal  a  kiss. 
Though  my  lips  water — the  sultana 
With  happy  women  must  be  reckon'd.' 
'  You  don't  know  all,'  replies  the  second, 

*  There  's  many  a  care  in  a  zenana. 
Princes  are  not  like  other  folks, 

Smiles  are  with  them  but  hatred's  cloaks. 
Who  would  suppose — so  full  of  grace 
As  the  king  is — night  after  night 
Another  comes  to  take  his  place. 
And  riot  in  his  wife's  embrace !' 

*  How  so  ?  you  put  me  in  a  fright.' 

*  She  brings,  at  the  retiring  hour, 
A  golden  cup  of  sparkling  water. 

From  some  far  famous  fountain  brought  her. 


382  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Of  wondrous  soporific  power. 
Good  easy  man,  he  little  thinks 
'T  is  more  than  water  that  he  drinks. 
And  that  till  its  effects  are  over. 
She  strays  in  safety  with  her  lover.* 

"  While  this  was  passing,  how  I  felt 
I  know  not,  wish  not  to  remark. 
My  solid  being  seem'd  to  melt 
Into  a  chaos  billowy,  dark ; 
Earth,  heaven,  lay  heavy  on  my  breast. 
Yet  I  had  force  enough  to  keep 
This  inward  struggle,  deadly  pain. 
From  stranger-witnesses  supprest ; 
To  mimic  deaf  untroubled  sleep ; 
And,  when  I  woke,  I  left  the  twain 
Unconscious  they  had  fir'd  my  brain. 

"  But  when  I  found  myself  alone, 
I  plunged  into  the  wood  to  groan. 
A]l  nature  stood  before  me  black. 
My  knees  bent  under  me,  I  sank 
Stunn'd,  dizzy,  on  a  stony  bank. 
And  lay  like  one  upon  the  rack. 
Surely  it  cannot  be,  I  said. 
It  were  too  foul,  abominable ! 
May  n't  this  designing  woman  fable  ? 
If  I  survive  the  coming  night, 
1 11  watch  what  passes,  and,  till  light. 
Preserve  what  calmness  I  am  able. 

**  It  came  too  slow  for  me,  the  night. — 
We  ate  alone.    How  fair  to  sight. 
How  bath'd  in  beauty's  bloomy  dies 
She  ^low'd,  how  my  devouring  gaze 
Caught  and  reflected  back  the  rays 
Of  love,  that  darted  from  her  eyes ! 
More  innocent  at  every  look 
She  seem'd,  so  sweetly  voic'd  she  spoke. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  383 

Mistrust  my  soften'd  soul  forsook 
So  wholly,  that,  when  at  the  close 
To  fetch  the  golden  cup  she  rose. 
My  project  had  been  half  forgot. 
However  I  fulfilled  my  plot ; 
And,  so  that  she  did  not  suspect, 
I  took  occasion  to  reject. 
From  the  yeranda-trellis  brink, 
The  draught  I  had  appeared  to  drink ; 
Gave  back  to  her  the  beaker  smoothly, 
And  we  retir'd  at  bed-time  soothly. 

"  Scarse  was  the  traitoress  persuaded 
That  sleep  my  tranquil  limbs  invaded, 
When  she  arose.    The  full  moon  shone. 
And  thwart  the  golden  grating  threw 
Into  the  room  its  level  rays, 
On  me  she  bent  a  prying  gaze  : 

*  Sleep  on,'  said  she,  with  stifled  tone, 

*  And  may  you  never  wake  anew !' 
Then  with  a  ready  hand  she  flung 
A  garment  round  her,  and  withdrew. 

*'  No  sooner  was  she  out  of  hearing, 
And  not  exposed  to  take  alarm. 
Than  from  my  restless  couch  I  sprung. 
As  if  by  swarming  wasps  bestung. 
And  sallied  forth,  my  anger  steering, 
A  caftan  round  my  shoulders  slung, 
A  sabre  underneath  my  arm. 
To  fathom  whither  she  was  Bering. 

**  Caution  and  shame  alike  discarding. 
The  wings  of  love  at  both  her  soles. 
She  was  already  in  the  garden. 
And  far  before  me  nimbly  gliding. 
I  seem'd  to  tread  on  burning  coals. 
Stalking  on  tiptoe,  near  the  hedges. 
My  quick  but  stealthy  progress  hiding 
Behind  the  branchlets  flowery  edges. 


384  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

*^  Often  awhile  she  vanish'd :  then 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  again. 
According  as  her  pathway  winded. 
Or  clumps  of  trees,  or  fountains,  blinded. 
At  length  I  wholly  miss'd  her  sight, 
Wonder'd  in  vain  where  she  was  got  to. 
Explored  alcove,  and  bower,  and  grotto. 
The  roving  form  had  ceas'd  to  gHsten — 
'T  was  plung'd  into  the  shades  of  night. 
I  paus'd,  intently  still,  to  listen — 
The  nightingales  gregariously 
On  wavering  boughs  in  moonshine  bask'd ; 
So  sweetly,  shrilly,  variously. 
They  swelFd  their  moving  notes  unask'd, 
Methought  I  could  have  wish'd  to  weep. 
But  grief  lay  on  my  soul  too  deep. 

**  Erelong,  from  flowery  thickets  near, 
.    The  queen's  voice  smote  my  thrilling  ear. 
I  stole  yet  closer,  to  within 
Some  fifteen  paces  of  the  din — 
When  lo !  beneath  an  almond  tree. 
On  the  ill-shaded  grassy  lea. 
Guess,  sultan,  what  I  must  behold — 
My  consort,  sitting  on  the  knee 
Of  the  most  ugly,  frizzled.  Moor, 
The  slim^  of  Gambia  ever  bore, 
Caressing  him  with  cordial  fold, 
As  if  she  triumph'd  in  her  sin. 
He  kiss'd  her  cheeks  so  flower-soft  skin, 
Play'd  with  the  streamlets  of  her  hair, 
Wanton'd  about  her  bosom  bare, 
Clasp'd'her  slim  waist  with  impious  paw — 
How  she  forgot  herself  I  saw. 

''  No  more  could  bear  my  giddy  sight : 
Vanish'd  the  moon  with  all  her  light. 
Yet  still  athwart  the  boundless  night. 
For  my  worse  torment  louder  rung 
The  enchanting  siren's  silver  tongue. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  385 

*^  He  had,  it  seems,  presum'd  to  huff; 
Complain'd  she  lov'd  him  not  enough. 

'* '  Can  you/  said  she,  and  with  a  tone 
To  melt  the  marrow  in  one's  bone, 
*  Mistrust  a  heart,  whose  inmost  clue 
Burns  in  perpetual  love  for  you. 
Sees  only  you  on  nature's  chart. 
Nor  knows  a  joy  from  you  apart, 
Feels  all  its  highest  transports  scant. 
Till  on  your  bosom  it  can  pant. 
In  every  fibre  of  my  frame, 
In  every  pulse,  though  flush'd  by  shame, 
You  still  must  feel,  that  you  abide 
Dearer  to  me  than  all  beside. 
Can  you  torment  a  heart  so  fond  ? 
Afiect  misgivings,  doubt,  despond  ? 
Tyrant !  what  yet  remains  to  prove 
The  mad  excess  wherewith  I  love  ? 
What  wish  can  your  caprices  dream  ? — 
That  wish  shall  be  my  law  supreme. 
Say,  shall  this  throng'd  metropolis 
In  ruin  sink  before  your  eyes. 
Become  a  pool  where  serpents  hiss. 
Its  inmates  lose  their  human  guise, 
Shall  lightnings  rive  its  stately  piles, 
Deluge  o'erwhelm  these  clustering  isles, 
While  you  and  I  above  the  wreck. 
With  royal  treasures  at  our  beck. 
Together  on  Imaus  dwell  ? 
Amid  its  rocks  of  pillar'd  ice 
For  us  shall  bloom  a  paradise — 
'T  will  not  transcend  my  power  of  spell.* 

**  I  could  contain  myself  no  longer ; 
I  wanted  so  to  cleave  in  twain 
At  once  the  swarthy  monster's  brain, 
Who  stole  my  lady's  love  from  me. 
Wrath  made  my  sabred  hand  the  stronger. 

VOL.  II  C  c 


386  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

I  burst  upon  them  suddenly. 
Her  terror  at  my  rash  proceeding 
Allow'd  me  time  to  deal  the  blow, 
Which  cleft  his  skull,  and  laid  him  low. 
The  traitor  sank  beside  her  bleeding. 
Nor  utter*d  e'en  a  final  groan. 
'  Fly/  said  I  then  with  wild  impatience, 
^  Provoke  no  further  indignations, 
One  victim  shall  for  both  atone.' 

^*  A  look  she  shot  at  me,  so  grim 
That  it  unnerv'd  my  every  limb. 
Then  flung  herself  with  clinging  care 
Along  her  leman's  bloody  lair : 
Shriek'd,  howl'd,  and  bellow'd,  till  her  wail 
Was  echoed  back  by  hill  and  dale. 
Now  on  his  senseless  corse  she  prest, 
Veil'd  his  dead  visage  m  her  breast, 
Washt  it  with  streams  of  tears,  bemoaning, 
Laid  it  against  her  heart,  deep-groaning, 
Call'd  to  his  coy  unhearing  frame 
By  every  tender  fondling  name 
The  lips  of  love  delight  to  mould. 
And  when  she  found  him  dumb  and  cold. 
She  storm'd  amid  her  silken  hair. 
Tore  her  long  locks  in  wild  despair, 
Scratch'd,  wounded,  rent  her  cheeks,  her  breast. 
Then,  fixt  in  staring  horrid  rest. 
She  swore  a  dasmon-oath  aloud 
(The  startled  moon  shrunk  back  in  cloud) 
To  satiate  fully  her  revenge. 
To  torture  without  ruth,  or  change, 
The  robber  of  so  dear  a  life. 
Who  curst  her  with  the  name  of  wife. 


*•. 


"  All  this  had  I  to  hear,  and  see. 
But  could  not  from  my  station  flee. 
Spellrbound  I  stood,  as  if  congeal'd. 
Unable  hand,  or  foot,  to  wield. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  387 

*  Kemoye  him  from  before  my  eyes/ 
To  her  attendant  imps  she  cries^ 
'And  guard  bim>  safe  as  in  the  tomb^ 
Until  I  shall  pronounce  his  doom.' 

"  And  now  I  felt  myself  upborne 
By  viewless  hands,  and  cast  forlorn 
Into  a  jail^  bereav'd  of  lightj 
To  sigh  away  the  rest  of  night. 
Could  wishes  end  this  mortal  strife^ 
I  had  deprived  myself  of  life. 

*^  Dragg'd  the  next  morning  from  my  prison, 
Like  an  unsentenc'd  ghost  new  risen, 
I  met  her  presence,  and  beheld 
Her  form  in  deepest  mourning  veiFd. 
'T  was  like  a  poignard  to  my  breast ! 
Although  't  was  justice  to  detest ; 
Her  loveliness  was  so  amazing, 
I  could  not  help  with  transport  gazing; 
So  beautiful,  so  touching,  she 
Seem'd,  in  her  settled  grief,  to  me. 

^*  But  in  her  flashing  eye-balls  roU'd 
The  wrath  of  vengeance  uncontroll'd. 
A  flaming  redness  flush'd  her  cheek. 

*  And  art  thou  dead  V  (she  'gan  to  speak. 
Turning  her  head  to  where  he  lay) 

*  From  me  for  ever  torn  away  ? — 
And,  where  I  bury  all  my  joys, 
Shall  any  living  thing  rejoice. 
Rejoice,  beloved,  near  thy  grave. 

My  sorrows  there  bemock,  and  brave  ? 
No :  round  about  shall  only  reign 
Dumb  desolation,  pining  pain. 
And  you,  to  whom  these  pangs  I  owe. 
Curst  author  of  my  endless  woe, 
I  '11  not  annihilate  your  being — 
Stay  by  this  spot,  unseen  but  seeing, 

C  C  2 


388  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

live  on  in  UnmeDts  to  oomphiny 
To  ask  with  tean  for  death  in  vain. 
And  not  that  best  of  ^fts  obtain.' 

"  While  thus  the  Tengefbl  sorceress  spoke. 
Casting  on  me  a  withering  look. 
Thrice  with  her  magic  wand  she  strook 
The  quaking  earth.    A  lurid  light 
Dimmens  the  day  with  hues  of  fright : 
Long  thunders  through  the  skies  resound : 
Flames  billow  firom  the  rifted  ground. 
Her  arms  afloat,  with  bristling  hair. 
She  now  began  to  whirl  around 
In  giddy  dance,  with  haggard  stare, 
And  mutter'd  to  the  eddying  air. 
While  fiendish  forms  beside  her  glare. 

'*  1  felt  her  might.    Against  the  spell 
In  vain  my  stiflfeniog  limbs  rebel ; 
All  my  bewilder'd  senses  quell. 
But^  when  my  consciousness  retum'd, 
I  saw  her  not.    Too  soon  I  leam'd 
How  wide,  how  deep,  her  vengeance  burn'd. 
I  found  but  half  myself  again ; 
Found  desolation  spread  amsun ; 
Found  my  metropolis  no  more. 
For  whose  good  will  so  lately  sped 
The  freighted  ships  from  every  shore ; 
But  a  still  lake  outstretched  in  stead ; 
And  all  its  inmates  at  a  blow, 
Though  countless  as  the  flakes  of  snow, 
To  fishes  chang'd  of  sundry  hue ; 
The  Moslems  gray,  the  Christians  blue, 
Yellow  the  Jews,  the  Giaours  red ; 
All  sunk  in  one  oblivious  stream. 
From  prospering  glory  what  a  fall ! 
Like  the  frail  fabric  of  a  dream. 
In  a  few  hours  had  vanish'd  all. 


>   . 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  389 

'<  This  scene  of  sorrow  stiU  wa3  not 
The  bitterest  portion  of  my  lot ; 
For  worse  than  death  awaited  me 
In  this  sepulchral  prbonry ; 
Where^  helpless  and  alone^  so  long 
I  Ve  undergone  my  painful  wrong, 
That  memory  reaches  not  to  show 
The  number  of  my  days  of  woe. 
Each  morning  (can  such  fury  fell 
Within  so  soft  a  bosom  dwell?) 
She  comes  to  me,  in  ruthless  mood. 
And  lasher  all  my  back  to  blood ; 
Until  her  weary  arms  refuse 
To  wield  the  scourge.    In  vain  I  ask 
Mercy  of  her^  or  help  of  heaven. 

Her  anger  every  day  renews ;  ^ 

She  still  repeats  her  cruel  task, 
And  smiles  upon  the  torment  given." 

Here  faulter'd  the  king's  voice  again  i 
And,  like  a  child,  he  wept  amain. 
And  the  good  sultan,  at  the  view. 
Let  fall  some  bitter  tear-drops  too. 
And,  when  they  both  were  tir'd  of  weeping, 
Uprose  the  sultan,  full  of  ire. 
And  thus  exhaFd  his  rising  fire : 

**  We  are  in  Allah's  holy  keeping ! 
And,  by  the  Lord  of  life,  I  swear, 
All  other  comforts  to  forbear, 
To  swallow  nothing  wet  or  dry, 
Nor  on  the  couch  of  sleep  to  lie. 
Nor  woman's  wanton  love  to  ply. 
Nor  shave  my  head,  nor  wash  my  face. 
Nor  to  forsake  this  spell-girt  place, 
Till  with  my  sabre  I  have  sent 
The  sorceress  to  her  punishment. 
Now  tell  me  where  she  can  be  found. 
For  all  the  rest  I  'am  pledg'd,  and  bound."  .     , 


390  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

^^  The  better  to  indulge  her  grief, 
Which  finds,  in  its  excess,  relief. 
In  a  dark  wood  hard  by,  she  will*d 
A  mournful  residence  to  build, 
.  Entitling  it :  The  Home  of  Tears. 
There,  stretch'd  in  solemn  state,  appears. 
As  in  a  mausoleum  tomb'd, 
Her  paramour,  whom  she  has  doomed 
To  linger  there  in  sad  array, 
By  spells  protected  from  decay. 
He  lies,  unconscious  of  his  lot. 
With  open  eyes,  but  heeding  not ; 
Nor  hears  her  anxious  amorous  prayer. 
But  for  one  sigh,  or  tender  stare. 
To  tell  her  that  his  love  is  there. 
By  day,  by  night,  both  soon  and  late. 
Hourly  she  comes,  to  see  if  fate 
Has  taken  pity  of  her  woe ; 
And  when  (it  always  happens  so) 
She  must  her  foolish  hope  forgo. 
She  utters  such  a  doleful  moan. 
Poor  soul !  it  pierces  to  the  bone." 

'^  How,"  cries  with  an  indignant  tone 
The  sultan,  **  I  could  almost  vouch 
You  pity  her — this  is  too  much. 
Tfie  she  shaln't  make  a  fool  of  so. 
Farewell,  my  tender  fellow,  now. 
More  of  me  you  ereloiig  shall  know. 
We  soon  shall  pitch  another  strain." 

Herewith  he  springs  into  the  boat. 
The  king  caird  after  him  in  vam. 
He  pushes  briskly  cross  the  moat. 
And  at  the  garden's  limit  sees, 
Embosom'd  among  darksome  trees. 
The  Home  of  Tears— with  lava^floor, 
And  roof  of  jet,  and  ebon  door 
"^    Half  open — and  within  the  hall, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  391 

A  bier  with  a  black  velvet  pall. 
Shrouded  by  incense-breathing  vapors, 
Lighted  with  yellow  waxen  tapers, 
And,  by  the  side  of  her  dead  Moor, 
The  queen  low  bending  to  deplore. 

With  sabre  drawn  the  sultan  presses 
Into  the  room — not  wasting  gazes 
On  moonshine  eyes,  and  sunshine  tresses, 
As  might  have  happen'd  to  the  dolt 
Her  husband — like  a  thunderbolt, 
He  burst  upon  her,  and,  before 
She  could  look  roimd,  upon  the  floor 
Lay  headless  both  the  queen,  and  Moor. 
An  executioner  by  trade 
Could  not  have  better  us'd  his  blade. 

Convinc*d  the  sorceresses'  fall 
Would  put  a  welcome  end  to  all. 
Treading  in  air,  like  one  victorious. 
The  sultan,  not  a  little  glorious, 
Back  to  the  dome  with  speed  returns — 
Glee,  triumph,  in  his  bosom  burns. 
With  both  heads  in  his  hand  upheld, 
"Joy,  brother,"  he  exclaims:  "I  Ve  quell'd 
The  foe ;  my  pledge  is  now  redeem'd : 
All  has  succeeded  as  I  schemed.'* 

Imagine  his  surprize,  to  see, 
Instead  of  thanks,  and  jubilee. 
The  poor  king  palen  first,  and  soon 
Shriek  in  despair,  and  sink  in  swoon. 

"  The  longer  this  goes  on  the  better," 
£xcl{dms  the  sultan  in  a  rage, 
"  Let  others  fag  for  such  a  debtor ; 
For  him  I  mount  no  more  the  stage. 
Is  this  not  to  the  fellow's  mind  ? 
Then  let  the'  eternal  devil  find 


392  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  way  this  magic  mesh  to  garble, 
Andy  when  he  pleases,  come  and  take 
The  milksop,  with  his  fish  and  lake, 
And  swarthy  spindle-shanks  of  marble. 
An  infant  in  a  leading  string 
Would  plague  me  less,  than  this  same  king.*' 

Uzim,  meanwhUe,  recovering  slowly. 
Began  to  vent  his  sorrows  lowly : 
"  Now  every  spark  of  hope  is  null ! 
Now  is  my  cup  of  mbery  full ! 
And  nothing  can  undo  my  lot. 
The  essential  has  been  quite  forgot. 
What  can  this  pair  of  heads  avail? 
Will  they  reverse  my  cruel  bale  ? 
I  must  remain  a  marble  stake. 
The  fishes  fish,  the  lake  a  lake. 
The  Perie  trine  had  not  the  power 
To  break  the  spells  that  round  me  lour ; 
Only  the  queen :  and  she  's  no  more. 
Who  knows  she  was  not  to  relent  ? 
She  had  not  quite  a  heart  of  stone. 
She  might  perhaps  one  day  have  lent 
An  ear  of  pity  to  my  moan ; 
One  day  have  leam'd  again  to  feel. 
Now  she  is  gone,  for  ever  gone. 
And  I  continue  as  before. 
Thanks  to  your  over-eager  zeal. 
My  every  chance,  alas !  is  p'er." 


THE  ASSES  HEAD. 

The  sultan,  though  his  temper  fester'd. 
While  with  these  deep  complainings  pester'd,' 
Yet  felt  he  had  not  much  to  say  : 
"  Brother,"  quoth  he,  "this  is  distressing; 
You  don*t  seem  under  heaven's  blessing ; 
Your  lucky  stars  are  not  in  sway. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  393 

I  thought  I  acted  for  the  best 

To  lay  your  miseries  at  rest ; 

It  was  my  wish,  my  hope,  my  aim, 

The  motive  of  my  living  frame. 

Your  service  was  my  only  thought, 

The  event  is  sorely  not  my  fault. 

'T  is  not  in  man  to  force  success, 

He  may  deserve  it  not  the  less. 

But  mayn't  there  be,  to  heal  your  grief. 

Some  other  method  of  relief? 

The  world  is  wide ;  and  genial  powers 

Provide  us  sunshine  after  showers." 

<<  First  take  away,"  the  king  replied, 
**  Those  gasping  heads  there,  from  my  side. 
1 11  own  my  weaknesses  to  you : 
I  really  cannot  bear  to  view 
The  loveliest  of  all  creatures  born 
Thus  from  her  throne  of  beauty  torn. 
Of  what  utility  would  be 
The  heads  of  all  the  world  to  me? — 
The  only  one,  that  might  restore, 
Alas !  is  also  now  no  more." 

**  What  can  you  mean  ?  what  head  is  this  ?" 

*^  A  secret  hear :  from  days  of  old 
Lay  in  my  treasury's  safest  hold 
An  asses  head " 

"  An  asses  ?" 

"Yes! 
An  asses  head,  be  well  assur'd. 
If  in  a  treasury  secur'd. 
Must  have  some  virtues  in  its  crown. 
This  was  a  bead  of  great  renown. 
Encircled  in  a  crystal  shrine 
With  gold  and  jewels  wondrous  fine, 


394  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

It  lay,  beside  a  roU  of  ?elluin 

Full  of  hard  words  so  strange  and  old 

The  very  imams  could  not  spell  'em ; 

And,  in  this  volume,  all  was  told 

Wherefrom,  and  when,  and  how,  and  why. 

The  skull  enrich'd  our  treasury ; 

What  magic  batteries  it  had  storm'd, 

What  miracles  it  had  perform'd, 

In  short  its  whole  biography. 

At  every  chapter  there  were  fotuid 

Illumin'd  on  a  golden  ground 

Paintings  in  miniature  of  stories. 

Which  laid  the  ground-work  of  its  glories. 

As  on  this  skull,  tradition  said. 

The  fortunes  of  our  house  were  laid ; 

Judge  if  the  people  held  the  relic 

Was  precious,  sacred,  evangelic. 

Once  in  seven  years  't  was  carried  round. 

In  a  gilt  car  with  garlands  crowned, 

From  town  to  town  in  grand  progression. 

And  music  tim'd  the  slow  procession. 

Two  elephants  before  it  stroll*d 

Caparison'd  in  cloth  of  gold. 

And  drew  it  on  with  silken  ropes,  . 

In  loitering  state,  o'er  smooths  and  slopes. 

Rich  tapestries  every  window  bounded ; 

Blue  lights  its  resting  place  surrounded. 

Waving  their  boughs  and  banners  gay, 

Priests,  soldiers,  swell'd  the  long  array. 

Throngs  came  to  worship,  as  it  past. 

Sweet  flowers  along  its  path  they  cast. 

Spread  the  full  boards  of  feast  within. 

And  thought  themselves  absolved  irom  sin. 

"  You  wish  me  possibly  to  say 
Wherein  its  hidden  virtue  lay. 
It  had  the  valuable  power. 
By  its  mere  presence,  any  hour, 
At  once  to  put  all  magic  sleight, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  395 

Charm,  talisman,  or  spell,  to  flight. 
Divs,  Peries,  Genies,  of  all  classes, 
Flitting  apart,  on  wing  in  masses, 
On  good  or  evil  errand  bent, 
Stood  in  its  presence — impotent. 

"  Now  you  are  of  thus  much  possest. 
You  easily  may  guess  the  rest. 
The  queen^  who  was  aware  of  all. 
Felt  that,  to  satisfy  her  gall. 
She  must  withdraw  this  dread  palladium 
Out  of  my  reach  by  many  a  stadium. 
She  did  so — as  I  learnt  too  late. 
Unable  to  annihilate 
Its  being,  or  to  blast  its  power, 
She  caus'd  in  an  unlucky  hour, 
The  greatest  treasure  of  the  world 
Into  the  ocean  to  be  hurFd. 
This  only  source  of  hope  to  me 
Lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea." 

"  That 's  a  bad  job,"  the  sultan  said, 
**  The  sea  is  rather  deep  and  wide, 
And  at  the  lowest  ebb  of  tide 
Thereout  to  fish  an  asses  head ; 
Moreover  just  this  very  one. 
Is  not  a  thing  to  bet  upon. 
Still  let  the  possible  be  tried ! 
I  '11  straitway  issue  sovereign  orders. 
In  all  the  creeks,  and  coasts,  and  borders, 
Rivers,  and  pools,  of  Vizapoor, 
To  fish  for  asses  heads  alone. 
Who  knows,  but  we  may  meet  with  your  ? 
Meanwhile,  spell-bound  upon  your  throne, 
You  must,  alas !  remain,  I  guess. 
That  your  ennui  may  be  the  less, 
ril  send,  to  variegate  your  levee. 
Of  dancing  girls  a  pretty  bevy. 
With  music,  hookahs,  feasts,  and  play, 


396  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Confinement  may  be  whiled  away ; 
Or  shall  my  writer,  1 11  allow  him. 
Attend  and  read  a  Persian  poem  ?" 

The  king  of  the  black  isles  once  more 
Began  his  whinings  as  before, 
Unwillingly  let  go  his  friend, 
And  thought  his  sorrows  without  end. 
But,  as  no  course  was  left  to  try 
Than  to  submit  to  destiny. 
He  step  by  step  forgot  to  weep, 
Aud  dropt  upon  his  throne  asleep. 

Scarse  was  the  sultan  at  his  helm 
Than  orders  issued  through  the  realm. 
The  people  marvelled  at  the  fuss; 
"  What  matter  asses  heads  to  us  ?'* 

**  I  am  afraid,'*  thought  many  a  clown, 
"  The  sultan  must  have  lost  his  own." 

But  the  old  fisherman  at  once 
Bethought  him  of  the  asses  sconce. 
Which  recently  passed  through  his  net. 
"  If  this,"  said  he,  *^  should  prove  the  pet. 
More  gold  roopees  will  come  to  me." 
Burning  he  hastens  to  the  sea 
For  that  bald  skull-bone  to  explore. 
Which  almost  broke  his  heart  before ; 
And  finds  it  presently  at  hand. 
In  the  old  place,  upon  the  sand. 
In  short,  my  friends,  for  time  is  precious. 
And  change  of  topic  will  refresh  us, 
'T  was  soon  discovered,  that  this  skull 
Was  just  the  one  so  wonderful. 

Sultan  and  fisherman  take  wing 
To  share  their  pleasure  with  the  king. 


OF  GBRMAN  POETRY.  397 

The  shah  no  sooner  touch'd  the  head, 
Than  all  the  long  enchantment  fled. 
Dismarbled,  free,  he' stalks  around. 
Finds  his  metropolis  aground, 
And  fleets  beside  his  ilands  moor*d. 
The  fish,  to  citizens  restored, 
Swarm  up  and  down  the  streets  amain. 
And  recommence  their  choral  strain : 
"  Moslem,  Christian,  Giaour,  Jew, 
Are  all  alike  to  duty  true. 
We  spend  the  day  in  ceaseless  moil. 
And  fare  but  poorly  for  our  toil. 
We  faithfully  come  forth  to  reckon. 
When  you  and  yours  are  pleas'd  to  beckon. 
We  pay  your  debts,  as  well  as  ours. 
Nor  murmur  at  the  higher  powers." 


To  this  collection^  English  nationality  may,  in  our 
elder  literature,  oppose  the  Fables  of  Dryden,  with 
some  hope  of  dividing  the  snfirage  of  critics.  Dry- 
den's  matter  is  generally  of  a  more  heroic  cast,  and  his 
sentiments  are  of  a  higher-toned  morality;  his  style, 
though  careless,  is  more  condensed  and  vigorous,  and 
forcibly  sweeps  along  the  agitated  reader ;  it  pours  a 
luxury  of  melody  never  attained  by  the  labor  of  Pope^ 
never  approached  by  a  German  splice-work  of  anapaests 
and  iambics.  Wieland's  matter  is  chosen  with  more 
taste,  embellished  by  a  more  dextrous  insertion  of  cir- 
cumstance, varied  with  more  versatility,  and  more  daz- 
zlingly  adorned  with  a  hovering  pomp  of  mythologic 
imagery,  interposition,  and  machinery.  No  action  un- 
suitable to  the  times  in  which  it  is  placed,  like  that  of 
Paldamon  and  Arcite,  occurs  here.  No  legend  of  a 
knight  of  Arthur  is  degraded,  as  in  the  Wife  of  Bath's 


398  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Tale^  into  a  vehicle  for  modern  satire.     No  false  wit 
from  the  school  of  Cowley  transforms  a  baron  bold  into 
an  epigrammatist.     No  Sigismonda  delivers  a  lecture 
on  republicanism  on  being  caught  with  her  lover.     If 
a  sententious  morality  never  obtrudes  its  formal  preach- 
ments ;  yet  an  Aristippic  philosophy,  a  knowledge  of 
man,  a  cosmopolite-humanity,  is  really  inspired   by 
Wieland,  however  imperceptibly  inculcated.     In  him, 
nothing  negligent  solicits  forgiveness :  he  keeps  pre- 
sent to  his  mind  an  idea  of  pure  perfection,  and  is 
ever  comparing  his  works,  as  they  are,  with  what  they 
might  be  made.     Confident  that  they  will  one  day  be 
opposed  to  excellence  yet  unborn,  he  strives  to  meet 
the  possible  fastidiousness  of  a  more  intelligent  poste- 
rity.    His  style  is  never  careless,  and  attains  in  every 
subsequent  edition  the  minute  graces  of  increasing  ease. 
A  sauntering  expatiation,  always  at  leisure  to  gather 
flowers,  is  the  habitual  beauty,  but  in  moments  of  crisis 
forms  the  defect,  of  his  manner.   Accustomed  to  be  a 
spectator  of  the  stage  of  things,  he  can  at  most  de- 
scribe the  vehemence  of  an  actor,  not  of  an  agent.     A 
delicate  shading,  not  the  bold  nor  the  abrupt,  distin- 
guishes the  uniform  copiousness  of  his  style,  which 
like  the  surface  of  the  lake  is  smooth  and  clear,  whe- 
ther it  reflects  the  waving  willow  or  the  mountain- 
crag  ;  or  like  the  sun's  rays  of  the  same  density,  whe- 
ther they  impinge  on  the  gloomy  cypress,  on  the  choir 
of  nymphs  in  their  bath,  or  on  the  glittering  cuirass  of 
contending  heroes. 

But  in  our  newer  literature  occurs  a  rival  though  a 
contrasting  collection.  The  tales  of  Lord  Byron  have 
more  originality  of  topic,  more  energy  of  narration, 
and  deeper  tragic  interest :  the  author  s  intense  feel- 
ing infuses  every  where  a  high  pathetic  force,  and  the 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  399 

more  torturing  the  emotion,  the  more  transitive  is  the 
sympathy  excited.  Byron  s  tales  are  less  various  indeed 
than  those  of  Wieland,  as  the  hero  is  usually  Childe 
Harold  with  an  altered  garb:  Alp,  Hugo,  Lara,  Selim, 
the  Corsair  and  the  Giaour  are  but  fresh  self-reflec- 
tions too  complacently  repeated  by  this  moral  Narcis- 
sus :  still  the  scenery  of  the  drama  is  full  of  original 
delineations,  vivid  sketches  from  a  hitherto  uncopied 
reality.  His  style  is  condensed,  stirring,  picturesque, 
and  assails  the  fancy  with  all  the  impressiveness  of 
that  nature  from  which  its  imagery  is  derived ;  but  it 
is  lyrical,  abrupt,  hurrying  from  one  strong  situation  to 
another,  always  provoking  the  palpitations  of  the  heart, 
and  not  always  at  leisure  to  communicate  the  whole 
story  undertaken,  which,  as  in  the  Giaour,  is  often  told 
only  by  implication.  Wieland  on  the  contrary  narrates 
with  garrulous  circumstantiality ;  he  is  chiefly  atten- 
tive to  ideas  of  the  eye,  and  paints  every  part  of  his 
subject  with  indiscriminate  industry;  like  the  painter 
Vandermyn,  he  is  not  content  to  exhibit  the  beautiful 
tearful  visage  of  the  dying  Sophonisba,  he  finishes  as 
exquisitely  the  folded  embroidery  of  her  shawl,  and 
the  myrrhine  vases  on  her  toilet.  Wieland  dreads 
omission,  Byron  superfluity ;  Wieland  amuses,  Byron 
impassions ;  Wieland  is  more  ideal,  Byron  more  na- 
tural; Wieland  pursues  the  beautiful,  Byron  the  sti- 
mulant; Wieland  delights  to  pourtray  the  Graces, 
Byron  to  animate  the  Furies. 

To  both  writers  belongs  the  high  praise  of  impre- 
judice:  they  inculcate  a  manly  liberty  of  thought, 
which  fearlessly  questions  the  established  claims  to 
veneration  of  the  inmates  both  of  heaven  and  earth ; 
they  wage  war  against  superstition,  against  asceticism, 
against  tyranny  ;  they  have  extended  the  range  of  in- 


1 


400  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

tellect,  enlarged  the  bounds  of  toleration,  and  scatter- 
ed the  seeds  of  freedom  ;  they  have  powerfully  assist- 
ed in  winning  for  liberal  opinions  an  enduring  ascend- 
ancy in  the  literature  of  their  respective  countries. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  401 


§  12. 

Reviewal  of  Wielands  Collective  Works  continued^  vol,  xix — 
XXIII —  The  Abderites — Love  for  Love —  Clelia  and  Sinibald 
— Oberon. 

The  Abderites,  a  work  apparently  historical,  which 
fills  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  volumes,  is  a  novel 
of  a  peculiar  description.  It  is  a  contribution  to  the 
history  of  the  human  head  and  heart  in  their  opera- 
tions, not  on  nations,  nor  on  individuals,  but  on  small 
masses  of  men.  It  describes  the  pursuits  and  cabals 
of  a  confined  and  petty  public,  the  politics  of  a  borough- 
corporation,  the  intrigues  of  a  rapacious  city-priest- 
hood, the  squabbles  of  livery-men,  and  the  law-suits 
of  magistrates ; — not  in  the  form  in  which  they  appear 
daily  under  our  own  eyes,  and  in  our  own  neighbour- 
hood ;  but  in  the  form  which  they  would  have  assumed 
at  Abdera  in  the  time  of  Democritus.  The  urbane  sati- 
rist points  at  Greeks,  while  he  hangs  the  cap  and  bells 
on  the  heads  of  his  own  townsmen.  This  is  accom- 
plished with  a  truth  of  nature,  and  a  conformity  to 
authority  equally  admirable.  Two  articles  of  Bayle's 
dictionary,  Abdera  and  Democritus,  have  furnished  the 
main  basis  of  fact :  the  outline  has  been  traced  from 
an  industrious  consultation  of  those  Greek  and  Roman 
classics  who  have  treated  of  this  city  and  period;  and 
the  unauthorized  ornaments,  the  invented  colouring, 

VOL.  II.  D  D 


402  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

have  that  inherent  probability  which  rivals  or  exceeds 
historic  truth  in  its  impression  of  reality. 

The  spirit  of  low  faction  and  paltry  discord^  of  local 
intolerance  and  vulgar  spite^  which  this  novel  tends  to 
remedy,  is  of  itself  expiring  in  England  beneath  the 
spreading  polish  of  a  liberal  refinement:  otherwise, 
one  would  earnestly  wish  for  its  translation,  and  for 
its  dispersion  among  those  nests  of  Abderites  which 
the  charters  of  our  provincial  towns  once  sheltered. 

The  twenty-first  volume  opens  with  hove  for  Lave^ 
a  metrical  romance;  reciting,  with  exquisite  ease,  but 
in  a  somewhat  antiquated  style,  which  imitates  the  min- 
strel-manner, the  adventures  of  Gandalin,  a  young 
knight;  who  was  sent  to  travel,  by  hi^  mistress,  the 
fair  Sonnemon,  under  the  promise  of  acceptance  at  the 
end  of  three  years,  if  he  appears,  on  his  own  testimo- 
ny, to  have  preserved  during  that  period  an  inviolate 
fidelity  to  her.  Toward  the  close  of  his  probation,  a 
lady  implores  his  protection,  whom  some  oracle  had 
forbidden  to  unveil  herself  until  she  should  interest  in 
her  behalf  the  affections  of  a  gentle  knight.  She  is  re- 
turning home,  disconsolate,  with  the  thought  of  having 
taken  the  veil  for  life.  The  curiosity  of  Gandalin  is 
excited;  her  conversation  fascinates  him;  her  form, 
which  a  treacherous  attendant  betrays  to  his  view  in  a 
bath,  entices  him ;  and  he  is  on  the  point  of  catching 
at  the  veil, — but  preserves  his  constancy;  when  the 
fair  unknown  throws  off  her  disguise,  and  reveals  to 
him  his  own  dear  Sonnemon. 

Clelia  and  Sinihald,  a  Sicilian  legend,  in  ten  books, 
relates  the  interwoven  love-adventures  of  two  Paler- 
mitan  couple.  The  machinery  is  nelv.  Asmodeus, 
the  daemon  of  sensual  love,  known  originally  from  the 
story  of  Tobit,  and  more  familiarly  as  the  limping  devil 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  403 

of  Le  Sage — Saint  Catharine,  a  favourite  in  the  Sicilian 
calendar,  and  represented  by  painters  as  crowned  with 
myrtle  and  armed  with  a  sword — and  Saint  Christo- 
pher, whose  reputed  history  seems  to  have  been  a  con- 
sequence of  his  name — are  the  supernatural  agents  em- 
ployed in  bringing  Sinibald  and  Rosina,  Guido  and 
Clelia,  and  two  female  attendants,  together,  on  the 
paradisial  iland  of  Lampedusa,  then  inhabited  by  only 
two  hermits,  who  renounce  their  ascetic  life,  marry 
the  two  single  women,  and  contribute  their  eflForts 
to  the  further  increase  of  this  pious  colony  of  happy 
lovers. 

On  the  twenty-second  and  twenty-third  volumes,  it 
will  be  proper  to  expatiate  a  little :  they  contain  the 
master-piece  of  Wieland — the  child  of  his  genius  in 
moments  of  its  purest  converse  with  the  all-beauteous 
forms  of  ideal  excellence ; — the  darling  of  his  fancy, 
born  in  the  sweetest  of  her  excursions  amid  the  am- 
brosial bowers  of  fairy-land  ; — the  Oheron — an  epic 
poem,  popular  beyond  example,  yet  as  dear  to  the 
philosopher  as  to  the  multitude;  which,  during  the 
authors  life-time,  attained  in  its  native  country  all 
the  honors  of  a  sacred  book ;  and  to  the  evolution  of 
th^  ^beauties  of  which,  a  Professor  in  a  distinguished 
university  has  repeatedly  consecrated  an  entire  course 
of  patronized  lectures. 

To  an  English  ear,  the  mere  name  of  Oberon 
startles  curiosity;  and  fictions  grafted  on  the  tales  of 
Chaucer,  and  connected  with  the  fablings  of  our  Shak- 
speare,  would  naturally  be  secure  of  some  partiality 
of  attention : — but  it  is  not  from  English  sources  alone 
that  the  outline  of  this  poem  is  derived.  Its  fable  is 
triune.  The  first  main  action,  consisting  in  the  ad- 
venture undertaken  by  the  hero  at  the  command  of 


404  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Charlemagne,  is  almost  wholly  derived  from  an  old 
story-book  of  chivalry,  entitled  Histoire  de  Huon  de 
Bordeaux ;'  well  known  to  our  antiquaries  for  having 


S  The  plot  or  story  of  Oberon  is  drawn  from  the  old  French  romance  entitled  His- 
toire de  Huon  de  Bordeaux^  of  which  the  original  author  is  unknown ;  but  he  appears  to 
have  flourished  at  Troyes  in  Champagne,  where  a  book-fair  was  annually  held,  and 
a  manufactory  of  literature  was  established  in  very  early  times.  Lord  Berners,  the 
translator  also  of  Froissart,  by  his  version  of  this  romance,  first  introduced  the  cha- 
racter of  Oberon  to  the  notice  of  the  English  poets.  Chaucer,  in  narrating  the  story 
of  January  and  May,  had  called  the  king  of  the  fairies,  Pluto:  but  in  Drayton's 
Nimphidia,  in  Shakspeare's  Midsummer-night's  Dream,  in  Ben  Jonson's  Masque, 
and  in  all  the  poets  subsequent  to  Lord  Berners,  the  name  of  Oberon  is  steadily  as- 
signed to  the  monarch  of  the  Elves. 

The  history  of  Sir  Huon  of  Bordeaux  consists  of  two  parts ;  of  which  the  first  only 
has  supplied  materials  to  Wieland :  it  is  divided  into  sixty  chapters  of  which  the  ar- 
gument may  be  thus  condensed. 

Charlemagne  is  desirous  of  resigning  his  crown,  not  to  Louis  who  is  too  young, 
but  to  Chariot,  who  had  killed  Baldwin  the  son  of  Oger  the  Dane.     Amaury, 
the  friend  of  Chariot,  recommends  to  the  emperor  to  seize  the  estate  of  the  late 
Siegwin,  Duke  of  Bordeaux,  to  the  prejudice  of  his  minor  sons  Huon  and  Gerard, 
and  to  endow  Chariot  with  it.     The  Duke  of  Nismes,  having  dissuaded  this  con- 
fiscation, obtains  leave  to  invite  the  two  sons  of  Siegwin  to  serve  Charles.     The 
duchess  promises  to  send  them  the  ensuing  Easter :  Amaury  and  Chariot  plan  to 
waylay  and  assassinate  them.     The  sons  of  Siegwin,  travelling  to  Paris  in  company 
with  the  Abb6  of  Clugny,  are  suddenly  attacked :  Amaury  wounds  Gerard,  and 
Chariot  is  killed  by  Huon.     Huon  arrives  at  court  and  accuses  Chariot  of  a  treach- 
erous attack.     Amaury  comes  with  the  dead  body  of  Chariot,  and  lays  the  blame  on 
Huon.     Appeal  is  had  to  the  judgement  of  God  :  Amaury  falls  in  the  duel,  but  with- 
out recanting  his  accusation.     Charlemagne  banishes  Huon,  but  is  induced  by  the 
peers  to  modify  this  sentence,  and  to  permit  his  return,  '*  in  case  he  fetches  from 
Babylon  a  handful  of  the  beard  and  four  double  teeth  of  the  Emir  Gaudisse,  whose 
daughter  he  is  to  kiss  in  her  father's  presence,  and  to  bring  with  him  to  France." 
Huon  undertakes  the  exploit,  goes  to  Rome,  confesses  himself  to  the  Pope,  and  meets 
with  an  uncle  who  accompanies  him. to  Jerusalem.     After  paying  their  devotions  at 
the  tomb  of  Godfrey  of  Bologne,  they  set  off  for  Babylon,  and  find  in  a  hermitage 
Gerosme,  an  old  squire  of  Huon's  father,  who  tells  them  of  a  wood  near,  in  which 
king  Oberon,  who  is  three  feet  high  but  of  angelic  countenance,  keeps  his  court. 
'*  The  words  of  the  dwarf  are  so  pleasant  to  hear  that  none  can  get  quit  of  him,  and 
if  you  avoid  speaking  he  will  cause  it  to  hail  and  thunder  in  order  to  compel  you  to 
go  with  him."     Huon  resolves  to  cross  the  enchanted  forest. 

These  incidents,  which  fill  twenty  chapters  of  the  old  romance,  are  neatly  firamed 
in  a  single  canto  by  the  poet.     Huon  and  his  attendants  next  enter  the  wood.   Obe- 
ron approaches  **  clad  in  a  rich  robe  sparkling  with  jewels,  a  bow  and  arrow  in  his 
hand,  and  a  bugle- horn  on  his  neck,"  which  the  fairies  of  the  isle  Chifalonia  had 
made.     Gloriana  had  endowed  it  with  the  power  of  curing  disease,  Transelina  with 
that  of  assuaging  hunger  and  thirst,  Marafasa  with  that  of  excidng  to  sing  and  to 
dance.     The  dwarf  accosts  Huon  and  his  attendants,  and,  being  displeased  at  their 
silence,  raises  a  storm.     Oberon  next  sounds  the  horn  which  compels  Huon  and  his 
comrades  to  dance  and  sing.     He  then  twangs  his  bowstring,  when  four  hundred 
men  appear  and  surround  the  travellers.  Oberon  pretends  to  order  their  punishment; 
but  Glorian,  one  of  the  fairy-soldiers,  pleads  for  them,  and  advises  Oberon  to  ad- 
dress them  once  more.     A  conversation  begins.     Oberon  says  he  is  a  son  of  Juliui 
Caesar  by  the  lady  of  Chifalonia,  who  was  formerly  beloved  by  Florimon  of  Albany. 
A  fiiiry,  who  had  not  been  invited  to  the  birth  of  Oberon,  bestowed  on  him  the  gift 
that  after  three  years  of  age  he  should  grow  no  taller :  another  fairy,  Transelina,  the 
gift  to  read  the  thoughts  of  others :  a  third  the  gift  to  pass  instantly  from  place  to 
place.     Oberon  adds  that  he  is  king  of  Mommur,  and  Is  one  day  to  die  and  be  buried 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  405 

furnished  to  Sbakspeare  the  name,  bat  not  the  cha- 
racter, of  Oberon.  The  Elves,  over  whom  he  is  made 
to  preside,  are  mythological  personages  of  Gothic  ori- 
gin ;  who,  according  to  the  Edda,  nambered  Iduna  in 
their  choir. — The  second  main  action,  consisting  in 


at  Paris.     Oberon  then  builds  a  palace  instantaneously,  and  offers  a  grand  repast  to 
the  travellers,  during  which  he  produces  a  cup  which  fills  itself  with  wine  in  the 
hand  of  every  one  who  has  not  committed  a  mortal  sin.     Oberon  gives  to  Huon  the 
horn  and  the  cup,  and  dismisses  him  with  ominous  but  sfffecdonate  tears.  Huon  arrives 
at  Tourmont,  where  he  finds  a  second  uncle,  who  is  become  a  moslem,  and  in  whose 
hand  the  cup  remains  dry.     This  apostate  contrives  treachery  against  Huon,  and 
attacks  his  retinue ;  but  the  sound  of  the  horn  diverts  the  soldiery  from  warfare  to 
dancing.     Oberon  appears  with  a  large  army,  and  the  people  of  Tourmont  agree  to 
be  baptized.     Oberon  cautions  Huon  agsdnst  the  giaut  Angulafi*er :  "  two  brazen 
men  with  flails  stand  threshing  at  his  gate."     Huon  goes  to  the  tower  and  deli?er8 
the  damsel  Sebille  :  he  slays  the  giant  and  takes  his  ring.    Huon  arrives  at  the  shore 
of  the  Red  Sea :  Malebron,  a  fairy  of  Oberon's  train,  in  the  form  of  a  triton,  carries 
Huon  across,  and  lands  him  in  a  mouth  of  the  Euphrates,  close  to  Babylon.     By 
means  of  Angulaffer's  ring,  Huon  enters  the  palace ;  strikes  off  the  head  of  the  sul- 
tan's right  hand  neighbour,  kisses  the  beautiful  Esclarmonde  in  her  father's  presence, 
is  attacked,  is  overpowered,  is  dragged  to  prison.   '  Esclarmonde  visits  him  in  con- 
finement   Gerdsme,  and  the  rest  of  Huon's  companions  arrive  at  Babylon,  and  plot 
with  Esclarmonde  in  his  behalf.     The  giant  Agrappart  comes  to  levy  tribute  on  Ba- 
bylon ;  the  sultan  is  dismayed :  Huon  offers  to  fight  the  giant :  he  is  set  free  for  that 
purpose,  takes  the  giant  prisoner,  and  compels  him  to  receive  baptism.     Huon  then 
sounds  his  horn,  and,  by  Oberon's  ai^sistance,  massacres  all  the  Babylonians  who  will 
not  turn  Christians.     He  then  cuts  off  the  sultan's  head,  and  beard,  and  draws  his 
teeth,  which  Oberon  conceals  in  the  side  of  poor  Ger6sme.     Oberon  forbids  Huon 
to  have  carnal  commerce  with  Esclarmonde,  before  they  arrive  at  Rome,  and  are  re- 
gularly married ;    presents  him  with  a  yacht,  and  leaves  him  with  ominous  tears. 
Huon,  having  bestowed  the  lady  Sebille  on  an  emir,  sets  sail,  and  is  tempted  to  in- 
fringe at  sea  the  chaste  injunction  of  Oberon.     A  tempest  wrecks  the  vessel  on  a  de- 
sert iland.     Pirates  carry  off  Esclarmonde.    Huon  is  left  bound  to  a  tree.     Admiral 
GalafiVe  of  Anfalerme  takes  the  ship  of  the  pirates,  one  of  whom  prevails  on  King 
Yvoirin  of  Montbranc  to  order  Galaffre  to  give  up  the  prize.     At  the  instigation  of 
Glorian,  Oberon  sends  Malebron  to  deliver  Huon  in  the  form  of  a  triton :  this  spirit 
swims  with  him  across  the  sea  to  Montbranc,  where  a  minstrel  informs  Huon  of  the 
fortunes  of  Esclarmonde.    Huon  offers  his  services  to  King  Yvoirin,  and  wins  a  game 
at  chess  of  his  daughter,  but  declines,  from  fidelity  to  Esclarmonde  to  avail  himself 
of  the  conditions  of  victory.    Huon  joins  the  expedition  against  Anfalerme,  and  kills 
the  nephew  of  Galaffre,  for  which  he  receives  great  honors  &om  Yvoirin.     Ger6sme 
arrives  at  Anfalerme,  enters  the  service  of  Galaffre,  and  becomes  engaged  against 
Huon ;  but  they  discover  each  other  on  the  field  of  battle.    Esclarmande  is  restored 
to  Huon  :  they  arrive  at  Rome :  they  are  married  by  the  Pope. 

Such  is  an  outline  of  the  wild  and  uncouth  story-book  which  originally  supplied 
Wieland  with  the  more  prominent  adventures  related  in  his  metrical  romance.  The 
skill  by  him  exerted  in  suppressing  the  unconnected,  the  anachronic,  the  dissonant 
circumstances,  in  withdrawing  the  needless  personages  and  anecdotes,  in  supplying 
new  incidents  where  the  fable  was  abrupt  or  incomplete,  in  adapting  them  consist- 
endy  to  the  times,  places,  and  persons,  but  especially  in  giving  to  the  mythological 
characters  an  interest  of  their  own  in  the  event,  which  provides  an  adequate  motive 
for  their  interposition,  cannot  too  loudly  be  c6mmended  by  the  critic,  or  too  minutely 
studied  by  the  poet  In  what  Aristotle  calls  the  systasis,  or  combination  of  the  se- 
veral parts  of  the  plot,'  still  more  than  in  the  picturesque  beauty  of  the  style,  or  the 
antiquarian  accuracy  of  the  costume,  consists  the  peculiar  excellence  of  this  poem. 


406  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  adventures  of  Huon  and  Rezia  after  their  union, 
is  more  scantily  borrowed  from  the  French  romaucer, 
and  more  freely  new-modelled  by  pruning  away  re- 
dundant adventures,  and  inserting  fresh  incidents.— 
The  third  main  action  passes  wholly  in  the  machinery 
of  the  poem,  among  its  mythological  personages,  and 
consists  in  the  reconciliation  of  Oberon  and  Titania ; 
whom  a  rash  oath,  sworn  on  th^  occasion  of  their 
quarrel  in  the  garden  of  January  and  May,  unwillingly 
separates, — until  some  mortal  pair  should  set  such  an 
example  of  insuperable  fidelity  as  Huon  and  Rezia  at 
length  realize.  By  means  of  this  over-plot,  (for  the 
adventures  of  the  gods  may  not  be  called  an  under- 
plot,) these  three  distinct  actions  are  completely  braid- 
ed into  one  main  knot;  so  that  neither  could  subsist 
nor  succeed  without  each  of  the  other; — and  so  that 
all  are  happily  unwound  together  by  a  contempora- 
ry solution.  Huon  could  not  have  executed  Charle- 
magne's order  to  fetch  the  beard  of  the  Caliph  of 
Bagdad,  without  Oberon's  assistance ;  without  this  or- 
der, Huon's  passion  for  Rezia  would  not  have  arisen ; 
and  without  the  hope  which  Oberon  builds  on  their 
constancy,  the  Elfen  king  and  queen  would  have  had 
no  motive  for  interfering  with  their  fortunes.  From 
this  reciprocal  importance,  this  mutual  dependence  of 
the  heroes  and  of  the  gods,  a  peculiar  species  of  unity 
arises,  which  has  not  merely  the  merit  of  novelty,  but 
forms  the  characteristic  source  of  the  perpetual  inte- 
rest of  this  poem.  In  other  epopoeas,  the  supernatural 
characters  seem  introduced  merely  "  to  elevate  and 
surprize;"  as  if  they  belonged,  like  turgid  phrases 
and  long-tailed  similes,  to  the  arts  of  style:  they  inter- 
fere, only  that  the  action  may  acquire  strangeness  and 
importance;   they  split  into  factions  without  a  rea- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  407 

sonable  ground  of  discord;  and^  with  the  mischievous 
fidelity  of  subordinate  partisans^  are  made  to  adhere 
to  their  champions  through  perfidy  and  guilt.  In  the 
OberoHj  it  is  for  interests  of  their  own  that  they  inter- 
vene ;  and  the  mechanism  of  their  providence^  while 
it  guides  by  an  irresistible  necessity  the  conduct  of 
the  human  agents,  has  still  a  motive  for  every  inter- 
position^ and  never  stoops  from  heaven  either  to  in- 
flict or  to  reward  from  capricious  tyranny  or  vague 
curiosity.  The  gods  of  Homer  have  no  obvious  and 
intelligible  interest  in  either  the  demolition  or  the  pre- 
servation of  Troy ;  and  Virgil  preserves  with  almost 
as  slight  a  pretext  the  traditional  distribution  of  their 
factions.  Tasso  has  scrupled  to  make  use  of  those 
personages  of  the  Christian  mythology,  to  whom  a 
natural  interest  might  have  been  ascribed  in  the  liber- 
ation of  Jerusalem;  and  thus  his  machinery  is  nearly 
as  capricious  as  the  wizardry  of  Ariosto.  Milton,  in- 
deed, has  planted  hostility  between  his  angels  on  the 
sufficient  provocation  of  the  apotheosis  of  Jesus :  but 
there  is  a  bathos  in  passing  from  the  war  of  heaven 
to  a  x^ontest  about  an  apple.  Wieland  alone  has  an- 
nexed his  machinery  by  an  adequate  link ;  while  he 
preserves  to  his  Elves  that  "diminutiveagency,  power- 
ful but  ludicrous,  that  humorous  and  frolic  control- 
ment  of  nature,"  and  that  care  of  chastity,  which  their 
received  character  among  the  fathers  of  song  required 
them  to  sustain. 

The  Oberon  is  divided  into  twelve  books.  In  the 
first.  Sir  Huon,  journeying  through  the  forest  of  Li- 
banou,  being  benighted,  is  hospitably  received  by  a 
forester,  once  the  squire  or  companion  of  the  duke  of 
Guienne,  who  had  been  killed  in  the  holy  land,  and 
who  was  in  fact  Siegwin,  the  very  father  of  Sir  Huon. 


408  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

To  this  countryman  and  friend,  the  knight  relates  his 
setting  off  for  Paris,  to  obtain  the  investiture  of  his 
dokedom, — ^the  treacherous  insult  offered  to  him  on 
the  road  by  Chariot,  son  of  the  emperor,  whom  he 
kills  in  the  conflict — the  consequent  anger  of  Charle- 
magne—-and  the  command  never  again  to  appear  in 
France  until  he  should  bring  the  beard  and  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Caliph  of  Bagdad,  having  slain  his  left-hand 
neighbour  at  the  table.  The  12th  to  26th  stanzas  are 
subjoined. 

XII. 

Thence  toward  Bagdad  he  hies  with  loosen'd  rein. 
And  ever  thinks  anon  the  town  to  reach, 
But  many  a  hilly  steep,  and  many  a  wild, 
And  many  a  forest  thick,  his  steps  detain : 
It  teases  him  he  cannot  talk  their  speech ; 
The  Bagdad  road  he  asks  of  every  child, 
But  to  his  words  in  oc  can  none  the  answer  teach. 


•♦ 


,   .  XIII. 

•  .  *» 


Once  the  lone  road,  he  chose  to  follow,  lay 
Athwart  a  wood,  and  while  the  storm-rain  gushes, 
He  bad  the  whole  long  day  to  beat  the  bushes, 
And  often  with  his  sword  to  hew  his  way 
Through  the  close  coppice.    Tir'd,  he  climbs  the  hill 
To  look  about :  alas !  the  forest  still 
Seems  to  grow  wider  at  each  sad  survey. 

XIV. 

Amid  this  wilderness,  whence  e'en  by  day 
To  hope  an  outlet  might  have  pass*d  for  idle, 
Well  might  his  trouble  border  on  dismay. 
When  murky  night  her  mantle  round  him  throws : 
Not  a  star  glimmers  through  the  knitted  boughs : 
Well  as  he  can,  he  leads  his  horse  by  the  bridle. 
His  head  against  the  trees  comes  in  for  many  blows. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  409 

XV. 

An  unknown  wood,  the  sky  so  raven-black. 
And  what  for  the  first  time  invades  his  ear. 
The  lion's  thundering  growl,  now  far,  now  near. 
Amid  the  deadly  stilness  of  the  hour 
Deep  from  the  distant  mountains  bellow'd  back — 
The  living  wight  who  ne'er  knew  fear  before 
All  this  with  ease,  I  ween,  might  teach  to  tremble  sore. 

XVI. 

Our  knight,  though  ne'er  appall'd  by  woman's  son. 
Feels  the  slack  sinews  of  his  knees  unknit ; 
Adown  his  back  an  icy  coldness  glides ; 
But  there  's  no  fear  able  to  quell  a  whit 
That  boldness,  which  to  Bagdad  spurs  him  on : 
His  cutlas  drawn,  his  horse  in  hand,  he  strides 
Till  he  a  path  discerns,  which  to  rough  caverns  guides. 

XVII.  ^   H* 

f     .' 

.  f* 

Nor  long  he  wanders,  when  afar  he  thinks .  .; 
A  cheerful  gleam  of  fire  feebly  blinks :   '* 
The  sight  pumps  up  more  blood  into  his  cheek. 
Scarce  knowiog  shall  he  wish  or  no  to  find 
In  these  wild  heights  a  face  of  human  kind, 
The  fleeting  shimmer  he  pursues  to  seek. 
Which  gleams  and  disappears,  as  the  path  climbs,  or  sinks. 

XVIII. 

At  once,  where  crags  their  precipices  Uft, 
A  roomy  den  before  his  footstep  gapes. 
A  fire  crackles  near.     From  the  dark  fern 
The  rocks  illumin'd  thrust  their  wondrous  shapes 
With  bushes  shagg'd  that  nod  adown  the  rift 
And  in  the  flickering  ray  seem  with  green  fire  to  burn. 
In  fearful  pleasure  wrapt  the  knight  advances  swift. 


^- 


.^' 


410  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

XIX. 

*'  Halt  !'*  thunders  sudden  from  the  cavern's  lap. 
And  lo  a  savage  rudely  shap'd  appeared. 
Wild-cat-skins  sow*d  in  clumsy  manner  flap 
About  his  thighs.    A  grey  and  curly  heard. 
Once  black,  along  his  brawny  bosom  err'd. 
His  shoulders  bear  a  cedar-club  for  strife, 
Of  force  to  rob  at  once  the  stoutest  bull  of  life. 

XX. 

Our  knight,  undaunted  by  the  man,  or  fiend, 
With  the  huge  cedar-club  and  griesly  beard, 
In  his  own  only  tongue  explains  his  mind. 
Sweet  music  from  the  banks  of  the  Garonne! 
Exclaims  the  forester.    What  have  I  beard  ? 
For  sixteen  years  I  dwell  this  wild  alone. 
And  all  the  while  my  ears  have  missed  this  darling  tone. 

XXL 

Welcome  to  Libanon !  though  for  my  sake 
I  shrewdly  guess  that  to  this  dragon  s  nest 
Your  dangerous  journey  you  don't  undertake. 
Come,  rest  you  here,  and  may  you  find  a  zest. 
In  what  good  mother  Nature  will  afibrd. 
My  cellar  here  supplies  your  thirst  to  slake 
Only  a  cold  clear  spring — a  spare  repast,  my  board. 

XXII. 

Great  joy  at  this  salute  the  hero  feels. 
And  with  his  landsman  seeks  the  cave  below ; 
Mistrusting  nought  he  hastes  his  armure'ofi'to  throw. 
And  stands  unweapon'd,  like  a  youthful  god. 
The  forester  seems  touch'd  by  Alquif 's  rod. 
When  the  knight's  face  th'  unbuckled  helm  reveals 
And  in  big  yellow  rings  long  shiny  tresses  flow. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRT.  411 

XXIII. 

How  like,  be  cries,  in  forehead,  eye,  mouth,  hair ! 
liike  whom,  inquires  the  wondering  Paladin. 
Young  man,  forgive !    A  sweet  deceit  I  win, 
A  dream  of  better  times,  though  bitter,  dear. 
It  cannot  be ;  and  yet  himself  seems  here, 
When  that  fair  hair  its  golden  pride  unfurls 
Though  his  a  broader  breast,  and  yours  more  yellowy  curls. 

XXIV. 

Your  tongue  bespeaks  you  of  my  native  land: 
Cause  there  must  be  that  you  his  shape  receive. 
For  whom  in  banishment  so  long  I  grieve, 
Alas !  it  was  my  bap  Jiim  to  outlive. 
His  eyes  were  closed  by  this  most  faithful  hand ; 
His  early  grave  I  wet  with  many  a  tear : 
How  strange  thus  once  again  in  you  to  see  him  here. 

XXV. 

Chance,  says  Sir  Huon,  sometimes  plays  such  game. 
It  may  be  so ;  rejoins  the  wondering  host. 
And  yet  the  love  I  bear  you,  gentle  youth, 
If  from  illusion  sprung,  is  honest  truth. 
Would  you  vouchsafe  to  Scherasmin  your  name — 
My  name  is  Huon :  and  it  is  my  boast 
From  Siegwin  to  descend,  late  sovereign  of  Guyenne. 

XXVI. 

My  heart  misgave  me  not — in  tears  exprest 
The  glad  old  man  and  fell  at  Huon's  feet — 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome  in  this  wild  retreat. 
Son  of  my  lord  and  master,  of  the  best 
And  worthiest  knight,  that  ever  armure  drest. 
In  children's  petticoats  you  gaily  ran 
When  to  the  holy  tomb  our  pilgrimage  began. 


412  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

For  what  reason  Wielaiid  has  altered  the  name  of 
the  squire  from  the  Gerosme,  or  Jerom,  of  the  old 
chronicle,  to  Scherasmin,  which  is  neither  a  Christian 
nor  a  Gascon  name^  and  therefore  out  of  costume,  is 
not  easily  guessed. 

In  the  second  book,  Sir  Huon  and  his  new  friend, 
proceeding  toward  Bagdad,  are  attacked  by  Arabs, 
whom  they  rout;  and  the  squire  is  provided  with  a 
horse  from  among  the  booty.  The  way  now  passes 
through  the  park  of  the  Elfen  king.  Scherasmin  has 
heard  of  fairy-pranks,  and  wishes  to  avoid  the  danger- 
ous precincts :  but  Huon  chooses  the  strait  road.  When 
they  approach  the  palace,  Oberon,  in  a  car  drawn  by 
leopards,*  the  lily-sceptre  in  his  hand,  advances  to  meet 
them.  Scherasmin.  terrified,  seizes  his  master^s  horse 
by  the  bridle,  and  urges  their  flight  at  full  speed,  until 
they  reach  the  holy  ground  of  a  convent  within  view, 
where  he  thinks  it  safe  to  stop.  Meanwhile,  lightnings, 
thunder,  and  rain  pursue  them,  and  drive  back  into 
the  court-yard  a  procession  of  monks  and  nuns,  who 
were  performing  in  concert  their  pious  orgies.  Obe- 
ron appears  in  the  midst  of  them ; — the  sky  is  again 
serene; — he  applies  a  bugle-horn  to  his  lips,  and  an 
irresistible  disposition  to  dancing  seizes  the  motley 
crowd:  Friar  or  sister,  Scherasmin  or  lady-abbess, 
none  are  spared  from  this  comic  ballet,  except  Huon^ 
who  alone  remains  standing.  At  length,  weariness 
throws  them  all  on  the  ground :  Sir  Huon  intercedes 
for  his  companion,  and  Oberon  oflFers  to  him  an  empty 
cup,  which  fills  itself  with  wine  on  being  applied  to 
the  lip,  and  presently  recruits  the  exhausted  squire: 
the  horn  and  the  cup  are  then  presented  to  Sir  Huon 
by  the  king  of  Elves. 

4  Ben  Jonson  had  Imrnessed  two  white  bears  to  Oberoii's  car. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  413 

< 

The  third  book  opens  with  the  episodical  adventure 
of  Angela,  whom  Huon  delivers  from  the  giant  Angn- 
laffar ;  and  it  closes  with  a  dream,  in  which  Oberon  first 
voachsafes  to  the  hero  a  sight  of  Rezia.  The  hint  of 
this  vision  is  borrowed  from  the  Persian  tales,  where 
a  couple  are  similarly  enamoured. 

In  the  fourth  book.  Sir  Huon  delivers  from  a  for- 
midable  lion  a  treacherous  Mohammedan,  who  rides 
off  with  his  horse,  and  obliges  him  to  purchase  a  shabby 
mule,  on  which  Scherasmin  arrives  in  the  suburbs  of 
Bagdad.  An  old  woman  offers  accpmmodation  for  the 
night,  which  they  accept.  (Prince  Calaf  is  thus  har- 
boured in  the  Persian  Tales).  This  woman  is  mother 
to  the  nurse  of  Rezia,  and  tells  them  that  the  princess 
was  to  be  married  on  the  morrow  to  Babekan,  prince 
of  the  Druses ;  although  she  abhorred  him,  having 
fallen  vehemently  in  love  with  a  strange  knight,  whom 
a  beautiful  dwarf,  with  a  lily-sceptre  in  his  hand,  had 
presented  to  her  in  a  dream.  The  emotion  of  Sir 
Huon,  his  appearance,  his  yellow  hair,  convince  the 
old  woman  that  he  is  the  desired  stranger ;  and  she 
runs  at  day-break  to  the  seraglio  with  news  of  his 
arrival. 

Book  V.  Rezia,  informed  by  her  nurse  Fatima  of 
the  arrival  of  the  yellow-haired  knight,  decks  herself 
for  the  feast,  and  takes  place  at  the  table,  on  her  fa- 
ther's right  hand:  Babekan  being  on  his  left.  Sir 
Huon  finds  beside  his  couch  the  gala-dress  of  an  Emir ; 
and  at  his  door,  a  horse  richly  caparisoned,  and  pages 
who  conduct  him  to  the  palace.  He  passes  for  a 
wedding-guest  of  the  first  rank,  and  is  admitted  to  the 
hall  of  banquet.  He  discovers,  on  the  left-hand  of 
the  caliph,  the  treacherous  Mohammedan  whom  he 
had  rescued  in  the  forest,  and  strikes  off  his  head  with 


/. 


414  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

a  scymetar.  On  perceiving  Rezia,  he  throws  aside  his 
sword  and  his  turban,  and  is  recognized  by  her  as  his 
yellow  locks  descend.  The  lover^s  fly  into  each  other  s 
arms. — ^Meanwhile,  the  caliph  orders  an  armed  gnard 
to  seize  the  intruder.  The  intreaties  of  Rezia  aiid  the 
courage  of  Huon  are  unable  to  resist  them :  but  the 
mystic  bugle-horn  is  now  sounded,  and  every  inmate 
of  the  palace,  Caliph,  Imam,  Circassian,  eunuch,  ne- 
gro, is  attracted  to  mingle  in  antic  motley  dance.  Sir 
Huon  applies  to  the  caliph  for  his  beard,  while  Sche» 
rasmin  and  Fadma  make  the  necessary  preparations  for 
flight.  Oberoti  intervenes ;  and  the  two  couple  are  safe- 
ly transported  through  the  air  to  Askalon.  This  whole 
canto  is  a  master-piece  of  narrative  and  interest :  the 
meeting  of  the  lovers  communicates  to  the  reader  an 
electric  transport,  and  is  one  of  the  finest  moments  in 
the  whole  compass  of  the  epopoea.  Hnon*s  behaviour 
to  Rezia  is  exquisitely  proper ;  and  the  appearance  of 
Oberon  (st.  67  and  68)  is  truly  sublime.  Perhaps  the 
dream  at  the  beginning  was  needless  :  there  had  been 
much  dreaming  already. 

In  the  sixth  book,  before  the  lovers  embark  for 
Europe,  Oberon  warns  them  to  consider  each  other 
as  brother  and  sister,  until  Pope  Sylvester  should  pro- 
nounce the  marriage-blessing  on  their  union.  "  Should 
you  (says  he)  pluck  the  sweet  forbidden  fruit  before 

the  time,  Oberon  must  withdraw  his  protection.'* 

The  four  companions  set  sail  for  Lepanto ;  and  Jerom, 
to  amuse  their  leisure,  recounts  a  history  which  he  had 
learnt  from  some  Calender.  This  sto«v  is  no  other 
than  Chaucer's  January  and  May,  here  called  Gangolf 
and  Rosdtta ;  at  the  close  of  which,  CN>eron  is  made 
in  anger  to  quit  Titania,  with  an  oath  ^^  never  again  to 
meet  her  in  water,  air,  or  earth,  until  a  faithful  couple. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  415 

united  in  mutual  love,  shall  by  their  purity  atone  for 
the  guilt  of  the  unfaithful  pair ;  and,  remaining  true 
to  their  first  aflFection,  shall  prefer  death  by  fire  to  a 
breach  of  fidelity  even  for  the  sake  of  a  throne."  Re- 
zia's  first  view  of  the  sea  affords  a  fine  stanza :  but,  in 
general,  this  canto  is  trailing  and  tedious,  worthier  of 
Chaucer  than  of  Wieland:  the  70th,  71st,  72d,  73d, 
and  74th,  stanzas  might  with  advantage  be  wholly 
omitted;  and  many  others  require  to  be  compressed: 
nor  have  Gangolf  and  Rosetta  sufficient  consequence 
to  justify  the  interference  of  Wieland's  ennobled  Obe- 
ron  and  Titania  with  their  fortunes. 

Book  VII.  Our  amiable  hero  and  heroine  arrive  at 
Lepanto.  The  presence  of  old  Scherasmin  begins  to 
grow  inconvenient  to  Sir  Hnon,  who  sends  him  for- 
ward to  Marseilles,  with  the  casket  containing  the  ca- 
liph's beard;  andhehimself  takes  shipping  for  Salerno. 
His  passion  for  Rezia  grows  hourly  more  sensual  and 
more  impatient;  and  at  length '  In  Hymen  s  stead  Amcr 
crowns  their  union.' 


XVIL* 

At  once  the  heavens  are  darkened,  quench'd  each  star! 
Ah !  happy  pair !  they  knew  it  not — the  wave 
Howls  as  unfetter'd  winds  o'er  ocean  rave : 
Their  tempest-laden  pinions  roar  from  far ! 
They  hear  it  not — with  rage  encircled  round. 
Stern  Oberon  flying  thro'  the  gloom  profound 
Rushes  before  their  face — they  hear  him  not ! 
And  thrice  the  thunder  peals  their  boded  lot : 
And  ah!  they  hear  it  not,  each  sense  in  rapture  drown'd! 

5  Here,  and  in  the  next  quotation,  I  avail  myself  of  Mr.  Sotheby's  elegant  version. 


416  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


XVIII. 


Meanwhile  the  tumult  maddens  more  and  more ; 
Fierce  from  aU  sides  at  once  a  whirlwind  breaks ; 
Rock'd  by  rude  gusts  the  earth  confus'dly  shakes. 
The  welkin  flames,  with  lightning  vaulted  o'er : 
High  in  the  air  by  surging  tempests  cast, 
The  world  of  waters  bellows  to  the  blast : 
The  vessel  reels  at  random  to  and  fro ; 
The  boatswain  calls  in  vain,  while  shrieks  of  woe 
Ring  thro'  the  staggermg  ship,  all  hope  of  safety  past ! 


XIX. 

The  wind's  unbridled  rage,  the  heav'n  that  burns, 
Enrapt  in  flames  like  hell's  sulphureous  tides. 
The  crackling  of  the  vessel's  rifted  sides. 
That  now,  as  rise  and  fall  the  waves  by  turns. 
Sinks  buried  in  the  dark  unfathom'd  deep ; 
Now  rocks  upon  the  billow's  ridgy  steep. 
While  all  beneath  in  foamy  vapour  dies : 
These  sounds,  of  power  to  force  the  dead  to  rise. 
Awake  the  conscious  pair  from  love's  enchanted  sleep. 


XX. 


Wild  darts  Amanda  from  his  fond  caress — 
"  Our  doom  is  seal'd !"  she  cries  with  dread  afii-ight : 
Conscious  of  guilt,  he  prays  the  guardian  sprite 
To  shield,  at  least,  Amanda  from  distress — 
At  least  for  her  he  dares  the  god  implore — 
In  vain ! — no  pray'rs  his  former  grace  restore: 
He  comes  th'  avenger  of  the  guilty  soul. 
Stern  to  inflict  the  doom — the  horn  and  bowl. 
The  fairy  gifts,  are  gone — he  heat's  and  saves  no  more! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  417 


XXI. 

Meanwhile  the  captain  calls  th'  assembled  crew — 
"  Ye  see  your  doom — we  all  at  once  expire ! 
The  stormy  wave,  rude  blast,  and  lightning  fire, 
With  still-increasing  rage  the  ship  pursue ! 
We  soon  must  perish  in  the  wat'ry  grave ! 
Never  till  now  such  tempests  swell'd  the  wave! 
At  once  we  sink  in  ocean's  yawning  womb ! 
Haply  the  guilt  of  one  has  seaFd  our  doom : 
One  whom  the  lightning  seeks — his  death  the  rest  may 
save  I 

XXII. 

"Implore  offended  Heaven  to  mark  by  lot 
The  destin'd  victim  with  unerring  arm- 
Is  there  among  you  whom  my  words  alarm  ? 
Thus  doomed  to  die  together  on  the  spot, 
Who,  but  the  wretch  self-judg'd,  has  cause  to  fear?" 
He  spoke,  and  all  approve  the  words  they  hear. 
The  priest  the  chalice  brings,  the  lots  they  cast. 
Round  him  they  fall  upon  their  knees  aghast ! 
He  breathes  a  prayer  to  Heaven,  and  bids  the  crew  draw 
near. 

XXIII. 

Fiird  with  dire  bodings,  but  in  manly  mood, 
Huon  comes  forth,  and  as  he  passes  by. 
On  poor  Amanda  turns  his  soothing  eye  : 
She,  mute,  and  agoniz'd,  and  bloodless  stood, 
An  alabaster  image,  icy  cold ! 
He  draws — oh,  fate !  oh,  Oberon !  behold. 
He  draws  the  lot  of  death  with  trembling  hand ! 
Mute,  with  fixt  gaze,  the  rest  around  him  stand, 
The  while  he  reads  his  doom,  pale,  patient,  uncontroll'd. 

VOL.  II.  E  K 


418  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


XXIV. 

"  Thine,  Oberon  !'*  he  cries,  "  't  is  thine  the  deed ! 
Full  well  I  feel  it,  tho'  I  view  thee  not — 
Stern  god !  I  feel  thy  presence  in  this  lot ! 
Thou  didst  forewarn  me  of  the  fate  decreed — 
Guilt  dares  not  sue  for  pardon — ^just  my  doom ! 
Hurl  me  relentless  spirit!  to  the  tomb ! 
Spare  but  Amanda ! — mine  alone  the  guilt ! 
Be  on  my  head  thy  hoarded  vengeance  spilt ! 
I  bow — nor  shall  these  lips  to  breathe  a  hope  presume! 


XXV. 

"  Ye,  whom  my  death  now  rescues,  shed  one  tear. 
One  pious  tear,  to  mourn  my  hapless  doom! 
Victim  of  ruthless  fate  in  youthful  bloom ! 
Not  wholly  guiltless  ends  my  brief  career, 
Yet  honor  firmly  trod  my  path  before — 
Ah !  tranc'd  in  bliss,  the  oath  I  rashly  swore. 
And  warning  voice  one  moment  I  forgot ! 
My  sole  offence  man's  universal  lot. 
To  be  one  moment  frail,  then  lost  for  evermore ! 


XXVI. 

'^I,  doom'd  by  frailty,  fall  in  youthful  prime ! 
Yet  to  my  fate  without  a  murmur  bend — 
No,  I  repent  not,  tho'  stern  death  impend ! — 
Is  love  a  sin  ?  may  Heaven  forgive  the  crime ! 
All  other  duties  from  remembrance  fade. 
Ah !  save  by  love  bow  could'st  thou  be  repaid  ? 
Thou !  who  for  love  did'st  every  hope  resign ! 
Not  ocean's  depth  can  dim  its  light  divine ; 
No,  it  immortal  glows,  and  lives  in  Huou's  shade!" 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  419 


XXVII. 

Here  swells  his  heart — he  holds  his  icy  hand 
O'er  his  sunk  brow ;  then  mute  and  still  remains. 
What  monster^  steel'd  to  woe^  the  tear  restrains  ? 
The  hearts  of  all^  who  round  in  silence  stand. 
Dissolve  with  pity. — Sterner  thoughts  arise. 
And  pity's  transient  gleam  unnotic'd  dies ! 
His  death  is  safety — 't  is  the  life  of  all ! 
Heaven,  in  his  doom,  decrees  that  guilt  should  fall ! 
How  shall  frail  man  resist  the  judgement  of  the  skies? 


XXVIII. 

The  storm,  that  from  the  time  Sir  Huon  spoke 
Had  seem'd  awhile  its  fury  to  assuage. 
Now  smote  the  ocean  with  redoubled  rage : 
Incessant  lightnings  on  the  vessel  broke — 
"  Perish  the  wretch !"  bursts  forth  the  general  cry ; 
The  captain  beckons,  **Fate  forbids  reply! 
Since  no  delay  your  life  can  longer  save. 
And  death  more  fiercely  bellows  from  the  wave. 
Perish !  it  must  be  so — by  Heaven  condemned  to  die !" 


XXIX. 

The  Paladin  moves  on  with  steady  pace : 
At  once  amid  the  crew,  th'  empassion'd  fair. 
So  long  the  lifeless  statue  of  despair. 
Darts  wild  with  woe  to  Huon's  last  embrace. 
Loose,  like  a  lion's  mane,  her  ringlets  sweep 
Before  the  blast !  With  eyes  that  cannot  weep. 
With  love  to  phrenzy  wrought,  with  high-swoln  breast. 
And  circling  arms,  round  Huon  closely  prest, 
She  hurls  him  with  herself  amid  the  swallowing  deep ! 

E  BS 


420  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Superior  stilly  if  possible,  is  the  eighth  canto ;  in 
which  the  lovers  discover,  in  a  distant  corner  of  the 
iland,  an  old  hermit ;  who  receives  them  into  his 
dwelling.  The  pregnancy  of  Rezia  advances.  Her 
partnrition  is  at  once  the  newest,  the  most  delicately 
managed,  and  the  most  affecting  incident  of  the  poem. 
Titania,  the  Elfen  queen,  who  had  chosen  this  iland 
for  her  residence  since  her  lamented  separation  from 
Oberon,  performs  for  Rezia  the  mysterious  services 
during  the  hour  of  her  throes.  The  story  of  the  her- 
mit is  perhaps  too  much  in  common  life  for  a  book  of 
marvels. 

LXVIII. 

The  hour  was  come :  opprest  with  silent  woe, 
Amanda,  lingering,  near  the  cottage  strays, 
'Mid  fragrant  shrubs  that  shade  her  secret  ways, 
Where  opening  flow'rs  around  profusely  blow, 
And  breathe  fresh  incense  on  the  gale  of  morn. 
Down  a  small  path  she  wanders  on  forlorn ; 
Then  stops  before  a  grot,  where  ivy  weaves 
The  rich  luxuriance  of  her  clust'ring  leaves. 
While  day's  resplendent  beams  their  glossy  tint  adorn. 

LXIX. 

Oft  had  Alphonso  wish'd  to  view  the  grot. 
And  tried  to  enter  the  forbidden  place : 
And  venturous  Huon  oft  intent  to  trace 
The  wonders  of  the  strange  mysterious  spot, 
Had  tried  in  vain  the  secret  to  explore ; 
They  stood  with  nameless  terror  thrilling  o'er, 
And  if  they  forward  step t  with  daring  force, 
A  strange  resistance  barr'd  at  once  their  course ; 
Against  them  seem'd  to  rise  a  vast  yet  viewless  door. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  421 


LXX. 

Their  spirits  sunk  in  deep  mysterious  glo6m, 
Their  steps  retiring  slid  with  noiseless  tread; 
And  none  again,  so  strong,  so  strange  the  dread, 
To  tempt  the  horrors  of  the  place  presume — 
If  till  that  time  untry'd,  't  is  all  unknown : 
Enough,  that  now  Amanda,  fearless  grown, 
No  longer  can  the  bold  attempt  withstand : 
Onward  she  calmly  steps — with  gentle  hand 
Removes  the  ivy  web,  and  enters  in  alone. 


LXXI. 

At  once,  a  secret  shudder  gently  steals 
Along  her  frame,  upon  a  yielding  seat 
She  sinks,  where  moss  and  blooming  roses  meet. 
Now  inly  feels,  thro'  bone  and  marrow  feels, 
Thrill  upon  thrill  swift-piercing  anguish  dart — 
'T  is  past — sweet  languor  steals  upon  the  smart — 
It  seems,  that  o'er  her  eyes  pale  moon-beams  glide. 
Gradual,  in  deep  and  deeper  shadow  dy'd. 
Till  softly  hush'd  to  sleep,  oblivion  stills  her  heart. 


LXXII. 

And  from  within  her  a  confusion  gleams 
Of  lovely  shapes ;  some  o'er  her  sweep,  some  roll'd, 
Each  in  the  other  floating,|fold  on  fold ; 
Mixture  of  wond'rous  mood — ^and  now  it  seems 
Before  her  knees  three  lovely  angels  stand : 
Clear  to  her  gaze  their  mystic  rites  expand : 
And,  lo !  a  woman  veil'd  in  roseate  ray, 
Holds  to  her  lips,  as  dies  her  breath  away, 
A  wreath  of  roses  fresh  that  bud  beneath  her  hand. 


4*22  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


Lxxin. 

For  the  last  time  her  higher  beating  heart 
Thrills  with  a  short  and  softly-silenc'd  pain — 
The  forms  are  fled  away — she  swoons  again — 
And  now,  without  remembrance  of  a  smart. 
Wakes  to  soft  notes,  and  seems  afar  to  hear 
Their  lowJuU'd  echoes  dying  from  the  ear. 
The  sister  forms  are  vanish*d  from  her  view. 
Alone  before  her,  rob'd  in  roseate  hue. 
The  gracious  elfine  queen  sofl*smiling  deigns  appear. 


LXXIV. 

Within  her  arms  repos'd  a  new-bom  child : 
She  gives  it  to  Amanda — then,  as  blown 
At  distance,4n  a  wink  away  is  flown : 
Sweet  odors  breathe  where  late  the  fairy  smiFd — 
The  dreamer  opes  her  disenchanted  eyes, 
And  darts  her  hand,  while  now  the  vision  flies. 
To  catch  the  hem  that  gilds  her  robe  of  light — 
In  vain — the  whole  is  vanish'd  from  her  sight — 
Her  hand  but  grasps  the  air — Amanda  lonely  lies ! 


LXXV. 

One  pulse-beat  more — and  how  divinely  great 
At  once  her  mingled  wonder  and  delight — 
She  feels,  she  sees,  yet  trusts  nor  sense  nor  sight 
She  feels  herself  delivered  from  her  weight, 
WHle  in  her  lap  a  quivering  infant  lies. 
More  beauteous  than  e'er  blest  a  mother's  eyes ; 
Fresh  as  a  morning  rose,  and  fair  as  love — 
And,  oh  I  what  thrills  her  swelling  bosom  move, 
While  soft  she  feels  her  heart  against  him  fondly  rise. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  423 


LXXVL 

She  feels  it — ^"t  is  her  son ! — with  rapture  wild, 
Bath'd  in  warm  tears  from  sweet  sensations  prest. 
She  clasps  him  to  her  cheek,  her  mouth,  her  breast, 
And  looks  with  eye  unsated  on  her  child.  - 
He  knows  her,  sure — sure  answering  rapture  his. 
Leave  her  at  least  the  visionary  bliss ! 
Lo !  his  clear  eye  to  her's  responsive  speaks, 
And  lo !  his  little  mouth  that  wistful  seeks 
Warm  from  her  lip  to  suck  the  sweet  o'erflowing  kiss. 


LXXVIL 

She  hears  the  silent  call — how  quickly  hears 
A  mother's  heart!  and  follows  it  untaught, 
With  such  delight,  such  soul-transporting  thought, 
That,  sure,  if  angels  bending  from  their  spheres 
Could  gaze  on  earthly  scenes  with  envious  eyes, 
Envy,  at  such  a  sight,  had  reach'd  the  skies. 
She  lays  the  lovely  suckling  on  her  breast. 
While  tenderest  sympathy,  supremely  blest, 
Feels  in  her  heart  new  springs  of  purest  transport  rise« 


LXXVIII. 

s 

Meanwhile  with  ceaseless  search  the  groves  around, 
Huon,  two  livelong  hours  had  sought  his  bride ! 
But  all  in  vain — his  eye  no  trace  descried : 
At  last  he  wanders  to  this  holy  ground : 
He  ventures  near  and  nearer  to  the  spot. 
Tries,  unresisted,  the  forbidden  grot-^ 
Oh !  heart-felt  rapture !  how  supremely  blest ! 
Amanda  with  an  infant  at  her  breast, 
Sunk  in  a  flood  of  bliss,  all  else  on  earth  forgot. 


424  HISTORIC  SURVEY 


LXXIX. 

Ye^  whom  kind  nature  gifted  at  your  birth 
With  that  possession  which  outweighs  all  joys. 
That  endless  treasure  which  no  time  destroys. 
Not  to  be  bought  with  all  the  wealth  on  earth  ; 
Which  in  this  world  of  sin  to  God  recalls, 
And  in  another  where  no  sin  enthralls, 
Follows  our  heavenly  being  unconfin'd, 
Gift  of  a  feeling  heart,  and  virtuous  mind  ! 
Look,  and  behold  that  sight ! — the  holy  curtain  falls- 


Book  IX.  The  ship  which  Huon  had  quitted  is  com- 
pelled to  make  the  port  of  Tunis,  instead  of  Salerno ; 
and  the  captain  sells  his  remaining  passenger,  Fatima, 
for  a  slave,  to  Ibrahim,  chief  gardener  of  the  Sultan. 
Jerom,  thinking  that  his  casket  of  white  hair  would 
not  convince  Charlemagne  in  Sir  Huon's  absence  that 
his  commands  had  been  fulfilled,  determines  to  rejoin 
his  master  at  Rome;  and  not  finding  him  there  adopts 
the  costume  of  a  pilgrim  to  go  in  search  of  him,  and 
traces  his  ship  to  Tunis ;  where  Fatima  gets  him  em- 
ployment in  the  royal  gardens,  under  old  Ibrahim. 
Titania  steals  away  the  young  Huonnet.  Rezia,  search- 
ing for  him  along  the  shore,  is  surprised  by  pirates, 
and  hurried  on  board  a  ship.  Huon,  rushing  to  her 
assistance,  is  overpowered  by  numbers,  and  left  be- 
hind, bound  to  a  tree. 

Book  X.  The  action  henceforth  hastens  to  solution. 
Oberon  wrecks  the  ship  of  the  pirates  in  the  bay  of 
Tunis,  near  a  terrace,  whence  the  sultan  Almanzor  sees 
Rezisi  brought  ashore :  he  also  sends  a  spirit  to  unbind 
Huon,  who  is  borne  to  the  door  of  the  gardener  Ibra- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  425 

him,  and  employed  under  hiin.  In  the  French  romance, 
the  name  of  the  spirit  who  carries  Huon  through  the 
air  is  Malebron :  it  has  here  been  suppressed :  but  it 
was  perhaps  worth  while  to  have  connected  the  my- 
thological personages  still  farther  with  the  fictions  of 
Shakspeare,  by  introducing  the  spirit  of  the  Tempest, 
and  reading  st.  14, 1.  viii,  Sich  Ariel  ihm  der  sein  Vem- 
trauter  war. 

Book  XI.  Almanzor  is  now  an  avowed  suitor  to 
Rezia.  Huon,  apprised  of  her  arrival,  attempts  to  see 
her  by  lingering  in  the  garden,  but  meets  the  sultaness 
Almanzaris,  who  determines  to  avenge  the  altered  sen- 
timents of  her  husband,  by  courtesy  to  the  handsome 
gardener.  She  tempts  him,  vainly,  in  her  chambers, 
surrounded  with  every  luxury  and  every  enticement* 
She  then  appoints  him  deceptiously  in  the  bath-house, 
and  assails  his  constancy  by  her  naked  embraces.  The 
saltan  intervenes;  she  denounces  Huon  asaravisher; 
and  he  is  condemned  to  die  by  fire.  She  visits  him  a 
third  time  in  prison ;  and  offers  to  arm  numerous  slaves 
in  his  behalf,  and  to  give  him  the  throne  and  bed  of 
her  husband.  He  remains  inflexible. — ^The  voluptu- 
ous scenes  of  this  canto  are  no  where  surpassed  even 
by  the  author  himself:  it  will  bear  comparison  v^ith 
Acrasia's  bower  of  bliss  in  Spenser,  and  with  Tasso's 
garden  of  Armida. 

Book  XII.  Almanzor  is  also  unsuccessful  with  Re- 
zia ;  who,  having  discovered  the  doom  of  Huon,  goes 
to  solicit  his  life.  The  sultan  offers  it  on  condition 
of  her  compliance : — she  disdains  him.  He  threatens 
her  with  a  like  fete,  and  orders  her  execution.  The 
two  lovers  are  now  bound  to  jhe^ stake  on  a  pyre,  like 
Olindo  and  Sofronia.  The  torch  is  just  applied,  ^en 
Almanzor,  at  the  head  of  one  troop,  rushes  forwards 


» 


•'^Z. 
C-%' 


\  ^>. 


I 


i 


,;X     426  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

to  save  Rezia ;  Almanzaris,  at  the  head  of  another,  to 
rescue  Huon;  and  Scherasmin,  in  a  solitary  suit  of 
black  armnre^  also  appears,  scarsely  hoping  more  than 
to  fall  beside  his  master.  Their  zeal,  however,  is  need- 
less ; — ^the  condition  of  Oberon's  oath  is  accomplish- 
ed : — ^their  bonds  are  broken :  the  bugle-horn  hangs 
again  on  the  neck  of  Huon^  and  a  tune  involves  in  one 
vast  dance  the  executioners  and  the  assailants.  The 
car  of  Oberon  descends,  and  removes  Huon,  Rezia, 
Scherasmin,  and  Fatima,  first  to  the  palace  of  Oberon 
to  witness  the  feast  of  his  reconciliation  with  Titania, 
where  Huonnet  is  restored  to  his  parents ;  and  next 
to  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  where  they  are  finally  set- 
tled with  a  rich  provision  of  furniture  and  magnifi- 
cence. A  tournament  at  Paris  impends:  the  prize  is 
Sir  Huon's  land ;  which,  from  his  long  absence,  is 
supposed  escheated  to  the  crown.  Sir  Hnoa  enters 
the  lists  unknown,  and  wins  the  stake :  he  then  pre- 
sents the  casket,  Rezia,  and  his  son,  to  Charlemagne, 
in  whose  bosom  all  animosity  expires. 

Such  is  the  well-rounded  fable  of  this  metrical  ro- 
mance of  chivalry.      It  were  difficult  to  suggest  a 

?f '  blemish  in  it.  Yet,  as  the  author  has  thought  fit  to 
coirt^ert  the  heroine  to  a  religion  which  peculiarly  en- 
.  forces  the  duty  of  chastity ;  and  as  the  turn  of  the 
whole  story,  not  less  than  the  law  of  France,  sets  a 
considerable  value  on  the  marriage-ceremony; — we 
have  sometimes  been  tempted  to  think  that  this  con- 
version should  have  been  reserved  until  the  sojourn- 

/  ment  on  the  iland ;  and  that  the  nuptial  benediction 
should  there  have  been  pronounced  by  the  hermit,  pre- 
viously to  the  interposition  of  Titania. 

In  the  whole  poem   occur  but  few  similes ;    they 
bielong,  no  doubt,  to  the  exhausted  class  of  ornaments. 


f 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  427  i* 


*'h 


The  style  is  less  difiuse  and  trailing,'  less  exuberant  ^  r 

of  circumstances  and  particulars,  than  in  most  produc- 
tions of  Wieland.  It  abounds,  as  in  all  his  w.orks, 
with  sensible  imagery  and  picturesque  decoration :  it 
studiously  avoids  the  English  fault  of  substituting  ge^ 
neral  terms,  and  allegoric  personification,  for  spedfic 
description  and  individual  example.  It  does  not  h^  ^  \^, 
bitnally  aspire  at  elevation,  at  grandiloquence,  at  pom-  "".v.  ^^ * 
posity ;  and,  by  this  apparent  easy  negligence,  it  ob-  *;^*  ^  ''.ij^ 


ft 


tains  a  wider  arc  of  osdllationy  and  can  with  less  ^^V^*^- 

discrepancy  descend  to  the  comic  or  ascend  to  the  siib-  ^   . 

lime.  Milton  and  Klopstock  assume  the  highest  tc^nje- 
of  diction  which  language  admits :  they  have  seldom 
resources  in  reserve  when  they  wish  to  soar  above 
their  usual  level  of  diction,  but  become  aflfected,  bloat- .  ' l\ 

ed,  unintelligible.     Milton's  war  of  heaven  is  tame, 
and  Klopstock's  ascension  is  tedious :  they  have  con- 
tinually been  on  the  stretch ;    and  on-  great  occasions 
they  sink,  as  if  unequal  to  their  subject.     Virgil  and-* 
Tasso  excel  in  the  next  degree  of  exaltation,  and  pro- 
bably maintain  the  highest  tone  of  style  which  is  really 
prudent  in  the  solemn  epopoea.^     Homer,  Afiosto, 
and  Camoens,  have  chosen  a  humbler  but  more  flexile    *      "^^t**  •  «^ 
manner,  which  can  adapt  itself  without  effort  or  dis-  ^  \     *  "'  * 
paragement  to  a  greater  diversity  of  emotion  and  in-^ 
cident ;  which  is  more  capacious  of  variety,  and  more 
accommodating  to  circumstance.    In  this  respect  they  '  ^^ 

have  served  as  models  to  the  author  of  Oheron^  who 
describes  with  equal  felicity  a  palace  in  uproar,  or  a 
ridiculous  dance ;  the  hostilities  of  a  tournament,  or 
the  conflicts  of  concupiscence.  To  the  delineation  of 
great  passions,  or  the  contrast  of  complex  character, 

€  Pope's  Iliad  and  Mickle's  Lusiad  adopt  a  higher  pitch  of  tension  than  the  style 
of  the  originals. 


i 


t 


« 

i 


428  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

his  subject  did  not  invite :  he  is  naturally  eqaal  to  the 
tender  and  the  beaatifnl ;  and  no  where  disappoints 
the  tiptoe  expectation  which  he  rouses.  His  charac- 
ters, if  few,  are  consistent  and  distinct.  His  learned 
attention  to  the  minutiae  of  costume,  whether  Gothic 
or  Oriental,  may  encounter  without  shrinking  the  arm- 
q^  eye  of  even  microscopic  criticism.  The  adventures 
of  heroes  are  by  him  brought  home  to  the  affairs  of 
ordinary  life,  to  the  bosoms  of  common  men,  and  are 
thus  secure  of  a  sympathy  coeternal  with  human  na- 
ture. The  busy  life  of  his  narrative,  and  the  felicitous 
structure  of  his  story,  further  contribute  to  his  unre- 
lenting power  of  fascination.  The  reader  clings  to 
his  book  by  a  magnetism  which  a  sublimer  genius  is 
often  unable  to  emanate;  and  he  returns  to  it  with 
increased  attraction.  If  there  be  an  European  poem 
likely  to  obtain,  on  perusal;  the  applause  of  eastern 
nations  by  its  voluptuous  beauties  of  imagery  and  ma- 
gic magnificence  of  fancy,  it  is  this :  in  a  good  Persian 
translation,  it  would  less  surprise  by  its  singularity  than 
enrapture  by  its  perfection. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  429 


§  13. 

Reviewed  of  WielantTs  Collective  Works  continued,  vol.  xxiv 
— XXX — Disquisitions — Dialogues  of  the  Gods,  (four  of 
which  are  extracted) — Dialogues  of  the  Dead —  Operas — 
Remarks  on  the  French  Revolution — Fairy  Tales. 

The  twenty-fourth  volume  of  these  works  comprises 
Literary,  Philosophical^  and  Historical  Disquisitirnis, 
alike  remarkable  for  elegance  and  erudition.  The  first 
is  a  letter  to  a  young  poet,  advising  him  either  to  make 
poetry  his  primary  pursuit,  or  to  abandon  it  altogether. 
The  second  discusses  the  question,  "  What  is  truth  ?'' 
Wieland  considers  it  as  a  mutable,  relative,  individual 
impression,  little  connected  with  the  state  of  the  ex- 
ternal world : — a  conclusion  favourable  to  Pyrrhonism. 
In  the  third  disquisition,  philosophy  is  contemplated  as 
a  remedy  for  diseases  of  the  mind.    The  fourth  notices 
various  symptoms  of  reviving  credulity  and  supersti- 
tion, lately  exhibited  in  Berlin,  in  common  with  other 
European  capitals.     The  fifth  is  an  antiquarian  inves- 
tigation of  early  pastimes  and  games :  it  may  furnish 
some  additional  anecdotes  to  the  author  of  ^^  Chess ;" 
and  it  may,  in  turn,  derive  some  correction  from  a 
paper  published  by  Sir  William  Jones  in  the  Asiatic 
Researches.    The  exquisite  dissertation  which  follows, 
on  the  Ideals  of  the  Greek  artists,  tends  somewhat  to 
disperse  that  consecrated  glory,  which,  in  the  consi- 
deration of  a  classical  mind,  is  too  apt  to  hover  over 


430  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

the  productions  of  antiquity ;  it  may  change  the  nim- 
hus  into  a  hahy  less  delusive  and  less  unfavourable  to 
an  equitable  appretiation  of  their  merit.     The  over- 
rating of  ancient  art  has  perhaps  been  an  obstacle  to 
modern  improvement.    The  account  of  the  Pythago- 
rean women  terminates  with  an  interesting  tribute  of 
gratitude  for  the  personal  domestic  happiness  enjoyed 
by  the  author.     The  Apologies  of  Aspasia,  of  Julia, 
and  of  the  younger  Faustina,  form  an  important  piece 
of  historic  criticism :  particularly  the  second,  which  is 
especially  directed  against  a  misrepresentation  contain- 
ed in  Blackwell's  Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  Augustus. 
The  twenty-fifth  volume  includes  Dialogues  of  the 
Godsy  and  Dialogues  of  the  Dead ;  which  are  separ- 
ated from  each  other  without  any  very  obvious  line  of 
demarcation.     The  second  colloquy,  for  instance,  be- 
tween Livia  and  Faustina,  might  as  well  have  passed 
in  Elysium  as  on  Olympus.    These  dialogues  were  all 
written  during  the  three  years  which  the  author  em- 
ployed in  his  excellent  translation  of  Lucian,  and  are 
deeply  tinctured  with  the  peculiar  hues  of  that  origi- 
nal.   They  exhibit  nearly  an  equal  geniality  of  humor, 
with  fewer  tautologies  of  style ;  the  same  slight  of 
sneer,  with  higher  urbanity  of  satire ;  the  same  divert- 
ing wit  and  radiance  of  fancy,  with  a  more  dramatic 
individuality  of  character,  a  wider  range  of  personifi- 
cation and  command  of  allusion,  and  an  aim  more  de- 
finite and  important ;  the  same  Epicurean  hostility  to 
imposture,  and  indulgence  for  pleasure,  with  a  more 
profound  penetration  into  human  spirit,  and  a  loftier 
carejfor  human  excellence.    Among  the  more  fortun- 
ate of  these  dialogues,  may  be  numbered  some  which 
relate  to  the  French  revolution,  but  which  have  now 
lost  their  freshness.     Of  these  the  more  prominent 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  431 

i^rere  already  translated  into  English  in  1795^  and  pub- 
lished for  Johnson  of  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  in  a 
separate  volunie.  The  age  of  retribution,  the  panacea, ' 
the  two  parts  of  the  federation,  are  retained  in  this 
final  edition  of  Wieland's  works  ;  but  several  others 
had  appeared  in  the  Mercur,  (for  instance,  a  dialogue 
between  Brutus,  and  Charlotte  Corday,)  which  have 
been  dropped  by  the  author  without  any  obvious  rea- 
son :  his  habitual  equity,  and  imperturbable  calmness, 
would  still  command  admiration :  the  frown  of  power, 
the  excesses  of  the  people,  shook  him  not ;  the  ruins 
of  a  broken  world  fell  round  him  fearless. 

Liess  temporary  in  their  character  are  the  objections 
to  a  particular  providence,  in  a  confabulation  between 
Hercules  and  Jupiter ;  the  defense  of  dignified  images 
of  the  gods  against  the  iconoclasts,  in  a  conversation 
between  Lycinus  and  Athenagoras ;  the  satire  on  mys- 
ticism, in  a  dialogue  between  Proserpina,  Luna,  and 
Diana,  who  vainly  strive  to  explain  to  each  other  the 
doctrine  which  teaches  that  each  is  Hecate,  until  the 
appearance  of  the  real  Hecate  terminates  their  contro- 
versy ;  the  comparison  of  Paganism  with  Christianity, 
in  a  debate  between  the  principal  Roman  divinities ;  and 
the  interlocution  of  Jupiter  and  Numa  with  a  stranger: 
igv\xo  is  still  so,  says  Wieland,  to  most  persons  in  our  own 
times,  and  who  here  appears  to  resolve  some  import- 
ant problems'  relating  to  his  real  character  and  aim. 
These  five  are  subjoined. 


432  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

I. 

JUPITER  and  HERCULES. 

On  the  government  of  the  world,  and  on  sons  of  gods. 


HERCULES,  JUPITER. 


Hercules.  Is  it  permitted,  father,  now  that  we  art 
t^te-a-t^te^  to  ask  you  a  free  question,  or  two  ? 

Jupiter.  Ask  what  pleases  thee,  my  son. 

Hercules.  I  have  long  wished  to  know,  whethei 
it  be  really  true,  as  the  good  men  below  flatter  them- 
selves, that  you  take  such  a  particular  interest  in  theii 
conduct,  meddle  in  all  their  affairs,  keep  a  register  ol 
all  their  wishes  and  prayers,  and,  in  short,  govern  th( 
world  only  for  their  sakes. 

Jupiter.  Son,  thou  askest  a  great  deal  in  a  breath; 
nor  would  I  answer  every  one  so  frankly  as  thyself: 
but  for  thee,  who  hast  always  been  my  favourite  souj 
I  have  no  secrets.  Now,  as  for  the  government  of  the 
world,  (leaning  his  head  to  the  ear  of  Hercules,  and 
speaking  in  a  whisper,)  that  has  never  been  a  concern 
of  mine. 

Hercules,  (looking  at  him  with  broad  eyes.)  How, 
and  who  governs  them  if  yon  do  not  ? 

Jupiter.  Hear  me,  my  dear  Hercules,  thou  mast 
not  ask  more  than  I  mvself  know.  I  have  never 
studied  metaphysics  much,  nor  would  they  be  of  anji 
use  to  me.  Every  one  has  his  own  sphere  of  action, 
I  have  mine ;  and  it  has  long  been  my  rule  to  consi- 
der that  which  is  above  me  as  no  part  of  my  concern. 
The  world,  my  dear  serpent-slayer,  is  a  great  deal 
bigger  than  thou  seemest  to  imagine.  It  has  never 
occurred  to  me  to  endeavour  to  measure  it ;  but  this 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  433 

thou  mayest  take  for  granted  on  my  authority,  that  the 
district  which  it  has  been  allotted  to  me  and  my  family 
to  superintend^  occupies  a  far  smaller  portion  of  the 
whole^  than  the  little  kingdom  of  Thespia  does  of  the 
earth,  where  you  gave  your  first  proofs  of  heroism  at 
the  expense  of  the  lion  of  Cithaeron,  and  of  the  fifty 
daughters  of  Thespius. 

Hercules.  As  to  this  last  affair,  father,  I  can  as- 
sure you  it  took  place  so  naturally,  that  it  would  not 
be  worth  while  to  compliment  me  upon  it,  if  those  ex- 
travagant fellows,  the  poets,  who  never  relate  a  thing 
as  it  is,  had  not  dressed  up  the  story.  But  I  beg  par- 
don for  interrupting  your  observations. 

Jupiter.  I  never  suspected  the  thing  to  have  hap- 
pened otherwise  than  naturally,  as  thou  seemest  to 
admit.  It  is  one  of  those  deeds  which  a  son  of  Jupiter 
needs  not  blush  at,  and  which  will  not  often  be  done 
again.  But  to  return  to  what  I  was  saying: — ^the  vil- 
lage of  Thespia,  where  the  grandfather  of  your  fifty 
children  was  king,  cut  at  that  time  but  a  small  figure 
on  the  earth,  and  yet  this  little  kingdom  of  Thespia 
is  perhaps  a  ten-million  times  smaller  portion  of  the 
earth,  than  the  system  of  planets,  which  I  have  to 
guide,  is  of  the  great  whole  ;  or  what  in  the  language 
of  gods,  to  which  thou  must  now  accustom  thyself,  is 
emphatically  termed  the  world.  Higher,  my  de^ar  Al- 
cides,  we  will  not  at  present  try  to  penetrate  into  the 
secrets  of  the  universe. 

Hercules.  Your  portion,  Jupiter,  is  surely  a  very 
respectable  one. 

Jupiter.  In  order  to  be  something  in  our  own 
eyes,  we  must  always  measure  ourselves  with  some- 
thing less. 

Hercules.  It  is  then  true,  in  spite  of  the  presump- 

VOL.  H.  F  w 


434  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

tuoQs  speechifier  at  Athens,  who  was  maintainiDg  the 
contrary,  that  you  are  the  supreme  sovereign  of  men, 
&ud  exert  an  immediate  providence  over  their  affairs. 

Jupiter.  True,  and  not  true  ;  as  thou  art  inclined 
to  take  it. 

Hercules.  True,  and  not  true ;  I  know  not  how 
to  take  that ;  you  are  joking  with  me. 

Jupiter.  Whatwas  this  Athenian  speechifier  saying? 

Hercules.  Lately,  as  I  was  going  past  my  temple 
in  the  Cynosarges,  I  stept  in  for  a  minute,  and  heard 
a  half-naked,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  whose  hair  hung 
in  thick  dark  locks  over  his  forehead,  warmly  disput- 
ing on  this  point  with  a  lean  old  man  bearded  like  a 
goat.  Jupiter,  said  the  first,  must  have  plenty  of  lei- 
sure, if  he  were  to  trouble  his  head  about  all  the  silly 
contradictory  prayers,  which  at  every  instant  are  put 
up  to  him  in  every  corner  of  the  earth. 

Jupiter.  The  man  is  not  so  much  out. 

Hercules.  Is  it  not,  he  continued,  shameful  that 
every  conceited  pnppy  should  dream,  that  the  king  of 
gods  and  men  is  only  there  to  be  his  messenger,  his 
house-steward,  his  cook  and  butler,  his  stable-boy,  his 
banker,  in  short  his  factotum ;  and  that  Jupiter  is  al- 
ways on  the  watch  to  see  where  and  when  every  man, 
who  is  too  lazy  or  too  aukward  to  help  himself,  has 
occasion  for  his  assistance. 

Jupiter.  The  man  speaks  gold,  my  son :  I  must 
'put  down  his  name  in  my  pocket-book.     Dost  thou 
recollect  it  ? 

Hercules.  They  called  him  Menippus,  if  I  heard 

right. 

JuFfTEE.  Him  I  know :  one  of  the  most  biting  Cy- 
nics, but  ^  fellow  with  as  clear  eyes  and  as  sharp  a 
nose,  as  ever  fell  to  such  a  one's  lot. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  435 

Hercules.  And  if,  continued  he,  Jupiter  were  so 
excessively  complaisant  as  to  let  himself  be  employed 
at  these  people's  pleasure  any  how,  still  they  evidently 
expect  more  of  him  than  he  is  able  to  perform. 

Jupiter.  Bnt  too  true!  but  too  true! 

Hercules.  How,  father,  can't  you  do  whatever  you 
will? 

Jupiter.  Whatever  I  will.  Yes,  my  good  Hercu- 
les, that  I  can,  and  do  you  know  why  ? 

Hercules.  Because  you  are  Jupiter. 

Jupiter.  Ill-guessed,  my  son.  I  can  what  I  will ; 
because  I  only  will  what  I  can. 

Hercules.  Do  I  hear  right,  that  you  cannot  do  all 
things. 

Jupiter.  There  are  two  little  difficulties  which  1 
never  yet  could  overcome. 

Hercules.  And  these  are  ? — 

Jupiter.  First,  that,  with  all  my  omnipotence,  I 
could  never  bring  it  to  bear  that  two  and  two  should 
be  more  or  less  than  four:  and  secondly,  that,  as  soon 
as  the  adequate  cause  of  a  thing  is  there,  I  could  never 
prevent  the  effect  from  following.  Thou  canst  not 
imagine,  son,  within  what  narrow  bounds  my  omnipo- 
tence is  confined  by  these  two  fatal  conditions. 

Hercules.  How?  if  any  one  were  about  to  cut  off 
the  nose  of  your  colossal  representative  at  Olympia, 
with  a  Scythian  cutlas,  could  not  you  restrain  his  arm  ? 

Jupiter.  If  I  stood  beside  him,  and  became  aware 
in  time  of  his  intention,  certainly.  But  before  I  could 
proceed  hence  to  Olympia,  the  whole  fine  work  of 
Phidias  might  be  hacked  to  pieces. 

Hercule^s.  And  for  what  are  the  Cyclops  always 
so  busy  every  year  in  making  you  thunderbolts? 

Jupiter.  Thou  must  be  aware  that  I  am  not  always 


436  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

holding  ten  thousand  thunderbolts  in  my  fist^  in  order 
to  hurl  them  where  they  might  do  execution.  And 
were  I  to  do  so,  yet  I  could  not  cause  any  thing  that 
has  once  happened  not  to  have  happened. 

Hercules.  But  you  can  prevent  its  happening. 

Jupiter.  Yes,  as  far  as  no  adequate  cause  for  its 
happening  is  there. 

Hercules.  This  cause  then  is  what  you  have  to  do 
with :  you  must  hinder  its  becoming  a  cause. 

Jupiter.  But  when  it  is  ah-eady  extant  ? 

Hercules.  With  all  due  respect,  Jupiter,  you  make 
me  impatient.  When  the  Centaur  Nessus  was  for  run- 
ning off  before  my  eyes  with  the  beautiful  Dejanira,  I 
knew  how  to  prevent  his  being  the  cause  of  her  ab- 
duction. I  sent  one  of  my  arrows  after  him,  and  hit 
him  so  precisely,  that  he  was  obliged  to  let  slip  his 
charming  prize. 

Jupiter.  This  came  to  pass  because  the  Centaur 
Nessus  was  indeed  the  cause  of  the  seizure  of  Dejan- 
ira, but  not  the  cause  of  a  successful  carrying  off.  Tell 
me  now,  when  thou  wast  seated  among  the  maids  of 
queen  Omphale  in  women's  clothes,  wast  employed  to 
spin,  and  expected  a  slap  of  her  slipper  if  the  thread 
was  drawn  too  thick  or  too  thin,  didst  thou  then  think 
thou  wast  acting  a  part  quite  worthy  of  the  son  of  Ju- 
piter and  Alcmena  ? 

Hercules.  No,  by  Hebe's  cup  of  nectar !  I  did  not. 

Jupiter.  Yet  thou  couldst  stoop  to  such  degrada- 
tions ? 

Hercules.  I  did  what  I  could  not  help. 

Jupiter.  So  ! — and  why  so ! 

Hercules.  Because  love  had  overpowered  me. 

Jupiter.  And  how  came  love  to  overpower  a  man 
of  your  force. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  437 

Hercules.  Excuse  me,  Jupiter,  but,  if  you  can  ask 
that,  you  must  never  have  seen  the  beautiful  Omphale. 
Speaking  respectfully,  I  almost  doubt  whether  you 
yourself  would  have  behaved  a  bit  better. 

Jupiter.  Let  that  alone.  Thou  acknowledgest  then, 
that  the  eyes  of  the  beautiful  Omphale  produced  effects 
irresistible.   And  yet,  my  son,  you  could  if  you  would. 

Hercules.  How  could  I  ? 

Jupiter.  The  infallible  method  to  have  prevented 
herjeyes  from  exercising  so  tyrannic  a  power  over  thee, 
would  have  been  to  shut  thy  own. 

Hercules.  Then  I  must  have  shut  them  before  I 
saw  her ;  for  as  soon  as  I  had  once  seen  her,  it  was 
impossible  to  me  not  to  wish  always  to  see  her. 

Jupiter.  On  this  occasion  then  thou  hast  experi- 
enced, that  there  are  causes  whose  effects  cannot  be 
prevented. 

Hercules.  Yes;  a  passion  like  love. 

Jupiter.  The  passions  of  men,  my  son,  are  the  very 
things  which  would  every  minute  disturb  my  plan,  if  I 
had  any  with  them.  Usually  therefore  I  abandon  them 
to  their  own  folly.  They  have  just  reason  enough  to  dis- 
cover this,  when  they  have  done  any  thing  very  absurd, 
and  at  last  through  their  very  blunders  they  acquire  pru- 
dence, but  mostly  when  it  is  too  late  to  avail  them. 

Hercules.  By  your  leave,  this  is  an  odd  way  of 
governing,  if  I  may  be  so  free  as  to  speak  out. 

Jupiter.  Well,  so  it  is.  Yet  I  do  not  mean  to  say, 
through  the  knowledge  which  I  have  of  the  nature  of 
men,  and  of  the  things  on  which  they  depend,  that  I 
am  not  able  to  assert  a  certain  influence,  and  so  to 
guide  causes  and  effects  as  I  think  most  conducive  to 
the  welfare  of  the  whole.  But,  that  1  should  give 
myself  the  trouble  to  work  the  will  of  each,  or  to  aim 


438  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

at  their  gratitude  and  approbation,  never  came  into 
my  head. 

Hercules.  Yon  would  in  that  case  have  to  perform 
a  labor,  to  which  my  twelve  celebrated  actions  would 
be  child's  play. 

Jupiter.  It  would  be  undert^ing  the  impossible, 
and  that  has  never  been  my  plan.  To  render  this  com- 
prehensible to  thee,  I  will  add  thus  much,  that  nothing 
can  be  more  opposite  than  my  way  of  viewing  things, 
and  theirs. 

Hercules.  How  do  you  mean,  father  ? 

Jupiter.  I  will  give  thee  a  little  instance.  Lately 
some  Roman  epigrammatist  made  a  pair  of  impertinent 
distichs  on  the  fact,  that  a  vain  barber,  who  by  the  em- 
peror's favor  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of  senator,  and 
become  rich,  had  a  marble  sepulchre  erected  to  him 
by  his  heirs.  "  How,"  says  the  witling,  "  comes  the 
barber  Licinus  to  a  marble  tomb :  Pompey  has  bnt  a 
stone  one,  and  Cato  none.  Who  can  behold  this,  and 
believe  in  gods  ?"  The  man  fancied  he  had  invented  a 
strong  argument  against  us,  and  a  thousand  blockheads 
applauded  his  sophism. 

Hercules.  That  was  stupid  in  them.  Pompey,  con- 
sidering what  he  was,  might  well  be  content  with  sand- 
stone ;  and  a  man  like  Cato  needs  no  monument:  but  the 
barber  required  one  of  marble  to  gratify  the  vanity  of 
his  heirs,  and  to  make  posterity  believe  that  their  ances- 
tor was  a  man  of  consequence.     That  is  palpable. 

Jupiter.  And  granting  it  were  unjust  that  Licimis 
should  have  a  marble  monument,  and  Cato  none ;  what 
have  the  gods  to  do  with  it  ?  Ought  I  to  have  smitten 
in  pieces  with  thunder  the  marble  sepulchre,  or  to  have 
employed  Vulcan  to  build  one  for  Cato.  The  fools ! 
if  they  thought  it  necessary  to  remark  on  the  fact. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  439 

why  did  they  not  take  the  blame  on  themselves.  Why 
are  the  gods4:o  be  censured,  if  the  degenerate  Romans 
have  lost  all  care  for  freedom  and  for  virtue,  and  all 
shame  at  having  lost  their  reputation. 

Hercui^es.  a  thunderbolt  or  two  would  be  well- 
spent  on  such  f^ellows. 

Jupiter.  What  art  thou  talking  of,  Hercules  ?  What 
would  become  of  the  poor  human  race,  if  I  were  to 
punish  all  their  follies  with  my  thunderbolts.  Yet  such 
judgements,  and  such  inferences,  I  hear  every  day. 

Hercules.  So  then  the  fellow  with  the  thick  dark 
locks  was  not  so  much  out. 

'  Jupiter.  That  we  need  not  grant  him  without  due 
limitation.     Between  thee  and  me  it  is  another  thing. 

Hercules.  As  1  am,  which  is  not  often  the  case, 
in  a  cue  for  questioning,  may  1  ask  one  more  ? 

Jupiter.  Be  concise  then — rfor  I  hear  the  Muses 
are  beginning  the  hymn  which  announces  that  dinner 
is  ready. 

Hercules,  (looking  Jupiter  steadily  in  the  face.) 
It  regards  a  point  of  private  history,  which  nobody 
can  better  clear  up  than  yourself.  Have  I  the  honor 
to  be  your  son,  Jupiter? 

Jupiter.  Whence  so  suddenly  this  modest  doubt  ? 
Hast  thou  not  done  enough  to  prove  thyself  a  son  of 
Jupiter  ? 

Hercules.  To  speak  out — if  what  the  poets  after 
their  manner  have  added  to  my  history  were  with- 
drawn, I  do  not  see  why  I  might  not  have  accomplish- 
ed the  rest  as  a  mere  son  of  Amphitryon. 

Jupiter.  That  is  more  than  Amphitryon  himself 
believed.  Thy  mother  Alcmena  may  bear  comparison 
with  Europa,  or  Danae,  or  Semele,  or  Leda ;  and  I 
think  thou  mayest  be  content  with  the  tkther  she  has 


440  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

given  thee.  Is  it  not  enough  for  thee,  to  be  reputed 
among  men  as  my  son,  and  not  to  be  denied  by  my- 
self.    What  wouldst  thou  have  more  ? 

Hercules.  I  speak  with  my  heart  in  my  hand* 
After  all,  a  man  can  be  neither  more  nor  less  than  he 
is,  whatever  he  passes  for  among  others.  If  therefore 
I  have  to  thank  him  for  being  what  I  am — 

Jupiter.  My  brave  son,  we  must  not  look  too  nice- 
ly into  such  things.  On  the  birth  and  merit  of  the 
sons  of  the  gods  must  for  ever  repose  a  somewhat 
coarse  veil,  which  to  lift  or  to  rend  is  neither  easy  nor 
useful.'  Let  it  suffice  thee,  my  dear  Hercules,  that 
thou  art  in  possession  of  the  table  of  the  gods,  and  of 
the  lovely  Hebe.     Let  us  go. 


in. 

JUPITER  OLYMPIUS— ^Aa^  is  his  statue  at  Olympia, 
LYCINUS  a  statuary,  and  ATHENAGORAS. 

The  scene  is  in  the  temple  at  Olympia. 


Lycinus,  (after  long  contemplating  the  god  in  si- 
lent transport y  prostrates  himself  before  the  statue.) 

Thanks  to  the  Gods,  that  I  was  not  to  depart  life 
without  enjoying  this  divine  vision,  without  seeing  and 
adoring  the  presence  of  the  king  of  gods  and  men. 

Athenagoras.  How!  are  you  too  one  of  those 
blind  wretches,  who,  in  an  idol  made  with  hands,  canst 
worship  the  enemy  of  God  and  man,  the  chieftain  of 
the  outcast  spirits  of  helL  From  your  age  and  coun- 
tenance I  should  have  taken  you  for  more  rational. 

Lycinus,  (apart,  after  looking  steadily  at  Athena- 
goras.)    What  manner  of  man  can  that  be?  however 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  441 

I  guess  at  the  bird  by  his  song.  I  must  not  answer, 
or  be  very  calm.  How  is  it  possible,  friend,  that  this 
awful  and  soul-exalting  spectacle,  this  intuition  of  the 
highest  idea  of  majesty,  to  which  the  genius  of  an  art- 
ist ever  yet  gave  representation,  can  produce  on  you 
so  unnatural  an  effect. 

Athenagoras.  I  grieve  for  the  polished  ivory  and 
the  plates  of  gold,  which  the  idolaters  of  Elis  have 
squandered  so  damnably,  in  order  to  retain  the  igno- 
rant people  in  their  delusion,  and  to  direct  the  honor 
of  adoration,  which  alone  belongs  to  the  true  God,  to 
a  colossal  statue  of  clay,  plated  indeed  with  ivory  and 
gold,  but  kept  together  internally  by'  a  scaffolding  of 
balks  and  spars  and  laths,  as  hollow  as  the  childish 
credulily  of  its  adorers,  who  fall  down  before  a  harbour 
of  vermin,  a  dwelling  place  of  mice  and  rats.  What  a 
deity  for  a  rational  creature  to  kneel  before ! 

(Lycinus  continues  to  gaze  with  enthusiasm  on  Ju- 
piter, without  vouchsafing  any  answler  to  Athenagoras, 
who  after  a  pause,  continues :) 

Athenagoras.  You  answer  not,  idolater;  and  that 
is  the  wisest  course  to  take :  for  what  can  be  opposed 
to  a  truth  as  clear  as  daylight  ? 

Lycinus.  Were  you  a  mere  sophist,  I  should  per- 
haps reply  :  but  who  would  argue  with  the  blind  about 
light  and  colors,  or  with  the  deaf  about  the  charms  of 
music? 

Athenagoras.  You  do  me  injustice  if  you  think  I 
am  not  aware  of  the  art  and  excellence  displayed  in 
this  great  work  of  the  celebrated  Phidias.  What  I 
abhor  is  the  abuse  made  of  art,  when  it  is  rendered 
instrumental  to  a  damnable  idolatry. 

Lycinus.  By  your  leave,  you  entertain  strange  pre- 
possessions.    How  can  you  call  the  noblest  work  of 


442  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

sculptare,  which  genias  and  art  ever  anited  to  prodoce, 
an  abuse  of  art  ?  Or  how  can  art  be  more  worthily 
employed,  than,  by  a  visible  representation  of  deity, 
to  imbue  mortals  with  a  feeling  similar  to  that^  with 
which  the  awfiil  appearance  of  the  godhead  would  in 
fact  transpierce  them.  What  can  a  theopfaany  be,  if 
this  is  not  one  ? 

Athenagoras.  All  this  would  be  correct  enough,  if 
it  were  question  of  the  only  true  God. 

Lycinus.  What  do  you  call  the  only  true  god  ? 

Athenagoras.  What  a  question  from  a  reasonable 
man  !  Who  but  the  invisible,  eternal,  unfathomable, 
omnipresent,  creator,  and  preserver  of  heaven  and 
earth  ?  Whose  existence  your  idolatrous  forefathers 
must  have  suspected,  even  anud  the  thick  mist  which 
clouded  their  understandings,  since  they  erected  to 
him  at  Athens  an  altar  inscribed,  '^  To  the  unknown 
God." 

Ltcinus.  And  how  would  you  have  had  Phidias 
represent  this  invisible,  omnipresent,  all>comprehend- 
ing,  unknown  God? 

Athenagoras.  He  cannot  be  represented.  The  eter- 
nal original  being  can  as  little  be  comprized  in  an  idea, 
as  in  a  visible  form. 

Lycinus.  No  doubt.  Phidias  then,  in  your  opinion, 
ought  not  at  all  to  have  made  his  Olympian  Jupiter  ? 

Athenagoras.  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ? 
It  was  an  impious  undertaking  to  make  an  image, 
which  should  seduce  simple  men  into  those  emotions 
of  veneration,  which  alone  belong  to  the  God  who 
cannot  be  represented,  and  who  dwells  not  in  temples 
made  with  hands. 

Lycinus.  It  appears  to  me,  that,  if  you  follow  up  this 
principle  consequentially,  you  must  either  banish  reli- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  443 

giou  from  the  world,  or  require  of  men  to  hare  ideas 
corresponding  with  no  external  object.     Our  oldest 
lawgivers  held  it  expedient  for  the  good  of  civil  soci- 
ety, to  evolve  the  obscure  feeling  of  a  great  first  cause 
of  all,  which  slumbers  even  in  the  rudest  natures,  and 
which  has  often  been  mischievously  employed  by  de* 
signing  impostors.     In  order  to  give  shape  and  bent 
to  this  feeling,  they  endeavoured  to  ally  or  associate 
it  with  some  sensible  object,  the  presentation  of  which 
might  excite   and   enliven   the   internal   impression. 
They  were  compelled,  therefore,  to  substitute  for  what 
IS  by  its  nature  incomprehensible,  a  symbol  of  it,  adapt- 
ed, however,  to  awaken  the  highest  ideas  of  perfec- 
tion which  man  can  form.     This  occasioned,  when 
the  plastic  arts  had  attained  a  certain  degree  of  re- 
finement, the  adoption  of  human  figures  of  divinity. 
For  how  much  soever  the  imagination  of  the  most 
gifted  of  men  may  strain  itself,  it  will  for  ever  be  im- 
possible to  invent  a  nobler,  more  beautiful,  or  more 
perfect  form,  than  the  human.    But  as  this  seldom  or 
never  exhibits  itself  with  all  its  perfection  in  indivi- 
duals ;  it  is  proper,  in  order  to  exalt  it  into  a  worthy 
symbol  of  divine  nature,  to  omit  what  time,  or  passion, 
or  accident,  may  have  degraded  or  deformed  in  this  or 
that  man ;  and  by  the  combination  of  all  that  is  ex- 
pressive of  excellence,  to  ennoble  and  exalt  the  human 
form  to  a  more  than  human  grace  and  beauty  and 
,  majesty ;  and  to  create  as  it  were  an  ideal  figure,  free 
from  the  expression  of  the  weakness,  <he  wants,  ^nd 
the  cares  of  humanity;  and  thus  to  stamp  on  it  that  spi- 
rit of  imperishability,  of  immortal  youth  and  strength, 
in  short  that  character  of  divinity,  which  so  remarkably 
exalts  the  sculptured  gods  of  Phidias  above  those  of 
bis  brother-artists,  although  some  of  them  have  ex- 


444  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

celled  him  in  making  statues  of  men.  This  ideal 
beauty  and  majesty  he  has  in  so  high  a  degree  im- 
pressed on  his  Jupiter,  that  I  am  persuaded,  you  must, 
in  spite  of  your  prejudices,  do  yourself  considerable 
violence  to  keep  under  and  repress  that  involuntary 
feeling  of  admiring  veneration,  which  it  is  adapted  to 
produce.  And  this,  which  is  the  highest  merit  of  the 
artist,  would  you  reckon  among  his  fauhs  ? 

Athenagoras.  What  pitiable  delusion  !  And  is  it 
not  a  fault,  not  a  crime,  in  a  statuary,  and  the  very  great- 
est he  can  commit,  to  employ  all  the  resources  of  his  art 
to  give  your  Jupiter,  who  was  not  even  an  upright  man, 
the  resemblance  of  a  king  of  gods  and  men.  To  me, 
and  to  other  enlightened  persons,  this  may  not  be 
dangerous;  but  to  men,  who  from  their  childhood 
have  been  accustomed  to  kneel  before  idols,  it  must 
be  so.  How  should  they  view  a  piece  of  sculpture  like 
this,  without  being  strengthened  in  their  idolatry :  this 
I  feel,  and  this  I  cannot  forgive  to  Phidias. 

Lycinus.  For  my  part  nothing  amuses  me  more  than 
to  hear  men  reproaching  each  other  with  their  prejudi- 
ces. I  willingly  acknowledge  that  we  have  ours ;  but 
yours  surely  must  lie  a  little  heavy  on  your  eye-lids,  if 
you  do  not  perceive  that  it  is  the  highest  merit  of  the  art- 
ist, that  he  has  represented  to  us  the  king  of  Gods  and 
Men  with  a  majesty,  which  must  at  once  eflFace  and 
put  to  flight  all  traces  of  the  false  impressions,  which 
the  allegoric  tales  of  the  poet,  and  the  foolish  legends 
of  the  mythologist,  may  have  left  upon  our  brains. 
What  more  is  needful  than  to  cast  one's  eyes  on  this 
Jupiter  Olympius,  to  feel  that  this  is  not  the  fabulous 
Jupiter,  who  caressed  Leda  as  a  swan,  or  fell  in  a 
golden  shower  upon  the  lap  of  Danae,  but  that  this 
is  the  true  and  real  Jupiter. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  445 

Athenagoras,  (smiling.)  The  true  and  real  Jupiter; 
that  is  as  were  you  to  speak  of  true  Sirens  and  real 
Centaurs.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  the  true  Jup — Kyrie  Eleison^ 
i^hat  is  that? 

Lycinus.  Ye  gods,  what  do  I  behold.  Is.it  possi- 
ble that  the  illusions  of  art  can  go  so  far  ?  How  ?  The 
God  animates  himself.  A  celestial  fire  radiates  from 
his  eyes,  he  moves  his  brows,  the  temple  trembles,  the 
earth  quakes,  a  thimder-clap 

Jupiter,  (again  sinking  his  eye-hrowsy  says  smiling 
to  Athenagoras:)  Thou  art  a  cruel  man,  Athenagoras. 
Take  from  me  at  thy  own  peril,  all  thou  canst :  but 
thou  wilt  not  deny  to  me  in  my  own  presence  that  I 
am  what  I  am. 

Lycinus.  Now,  sage  Athenagoras,  or  whatever  you 
call  yourself,  how  do  you  feel  ? 

Athenagoras.  For  this  I  was  not  prepared.  (He 
makes  many  crosses,  and  begins  to  exorcize  Jupiter.) 
Apage,  Satanas !  Ego  exorcizo  te  in  nomine 

Jupiter.  Signa  te  signa  temere  me  tangis  et  angis ! 

(Athenagoras  continues  crossing  himself,  and  mut- 
ters  between  his  teeth  the  formulas  of  exorcism.) 

Jupiter.  Be  quiet,  foolish  man.  Thou  seest  that 
I  intend  thee  no  harm.  I  only  wanted  to  convince 
thee  that  Jupiter  Olympius  is  verily  and  indeed  Jupiter 
Olympius. 

Athenagoras,  (to  himself)  What  a  capital  confir- 
mation of  our  doctrine,  that  the  idols  of  the  heathens 
are  no  other  than  the  apostate  angels,  who  let  them- 
selves be  adored  by  these  deceived  people,  and  haunt 
the  images  of  such  gods. 

Jupiter,  What  art  thou  murmuring  to  thy  beard  ? 

Athenagoras.  Pride  thyself  not  too  much  in  the 
short  delay  which  is  still  granted  thee,  thou  outcast 


446  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

spirit.  Thy  kingdom  will  but  too  soon  come  to  an  end. 
I  hope  to  survive  the  day  when  thy  golden  beard  will 
be  coined  into  drachmas. 

Jupiter.  As  the  world  goes  that  is  not  impossible. 
I  hope  to  survive  far  stranger  things. 

Athenagoras.  The  whole  world  will  fall  off  from 
thee;  thy  temples  will  be  destroyed,  thy  altars  subvert- 
ed, thy  statues  dashed  in  pieces,  and  thy  priests  must 
starve,  or  adopt  another  faith. 

Jupiter.  So  much  the  worse  for  them  and  for  you. 
I  shall  nevertheless  remain  what  I  am :  and  you  will  be 
the  only  ones  who  lose  by  it.  For  on  this  you  may 
rely,  that  your  mythologists  will  produce  no  Phidias, 
and  your  Phidiases  no  Jupiter  Olympius. 

Athenagoras.  Could  I  have  any  doubt  who  thou 
art,  I  should  detect  thee  by  this  courteous  language. 

Jupiter.  Thou  art  a  queer  fellow,  and  I  would  yet 
awhile  amuse  myself  with  thee,  had  I  not  other  cares. 
Farewell,  and  learn  of  Jupiter  how  to  bear  with  fools. 

V. 

PROSERPINA,  LUNA,  DIANA,  who  meet  in  afori^ay. 


Proserpina.  How  lucky  it  is  that  chance  has  so  un- 
expectedly brought  us  together.  Now  we  may  clear  up 
a  point  which  has  long  troubled  my  comprehension. 

Luna.  What  can  that  be  Proserpina  ? 

Proserpina.  Look  me  narrowly  in  the  face,  Luna; 
observe  me  from  top  to  toe,  before  and  behind,  and  tell 
me,  upon  thy  virgin  honor,  whether  thou  wouldst  have 
taken  me  for  Diana,  if  I  had  met  thee  by  myself? 

Luna.  I  doubt  it  much.     Your  whole  figure  and 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  447 

costume  is  so  different^  that  it  were  impossible^  in  my 
palest  shine,  to  mistake  you. 

Proserpina.  But  to  thee  and  Diana  it  must  often 
have  happened,  that  each  of  you  fancied  she  saw  her- 
self when  you  have  at  any  time  met. 

Diana-.  We.?  what  a  singular  idea!  I  take  Luna 
for  myself?  She  must  become  a  mere  looking-glass 
ere  that  will  happen. 

Luna,  (ironically  smiling.)  Were  the  difference  be- 
tween Diana  and  me  still  smaller  than  I  had  flattered 
myself  it  was,  yet  I  know  myself  too  well  to  be  capa- 
ble of  so  singular  an  error. 

Proserpina.  You  really  do  not  seem  aware  that  all 
we  three,  though  under  different  characters  and  names, 
are  but  one  and  the  same  goddess. 

Luna.  How  ?  thou  art  I  ? 

Diana.  Thou  Diana  ? 

Proserpina.  That  I  will  not  exactly  maintain :  but 
thou  art  Hecate,  and  thou  art  Hecate,  and  ye  are  both 
Hecate,  without  my  being  less  Hecate  than  your- 
selves. 

Diana.  Excellent!  and  who  prates  such  stuff? 

Proserpina.  O  !  those  say  it  who  must  know — the 
mythologists. 

Diana.  The  mythologists  may  say  what  they  please: 
I  think  I  must  know  best  who  1  am;  and,  until  I  am 
afflicted,  like  the  daughters  of  Proetus,  with  the  nym- 
phomania, no  one  shall  make  me  believe  that  I  am  Luna 
or  Proserpina, — still  less  both  at  once. 

Luna,  (smiling,)  Do  not  grow  warm,  Diana;  who 
can  say  whether  the  mythologists,  after  all,  may  not 
know  us  better  than  we  do  ourselves.  They  would  not 
maintain  a  thing  so  positively,  if  there  were  not  some- 
thing in  it. 


438  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

at  their  gratitude  and  approbation,  never  came  into 
my  head. 

Hercules.  You  would  in  that  case  have  to  perform 
a  labor,  to  which  my  twelve  celebrated  actions  would 
be  child's  play. 

Jupiter.  It  would  be  underts^ing  the  impossible, 
and  that  has  never  been  my  plan.  To  render  this  com- 
prehensible to  th^e,  I  will  add  thus  much,  that  nothing 
can  be  more  opposite  than  my  way  of  viewing  things, 
and  theirs. 

Hercules.  How  do  you  mean,  father? 

Jupiter.  I  will  give  thee  a  little  instance.  Lately 
some  Roman  epigrammatist  made  a  pair  of  impertinent 
distichs  on  the  fact,  that  a  vain  barber,  who  by  the  em* 
peror's  favor  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of  senator,  and 
become  rich,  had  a  marble  sepulchre  erected  to  him 
by  his  heirs.  "  How,"  says  the  witling,  "  comes  the 
barber  Licinus  to  a  marble  tomb :  Pompey  has  but  a 
stone  one,  and  Cato  none.  Who  can  behold  this,  and 
believe  in  gods  ?"  The  man  fancied  he  had  invented  a 
strong  argument  against  us,  and  a  thousand  blockheads 
applauded  his  sophism. 

Hercules.  That  was  stupid  in  them«  Pompey,  con- 
sidering what  he  was,  might  well  be  content  with  sand- 
stone ;  and  a  man  like  Cato  needs  no  monument:  but  the 
barber  required  one  of  marble  to  gratify  the  vanity  of 
his  heirs,  and  to  make  posterity  believe  that  their  ances- 
tor was  a  man  of  consequence.     That  is  palpable. 

Jupiter.  And  granting  it  were  unjust  that  Licinus 
should  have  a  marble  monument,  and  Cato  none ;  what 
have  the  gods  to  do  with  it  ?  Ought  I  to  have  smitten 
in  pieces  with  thunder  the  marble  sepulchre,  or  to  hare 
employed  Vulcan  to  build  one  for  Cato.  The  fools ! 
if  they  thought  it  necessary  to  remark  on  the  fact. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  439 

why  did  they  not  take  the  blame  on  themselves.  Why 
are  the  gods4:o  be  censured,  if  the  degenerate  Romans 
have  lost  all  care  for  freedom  and  for  virtue,  and  all 
shame  at  having  lost  their  reputation. 

HercultES.  a  thunderbolt  or  two  would  be  well- 
spent  on  such  f^ellows. 

Jupiter.  What  art  thou  talking  of,  Hercules?  What 
would  become  of  the  poor  human  race,  if  I  were  to 
punish  all  their  follies  with  my  thunderbolts.  Yet  such 
judgements,  and  such  inferences,  I  hear  every  day. 

Hercules.  So  then  the  fellow  with  the  thick  dark 
locks  was  not  so  much  out. 
'  Jupiter.  That  we  need  not  grant  him  without  due 
limitation.     Between  thee  and  me  it  is  another  thing. 

Hercules.  As  I  am,  which  is  not  often  the  case, 
in  a  cue  for  questioning,  may  I  ask  one  more  ? 

Jupiter.  Be  concise  then — rfor  I  hear  the  Muses 
are  beginning  the  hymn  which  announces  that  dinner 
is  ready. 

Hercules,  (looking  Jupiter  steadily  in  the  face.) 
It  regards  a  point  of  private  history,  which  nobody 
can  better  clear  up  than  yourself.  Have  I  the  honor 
to  be  your  son,  Jupiter? 

Jupiter.  Whence  so  suddenly  this  modest  doubt  ? 
Hast  thou  not  done  enough  to  prove  thyself  a  son  of 
Jupiter  ? 

Hercules.  To  speak  out — if  what  the  poets  after 
their  manner  have  added  to  my  history  were  with- 
drawn, I  do  not  see  why  I  might  not  have  accomplish- 
ed the  rest  as  a  mere  son  of  Amphitryon. 

Jupiter.  That  is  more  than  Amphitryon  himself 
believed.  Thy  mother  Alcmena  may  bear  comparison 
with  Europa,  or  Danae,  or  Semele,  or  Leda ;  and  I 
think  thou  mayest  be  content  with  the  fkther  she  has 


448  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Diana.  Hear  cne,  Luna ;  on  this  score  I  can  put  up 
with  no  jokes.  I  have  every  imaginable  regard  for  thy 
merits,  but  I  should  by  no  means  take  it  well  to  be  mis- 
taken for  thee.  I  do  not  grudge  thee  thy  Endymion, 
and  the  fifty  daughters  of  whom  thou  madest  him  the 
father  on  Mount  Latmos ;  but  I  must  beg  leave  to  de- 
cline the  honor  of  passing  for  their  mother. 

Luna.  Diana,  Diana,  do  not  compel  me  to  speak, 
or  I  shall  remind  thee  of  something  at  which,  were  I 
Diana,  I  should  blush  more  deeply  than  at  the  honor 
of  being  the  mother  of  fifty  lovely  girls. Actaeon  ! 

DiAN A«  Thou  wilt  not  surely  throw  that  in  my  teeth : 
was  he  not  punished  severely  enough  for  th^  misfor- 
tune of  having  unintentionally  beheld  me  bathing? 

Luna.  The  Fauns  have  very  free  tongues,  Diana ; 
and  mortals,  who  always  judge  of  us  by  themselves, 
cannot  conceive  that  a  goddess,  who  had  no  personal 
motives  for  not  caring  to  be  surprised  in  a  bath,  should 
so  cruelly  have  punished  the  handsome  huntsman  for 
a  moment  of  innocent  admiration.  They  think  it  less 
unjust  to  thee  to  believe  the  story  of  the  Fauns,  who 
are  known  to  be  a  prying  set,  and  who  attribute  the 
metamorphosis  of  Actaeon  to  a  collision  between  thy 
tender  regard  for  reputation,  and  thy  extraordinary 
complaisance  toward  the  youth. 

Proserpina.  As  it  seems,  I  have  no  little  right  to 
regard  the  honor  of  forming  but  one  essence  with  Diana 
and  Luna  as  somewhat  equivocal.  But,  as  in  my  own 
person  I  am  Proserpina,  I  can  very  well  allow  that  two 
or  three  things  be  laid  to  your  charge  for  which  I  might 
not  exactly  care  to  answer.  Our  being  all  three  one 
and  the  same  Hecate,  does  not  prevent,  if  I  rightly  un- 
derstand the  mythologists,  that  each  in  her  own  person 
remains  what  she  is.     So  that  I  am  neither  Luna  nor 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  449 

Diana,  but  Proserpina ;  thou  neither  Proserpina  nor 
Luna,  but  Diana ;  and  thou,  Luna,  neither  Diana  nor 
Proserpina,  but  the  same  Luna  who  presented  the  hap- 
py Endymion  with  fifty  daughters. 

Luna.  Ah,  now  I  have  hit  on  the  explanation  of 
the  riddle.  Hecate  is  merely  a  name,  which  belongs 
to  us  all  three. 

Proserpina.  Not  so.  Hecate  is  no  mere  name,  but 
the  real,  and  true,  and  substantial  Hecate,  who  con- 
sists of  us  all  three  conjointly,  and  is  therefore  called 
the  three-fold  and  the  three-formed. 

Diana.  We  are  both  then  Hecate,  as  well  as  you. 

Proserpina.  So  say  the  mythalogists. 

Diana.  If  so,  then,  there  are  three  Hecates, — that 
is  clear. 

Proserpina.  By  no  means.  I  see  that  you  have 
not  yet  understood  me. 

Luna.  Didst  thou  but  understand  thyself,  my  good 
Proserpina !  How  can  we  be  but  one,  when,  as  thou 
seest,  there  are  three  of  us  ? 

Proserpina.  Three  indeed,  in  as  much  as  I  am 
Proserpina,  thou  Luna,  and  she  Diana ;  but  only  one 
Hecate,  in  as  much  as  Luna  and  Diana  are  as  much 
Hecate  as  myself. 

Luna.  Acknowledge,  goddess,  that,  with  thy  mytho- 
logical subtleties,  thou  takest  advantage  of  our  poor 
wits.  We  are,  and  are  not.  I  am  thou,  and  thou  art 
not  I.  We  are  three,  and  we  are  one  ;  and  what  no 
one  of  us  is  singly,  that  we  are  all  together.  What 
wild  gibberish !  I  will  not  be  Luna,  if  I  understand 
one  word  of  it. 

Proserpina.  I  am  not  a  whit  better  oflF,  my  dearest. 
I  hoped,  by  our  meeting,  that  the  thing  would  be 
cleared  up ;  but  I  must  own,  that,  in  endeavouring  to 

VOL.  II.  G  o 


450  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

render  comprehensible  to  you  what  is  to  me  utterly 
incomprehensible,  my  head  turns  round, — I  see  blue 
and  green.     Had  we  but  a  mythologist  here. 

Luna.  He  would  so  completely  confound  us^  that  all 
the  hellebore  in  the  world  would  not  set  us  right  again. 

Diana.  Do  you  know  what,  goddesses,  the  best  way 
is  to  think  no  more  about  the  matter.  The  mythologists 
may  say  of  us  what  they  please,  they  can  neither  make 
more  nor  less  of  us  than  we  are.  Let  us  each  go  our 
own  way,  and — Great  Jupiter !  what  a  horrible  noise 
is  there  !  don't  you  hear. 

Luna.  I  hear  a  barking,  as  of  a  thousand  dogs ; 
and  a  hissing  as  of  ten  thousand  snakes. 

Proserpina.  Lightning  flashes  from  the  ground ; 
storm-winds  howl  athwart  the  wood;  the  cracking 
oak-trees  are  uptorn  by  the  roots. 

Diana.  The  earth  quakes  beneath  my  feet, — it 
cleaves, — and  tongues  of  sulphureous  flame  dart  forth. 
What  a  shape  rises  from  the  abyss  I  Have  you  ever 
in  your  lives  seen  any  thing  so  horrible  ? 

Proserpina.  A  woman  ascends  at  least  three  hun- 
dred ells  in  height.  Lightnings,  as  thick  as  one's  arm, 
are  scattered  from  her  eyes.  Instead  of  hair,  brown- 
and-blue  speckled  serpents  hang  in  grisely  braids  about 
her  skull,  or  curl  in  hissing  locks  adown  her  livid 
shoulders.  Instead  of  walking  upon  feet,  she  crawls 
along  upon  two  monstrous  dragons  :  in  her  left  hand 
a  flaming  pine-tree,  in  her  right  a  huge  poignard. 

Luna.  I  am  not  for  staying,  I  assure  you, — let  us 
hence.  (They  all  three  run  toward  thejhrest,  and  light 
upon  Nymphs  and  Fauns ,  also  feeing,  who  call  to  each 
other,  "  There  *s  Hecati, — Hecate  u  coming.*^) 

Diana,  (to  Proserpina.)  Dost  thou  hear  what  the 
nymphs  8ay,-r-this  must  be  the  real  Hecate  1 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  461 

Luna.  Better  and  better.  I  hope^  at  leasts  I  am  cer- 
tain of  not  being  this  Hecate. 

Proserpina.  Thanks  to  heaven  that  another,  whom 
it  more  beseems,  is  delivering  me  from  the  inconveni- 
ent honor  of  being  Hecate.  What  she  is,  and  whether 
she  be  threefold  or  fourfold,  let  her  settle  with  the  my- 
thologists.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  content  in  future  to 
pass  for  the  mere  Proserpina.  Good  night,  goddesses ; 
I  return  to  my  gloomy  husband. 

Diana.  I  to  my  Dryads  and  greyhounds. 

Luna,  (low.)  And  I  to  my  Endymion. 


VL 

JUPITER,  JUNO,  APOLLO,  MINERVA, 

VENUS,  BACCHUS,  VESTA,  CERES,  VICTORIA, 

QUIRINUS,  SERAPIS,  MOMUS,  &  MERCURY. 

Jupiter  and  Juno,  with  the  other  inhabitants  of  Olympus^  are 
seated  at  table  in  an  open  hall  of  the  celestial  palace  :  Ga- 
nymede and  Ajitinous  offer  nectar  to  the  gods,  while  Hebe 
presents  th^  cup  to  the  goddesses.  The  Mtises  perform  ex- 
quisite symphonies,  while  the  Graces  and  the  Hours  execute 
pantomimic  dances;  and  Jocus  occasionally  provokes  the 
happy  gods  to  loud  laughter.  In  the  midst  of  their  highest 
joy  Mercury  flies  hastily  in. 


Jupiter.  Thou  art  late,  my  son ;  why  so  pale  ?  What 
news  from  below  ? 

Venus,  (to  Bacchus.)  Something  goes  cross:  how 
haggard  he  looks ! 

Mercury.  My  intelligence  is  ill  suited  to  increase 
the  pleasure  that  prevails  here. 

Jupiter.  At  least  thy  countenance  is.  Mercury. 

Gov 


452  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

What  8o  anfortonate  can  have  happened  as  to  troable 
even  the  enjoyment  of  the  gods  ? 

QuiRiNUS.  Has  an  earthquake  overthrown  the  ca- 
pitol  ? 

Mercury.  That  were  a  trifle ! 

Ceres.  Has  an  eruption  of  ^tna  desolated  my  dar- 
ling Sicily  ? 

Bacchus.  Or  an  untimely  irost  shrivelled  the  Cam- 
panian  grapes  ? 

Mercury.  Mere  nothings  these ! 

Jupiter.  Out,  then,  with  thy  tale  of  woe. 

Mercury.  It  is  only  that — (he  stops  short) 

Jupiter.  Make  me  not  impatient,  Hermes. — It  is 
only — what  ? 

Mercury.  That  at  Rome,  on  a  motion  made  by  the 
emperor  himself  in  full  senate,  thou  hast  by  a  majority 
of  voices  been  formally  abolished. 

The  gods  all  rise  in  great  consternation  from  table. 

Jupiter,  (who  alone  remains  seated — smiling,)  Only 
that !  I  have  long  expected  it. 

All  the  gods  at  once.  Jupiter  abolished,  is  it 
possible  ? 

Juno.  Thou  talkest  a  little  wildly — Mercury.  Feel 
his  pulse,  Esculapius. 

The  gods.  Jupiter  abolished  r 

Mercury.  As  I  was  saying — by  a  majority  of  voices 
formally  and  solemnly  declared  to  be  a  mere  eflSgy, 
a  man  of  straw;  nay  still  less,  for  an  effigy  is  a  thing: 
but  Jupiter  is  voted  to  be  a  non-existence ;  deprived 
of  his  temples  and  priests,  and  of  the  dignity  of  pro- 
tector in  chief  of  the  Roman  empire. 

Hercules.  This  is  mad  work,  Mercury:  but  as  sure 
as  I  am  Hercules,  (swinging  his  club,)  they  shall  not 
have  done  this  for  nought. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  453 

Jupiter.  Patience,  Hercales !  So  then  Jupiter  Op- 
timuSf  Maximus,  Capitolinus,  Feretrhts,  Stator,  Sgc,  has 
played  his  part  out ! 

Mercury.  Thy  statue  is  overthrown,  and  they  are 
violently  busy  in  demolishing  thy  temple.  The  same 
tragedy  will  be  repeated  in  all  the  provinces  of  the  Ro- 
man empire.  From  every  corner,  legions  of  bearded 
savages  will  break  loose  with  fire-brands  and  pick-axes, 
leveling,  in  their  fanatic  fury,  the  venerable  monu- 
ments of  the  ancient  religion  of  the  people. 

Serapis.  Woe  is  me !  for  my  magnificent  temple 
at  Alexandria,  and  my  splendid  colossal  statue !  If  the 
desert  of  Thebais  pours  forth  against  it  but  half  its 
holy  forest-devils,  all  is  over ! 

MoMUS.  Never  mind  it  Serapis ;  who  will  presume 
to  touch  thine  image,  when  it  is  a  known  fact  at  Alex- 
andria, that,  at  the  least  profanation  which  a  sacrilegious 
hand  might  attempt,  heaven  and  earth  would  crumble 
to  pieces,  and  all  nature  sink  back  into  chaos  ? 

QuiRiNUS.  We  cannot  always  depend  on  these  things, 
my  good  Serapis.  It  might  happen  to  thee  as  to  the 
golden  statue  of  the  goddess  Anaitis  at  Zela,  of  which 
it  was  believed  that  the  first,  who  should  lay  hold  of 
it,  would  at  once  be  smitten  paralytic  to  the  ground. 

Serapis.  And  what  happened  to  this  image  ? 

QuiRiNUS.  When  the  triumvir  Antonius  had  beaten 
Pharnaces  near  Zela,  the  town  and  the  temple  of  Anaitis 
were  plundered,  and  no,  one  knew  what  became  of  the 
goddess  of  massy  gold.  After  some  years,  it  chanced 
that  Augustus  supped  at  JBononia  with  one  of  Anto- 
ny's veteran  soldiers.  The  emperor  was  heartily  wel- 
comed; and  the  conversation  at  table  turning  upon 
the  battle  at  Zela,  and  the  pillage  of  Anaitis's  temple, 
he  inquired  of  his  host,  as  an  eye  witness,  whether  it 


454  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

were  trne  that  the  first  who  laid  violent  hands  on  her 
was  struck  dead  on  the  spot.  '^  Thou  seest  the  rash 
man  before  thee/'  said  the  veteran,  ^^  and  hast  feasted 
on  one  of  the  legs  of  the  goddess.  I  had  the  good 
luck  to  catch  hold  of  her  first ;  Anaitis  is  a  very  good 
sort  of  personage ;  and  I  acknowledge  with  gratitude 
that  to  her  I  owe  the  competency  which  I  possess.'* 

S^RAPis.  This  is  cold  comfoft,  Quirinus.  If  the 
world  goes  as  Mercury  reports,  I  cannot  promise  a 
better  fate  to  my  colossus  at  Alexandria.  It  is  quite 
provoking  that  Jupiter  can  look  on  so  calmly  at  such 
misdeeds. 

Jupiter.  It  were  well,  Serapis,  if  thou  didst  the 
same.  For  a  god  from  Pontus,  thou  hast  enjoyed  long 
enough  the  honor  of  being  adored  from  the  east  to  the 
west,  and  canst  hardly  expect  it  to  fare  better  vdth  thy 
temples  than  with  mine :  or  that  thy  colossal  statue 
should  last  longer  than  the  divine  master-piece  of  Phi- 
dias. Be  contented  to  let  another  inherit  thy  strow- 
ings  of  palm-leaves — ^if  we  must  all  go,  thou  canst  not 
think  of  remaining,  and  standing  alone. 

MoMUs.  Ho!  ho!  Jupiter! — where  are  then  thy 
boasted  thunderbolts,  that  thou  so  patiently  bearest 
thine  overthrow? 

Jupiter.  Witling,  if  I  were  not  what  I  am,  I  would 
with  one  of  them  reply  to  this  silly  question  of  thine. 

QuiRiNUs,  (to  Mercury.)  Thou  must  tell  me  this 
over  again,  Hermes,  if  I  am  to  believe  it.  My  flamen 
abolished,  my  temple  shut,  my  festival  no  longer  ob- 
served— ^and  are  the  enervate,  servile,  unfeeling,  Ro- 
mans sunken  to  this  degree  of  ingratitude  toward 
their  founder  ? 

Mercury.  It  were  deceiving  thee  to  give  any  other 
information. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  455 

Victoria.  Then  need  I  not  ask  what  is  become  of 
my  altar^  and  my  image  in  the  Julian  court.  It  is  so 
long  since  the  Romans  have  unlearned  the  arts  of  con- 
quest, that  I  think  it  natural  for  them  impatiently  to 
bear  the  presence  of  my  statue.  At  every  glance  which 
they  cast  on  it,  they  must  feel  as  if  it  reproached  them 
with  their  shameful  degeneracy.  With  Romans,  whose 
very  name  is  become  among  the  barbarians  a  word  of 
reproach,  Victoria  has  no  more  to  do. 

Vesta.  If  that  be  the  case,  I  am  sure  that  they  will 
not  keep  alive  the  sacred  fire  in  my  temple.  Heavens ! 
what  will  become  of  my  poor  virgins  ? 

Mercury.  O  not  a  hair  of  their  heads  will  be  touched 
venerable  Vesta : — they  will  be  suffered  very  quietly 
to  starve. 

QuiRiNus.  How  times  alter !  Once  it  was  a  great 
misfortune  for  the  whole  Roman  people,  if  the  sacred 
fire  on  the  altar  of  Vesta  went  out. 

MoMUS.  And  now  a  great  deal  more  noise  would 
ensue,  if  the  profane  fire  of  a  Roman  tavern  were  to 
go  out,  than  if  the  vestals  were  to  let  out  theirs  twice 
in  a  week. 

QuiRiNUS.  But  who  is  to  be  patron  of  the  state  in 
my  room  ? 

Mercury.  Saint  Peter,  with  the  double  key,  has 
obtained  this  office. 

Quirinus.  Saint  Peter,  with  the  double  key !  and 
who  is  he  ? 

Mercury.  I  myselfdo  not  rightly  know;  ask  Apol- 
lo :  perhaps  he  can  give  you  better  information. 

Apollo.  He  is  a  man,  Quirinus,  who  by  his  suc- 
cessors will  govern  half  the  world  for  eight  hundred 
years ;  although  he  was  only  a  poor  fisherman. 

QuiRiNUs.  How  ?  Is  the  world  to  be  governed  by 
fishermen  ^ 


456  HISTORIC   SURVEY 

Apollo.  By  a  certain  class  of  them,  the  Jishers  of 
meUj  who,  in  a  very  ingenious  net  called  the  Decretals, 
will  by  degrees  catch  all  the  nations  and  princes  of 
Europe.  Their  commands  will  pass  for  divine  oracles, 
and  a  piece  of  sheep-skin  sealed  with  saint  Peter's  fish- 
er s  ring,  will  have  the  power  to  make  and  unmake 
kings. 

QuiRiNUS.  This  Saint  Peter,  with  his  double  key, 
must  be  a  master-wizard. 

Apollo.  Very  far  from  it.  The  most  surprising 
things  in  the  world  always  take  place,  as  thou  shouldst 
long  ago  have  known,  in  the  most  simple  and  natural 
manner  imaginable.  The  vollenge,  which  overwhelms 
a  whole  village,  was  at  first  but  a  little  snow- ball ;  and 
a  stream,  that  floats  a  fleet,  is  originally  a  trickling 
rill.  Why  should  not  the  followers  of  this  Galilaean 
fisherman  have  been  able,  in  a  course  of  centuries,  to 
make  themselves  masters  of  Rome,  and  finally  of  half 
the  world,  by  means  of  a  new  religion,  of  which  they 
are  become  the  high-priests,  assisted  by  the  new  moral 
and  political  system  which  they  have  contrived  to  graft 
on  it.  Were  not  you  merely  herdsman  to  the  king  of 
Alba,  who  was  himself  but  a  pigmy  potentate,  before 
you  became  chieftain  of  all  the  banditti  in  Latium,  and 
patched  together  that  eyrie  of  plunder  which  at  length 
became  the  metropolis,  and  queen  of  the  world  ?  Saint 
Peter,  in  his  life-time  indeed,  made  no  great  figure : 
but  the  day  will  come  in  which  Emperors  shall  hold 
the  stirrup  for  his  successors,  and  Queens  shall  kiss 
their  feet,  kneeling. 

QuiRiNUS.  What  may  not  he  live  to  see,  who  is 
immortal  ? 

Apollo.  Time  indeed  is  requisite,  and  not  a  little 
sleight,  to  bring  the  art  of  fishing  men  to  this  pass ; 


OF   GERMAN   POETRY.  457 

lat  the  fish  which  they  catch  are  not  all  of  the  wisest. 
QuiRiNUS.  Nevertheless,  we  are,  and  are  to  remain 
tbolished. 
Mercury.  I  fear  that  no  restoration  is  to  be  hoped. 
Several  gods.  Rather  no  immortality,  than  sur- 
vive such  events  I 

Jupiter.  My  dear  sons,  uncles,  nephews,  and  cousins, 
jointly  and  severally,  I  see  that  you  receive  this  little 
revolution,  (the  approach  of  which  I  have  long  been 
calmly  observing,)  more  tragically  than  it  deserves. 
Sit  down  once  more  in  your  places,  and  let  us  talk  of 
these  things  over  a  glass  of  nectar,  without  vexation 
and  without  prejudice.      Every  thing  in  nature  has 
its  period :    all  is  changeable ;    and  so  are  also  the 
opinions  of  mankind.    They  alter  with  circumstances; 
and,  were  we  to  reflect  what  a  diflerence  fifty  years 
makes  between  the  grandson  and  his  forefather,  it 
;would  really  not  astonish  us  that  the  world,  in  one  or 
two  millenniums,  should  gradually  seem  to  acquire  a 
new  face : — for  at  bottom  it  is  hut  seeming:  it  remains, 
though  under  other  masks  and  names,  the  same  co* 
medy  still.     The  weak  people  below  have  displayed 
their  superstition  in  respect  to  us  ;  and  if  a  few  among 
you  are  flattered  by  it,  yoa  are  wrong.     Why  should 
we  grudgingly  hear  that  mankind  are  growing  wiser? 
by  heaven  !  it  is  not  too  soon.     As  yet,  however,  this 
may  not  be  expected.     They  indeed  always  flatter 
themselves  that  the  last  folly,  which  they  find  out,  will 
be  the  last  that  they  commit.     Hope  of  better  times 
is  the  eternal  chimaera,  by  which  they  have  ever  been 
deceived,  and  ever  will  be  :  because  they  will  not  dis- 
cover that  not  the  times,  but  their  own  incurable  folly, 
is  the  cause  of  their  ill-being.     It  is  once  for  all  their 
lot  to  enjoy  nothing  purely :    but,  when  they  grow 


468  HISTORIC   SURVEY 

tired  of  one  folly,  as  children  become  disgusted  with 
a  tattered  doll,  they  cast  it  away  for  another^  with 
which  they  often  fare  worse  than  with  the  first.    This 
time,  indeed,  there  is  every  appearance  of  their  gain- 
ing by  the  change :  but  I  know  them  too  well  not  to 
foresee  that  in  this  wise  they  cannot  be  bettered : — 
for,  if  Wisdom  herself  were  to  descend,  and  visibly  to 
dwell  among  them,  they  would  not  cease  to  trick  her 
out  with  feathers  and  tinsel,  and  bells  and  baubles, — 
till  they  had  made  her  like  Folly.    Believe  me,  gods, 
the  triumphal  song,  which  they  are  at  this  moment 
raising  for  the  glorious  victory  they  have  won  over 
our  defenseless  images,  is  a  croak  ominous  of  evil  to 
posterity.  .  They  think  to  better  their  condition,  and 
are  flying  from  the  shower  to  the  sleet.     They  are 
tired  of  us,  and  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  us :  so 
much  the  worse  for  them:   we  need  them  not.     If 
their  priests  proclaim  that  we  are  impure  and  evil  spi- 
rits, that  an  ever- burning  sulphureous  pool  is  our  man- 
sion, what  matters  it  to  me  or  yoii  ?   How  can  it  sig- 
nify to  us  what  the  half-reasoning  sons  of  earth  think 
of  us,  what  relation  they  suppose  to  exist  between 
us,  and  whether  they  besmoak  us  with  a  disgusting 
mixture  of  reeking  sacrifices,  and  frankincense ;    or 
with  the  brimstone  of  Pluto's  dominions.     Neither 
mounts  up  to  our  abode.     They  misapprehend  us,  you 
will  say,  since  they  withdraw  from  our  service :    did 
they  comprehend  us  better  when  they  served  us  ?  What 
these  poor  folks  call  their  religion  is  their  affair,  not 
ours.     Only  they  have  to  gain  or  lose  by  conducting 
themselves  reasonably  or  unreasonably;  and  their  pos- 
terity, when  they  feel  the  effects  of  the  unwise  decrees 
of  their  Valentinians,  their  Gratians,  their  Theodosi- 
uses,  will  have  cause  enough  to  regret  the  rash  inno- 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  459 

vations^  which  heap  on  their  giddy  heads  a  flood  of 
new  and  intolerable  evils ;  of  which  the  world,  so  long 
as  it  was  attached  to  the  ancient  faith  or  saperstition, 
had  no  idea.     It  were  otherwise,  if,  by  the  new  insti- 
tations  they  were  to  be  benefited.     Which  of  us  could 
or  would  take  that  amiss  at  their  hands?    Quite  the 
contrary :  they  resemble  a  man,  who,  to  expel  a  trifling 
disorder,  with  which  he  might  have  grown  as  old  as 
Tithon,  brings  on  himself  ten  others.     They  raise,  for 
instance,  a  great  outcry  against  (mr  priests,  because 
they  entertained  the  people,  who  are  and  must  be  cre- 
dulous every  where,  with  illusions ;  from  which,  how- 
ever, the  state  as  well  as  themselves  derived  advantage. 
Will  their  priests  conduct  themselves  better  ?  At  this 
very  moment  they  are  laying  the  foundation  of  a  su- 
perstition, which  will  be  useful  chiefly  to  themselves ; 
ivhich,  instead  of  giving  stability  to  the  political  con- 
stitution, will  confuse  and  undermine  all  civic  duties ; 
— a  superstition,  which,  like  lead  in  the  head,  will 
suppress  and  exclude  every  sound  idea  of  natural  and 
moral  things.     When  we  have  said  the  worst  of  the 
superstition  that  has  hitherto  prevailed,  it  must  be 
acknowledged  that  it  is  more  humane,  more  innocent, 
and  more  beneficent,  than  the  new  one  which  sup- 
plants it.     Our  priests  were  infinitely  more  harmless 
people  than  these  to  whom  they  are  now  to  give  way. 
Those  enjoyed  their  authority  and  their  revenues  in 
peace,  bore  with  every  one,  and  attacked  no  man's 
faith.   These  are  ambitious  and  intolerant,  pursue  one 
another  with  active  fury  for  unmeaning  phrases,  decide 
by  majorities  what  is  to  be  spoken  of  things  unspeak- 
able, and  treat  all  those,  who  think  and  talk  otherwise, 
as  the  foes  of  God  and  man.     That  the  priests  of  the 
gods  had  come  into  collision  with  the  civil  magistrate, 


460  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

or  otherwise  troubled  the  public  repose,  had  scarsely 
happened  for  a  series  of  ages  before  these  vehemeot 
iconoclasts  broke  loose:  but  the  new  priesthood,  since 
its  party  has  become  the  favourite,  has  never  ceased 
to  throw  the  world  into  convulsion.      As  yet,  their 
pontifexes  work  under  ground :    but  in  a  short  time 
they  will  snatch  at  the  sceptres  of  kings,  call  them- 
selves vice-gerents  of  their  divinity,  and  under  this 
title  claim  an  unprecedented  authority  both  in  heaven 
and  on  earth.     Our  priests,  it  is  true,  were  naturally 
enough  not  very  anxious  promoters,  neither  were  they 
declared  enemies,  of  philosophy ;  from  which,  ander 
the  protection  of  the  law,  they  feared  nothing :  much 
less  did  they  aspire  to  bring  under  their  jurisdiction 
the  thoughts  and  opinions  of  mankind,  and  to  prevent 
the  free  circulation  of  them  in  society.     Theirs  on  the 
contrary,  who,  as  long  as  they  were  the  weaker  party, 
managed  to  have  reason  on  their  side,  and  to  place  her 
foremost  in  every  contest ;    now,  that  she  would  be 
hostile  to  their  further  progress,  are  going  to  dismiss 
her,  and  will  not  rest  till  they  have  made  every  thing 
dark  about  them,  withdrawn  from  the  people  all  means 
of  information,  and  branded  the  free  use  of  natural 
judgement  as  the  first  of  crimes.  Formerly,  when  they 
themselves  still  lived  on  alms,  the  sleek  face  and  court- 
ly manner  of  our  priests  was  an  abomination :    but, 
now  that  they  glide  along  with  swollen  sails,  the  mo- 
derate income  of  our  temples,  which  they  have  seized, 
is  much  too  little  to  gratify  the  wants  of  their  pride 
and  vanity.     Already  have  their  pontifexes  at  Rome, 
through  the  liberality  of  some  superannuated  rich  ma- 
trons, on  whose  enthusiastic  sensibility  they  well  know 
how  to  play,  obtained  donations  and  legacies,  which 
put  it  in  their  power  to  outdo  the  first  personages  in 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  461 

the  empire  in  splendor  and  expense.     Yet  all  these 
sources^  though  ever  swelling  by  the  influx  of  new 
streams,  will  not  satisfy  the  insatiable.    They  will  in- 
vent a  thousand  methods  to  tax  the  simplicity  of  rude 
and  deluded  men,  and  even  convert  the  sins  of  the 
ivorld  into  gold  mines :  and,  in  order  to  render  these 
more  productive,  they  will  imagine  a  monstrous  num- 
ber of  new  sins,  of  which  the  Theophrastuses  and 
Cpictetuses  had  no  suspicion.     But  why  do  I  say  all 
this  ?  what  boots  it  tis  what  these  people  do  or  leave 
undone,  and  how  well  or  ill  they  will  employ  their 
new  authority  over  the  sick  imaginations  of  men — 
crippled  in  mind  and  body  by  slavery  and  debauchery? 
Even  the  seducers  are  themselves  deceived ;  even  they 
know  not  what  thev  do.     It  becomes  us,  who  see  all 
this,  to  treat  them  with  gentleness  like  sick  and  disor- 
dered persons ;  and,  without  any  view  to  their  gratitude 
or  ingratitude  in  future,  to  do  them  all  the  service  for 
ivhich  their  own  ignorance  will  allow  the  opportunity. 
Unhappy  men !  whom  but  yourselves  are  yen  ijuring, 
thus  by  choice  to  forgo  that  beneficent  influence  under 
which  Athens  became  the  school  of  wisdom  and  of  art, 
and  Rome  the  legislatress  and  queen  of  the  earth ;  by 
which  both  arrived  at  a  pitch  of  culture,  to  which  even 
the  better  descendants  of  the  barbarians,  who  are  about 
to  divide  among  them  the  lands  and  the  riches  of  these 
Greeks  and  Romans,  will  never  again  be  able  to  rise. 
For  what  must  become  of  men,  from  whom  the  Muses 
and  the  Graces,  Philosophy  and  the  embellishing  arts 
of  life,  and  all  the  pleasures  of  refinement,  are  with- 
drawing with  the  gods  their  inventors  and  patrons  ?  I 
see  at  one  glance  all  the  evil  which  will  burst  in  to 
replace  the  good,  all  the  deformity  and  monstrosity 
which  these  destroyers  of  the  beautiful  will  heap  toge- 


462  HISTORIC .  SURVEY 

ther  on  the  rains  of  the  works  of  genins,  wisdom,  and 
art, — and  I  feel  disgnsted  at  the  sight.  Away  with  it ! 
For,  as  sure  as  1  am  Jnpiter  Olvmpias,  it  shall  not  for 
ever  remain  so ;  although  centuries  must  roll  by  before 
mankind  will  have  reached  the  lowest  abyss  of  declen- 
sion, and  centuries  again  before,  by  our  assistance, 
they  shall  have  worked  themselves  out  of  the  mire. 
The  time  shall  come  at  which  they  will  seek  us  anew, 
again  call  on  our  assistance,  and  acknowledge  that  they 
are  nothing  without  us.  The  time  shall  come  at  which, 
with  unwearied  toil,  they  will  lift  out  of  the  dust  every 
broken  or  disfigured  remnant  of  the  works,  which,  be- 
neath our  influence,  quitted  the  hands  of  our  favourites ; 
or  dig  for  them  amid  rubbish,  wreck,  and  ruin ;  and 
vainly  exhaust  themselves  in  afiected  enthusiasm,  with 
striving  to  imitate  those  miracles  of  true  inspiration, 
and  of  the  real  presence  of  divine  power. 

Apollo.  Yes,  Jupiter,  most  assuredly  the  time  vrill 
come,  and  I  see  it  before  me  in  all  the  splendor  of 
actual  existence.  They  shall  again  exalt  our  statues, 
gaze  on  them  with  the  shudder  of  feeling,  and  with 
devout  admiration  make  them  the  models  of  their  own 
idols,  which  in  barbarian  hands  were  become  abomi- 
nations, and  O !  what  a  triumph !  their  very  pontifex- 
es  vnll  be  proud  of  building  to  us,  under  other  names, 
the  most  magnificent  temples ! 

Jupiter,  (with  a  goblet  of  nectar  in  his  hand.) 
Here  *s  a  hail  and  welcome  to  fiiturity !  (To  Minerva.) 
— to  that  period,  my  daughter,  at  which  thou  shalt 
h^ve  transformed  all  Europe  into  a  new  Athens,  filled 
with  Lycaeums  and  Academies ;  and  at  which,  even 
from  the  Caledonian  wilderness,  the  voice  of  philoso- 
phy shall  more  freely  and  loudly  resound,  than  of  yore 
from  the  halls  of  Athens  and  Alexandria ! 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  463 

Minerva,  (shaking  her  head.)  I  am  glad,  Jupiter, 
to  see  thee  so  courageous  under  the  existing  aspect  of 
things :  but  thou  must  pardon  me,  if  I  as  little  believe 
iu  a  new  Athens,  as  in  a  new  Olympia. 

QuiRiNUS,  (to  Mercury.)  I  cannot  forget  this  Saint 
Peter,  with  his  double  key,  who  is  to  be  my  successor. 
What  is  this  key,  an  emblematical  or  a  real,  a  natural 
or  a  magical  key  ?  Whence  has  he  it  ?  What  is  he  to 
unlock  with  it? 

Mercury.  All  that  I  can  tell  about  it,  Quirinus,  is, 
that  with  this  key  he  can,  when  he  pleases,  unlock  the 
gates  of  Heaven  or  of  Tartarus. 

QuiRiNUs.  He  is  very  welcome  to  unlock  Tarta- 
rus ;  but  heaven  too,  that  is  of  more  consequence  ! 

Mercury.  In  fact,  they  have  made  every  prepara- 
tion for  peopling  heaven  with  so  monstrous  an  assort- 
ment of  new  divinities  of  their  stamp,  that  for  us  old 
godships  there  will  soon  be  no  more  room  left. 

Jupiter.  Leave  that  to  my  care,  Hermes.  Our  tem- 
ples and  estates  on  earth  they  can  easily  take  from 
us :  but  in  Olympus  we  have  been  established  too  long 
to  suflfer  expulsion  ; — and  as  a  proof  of  our  complete 
impartiality,  we  will  concede  to  these  new  Romans 
the  right  of  apotheosis,  on  the  same  conditions  as  to 
the  ancient.  As  I  hear  that  most  of  their  candidates, 
who  lay  claim  to  this  increase  of  rank,  are  not  persons 
of  the  best  company,  with  St.  Peters  permission,  we 
shall  always  undertake  a  short  investigation  of  the 
merits  of  those  whom  we  are  desired  to  admit.  If  his 
other  qualities  and  merits  can  claim  a  place  among  us, 
no  objection  shall  be  made  to  the  golden  circle  about 
his  h^ad,  and  Momus  himself  shall  not  be  allowed  to 
reproach  him  with  the  miracles  attributed  to  his  hones 
or  to  his  wardrobe. 


464  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

Juno.  With  the  men  you  mast  do  as  you  please, 
Jupiter ;  but  as  to  the  ladies,  I  must  beg  to  be  excused. 

Venus.  It  is  said  that  there  are  very  elegant  women 
among  tbem. 

Jupiter.  Of  that,  when  the  case  happens,  we  will 
talk  further.     A  fresh  goblet,  Antinous  ! 

VIII. 
JUPITER,  NUMA. 

Jupiter.  How  comes  it,  Numa,  that  for  some  time 
past  we  have  not  seen  thee  at  the  table  of  the  gods  ? 

Ntjma.  The  news  which  Mercury  lately  brongbt 
us  from  Rome— 

Jupiter.  Of  my  being  formally  dethroned  by  a  de- 
cree of  the  senate  ? 

Numa.  — Allowed  me  no  peace  of  mind,  till  I  had 
seen  with  my  own  eyes  how  things  stood. 

Jupiter.  Well,  and  what  dost  thou  think  of  them  r 

Numa.  I  say  it  with  a  heavy  heart,  Jupiter,  though 
probably  I  acquaint  thee  with  nothing  new :  thy  an- 
thority  among  men  seems  irretrievably  lost. 

Jupiter.  Didst  thou  not  hear  what  Apollo  lately 
foretold  at  table  ?  "  That  a  time  should  come  when 
our  images  would  be  replaced  over  new  altars,  and 
again  venerated  with  shudders  of  delight ;  when  pon- 
tiffs would  be  proud  to  consecrate  new  temples  to  them 
under  other  names ;  when  all  Europe  would  become 
a  second  Athens  filled  with  Lycaeums  and  Academies; 
when  Minerva  and  the  Muses  would  be  invoked  even 
amid  the  Caledonian  and  Scandinavian  wildernesses, 
and  the  voice  of  philosophy  be  heard  there  not  less 
than  of  old  in  the  schools  of  Greece  and  Alexandria.** 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  465 

NuMA.  A  very  remote  sort  of  consolation/  and  at 
best  a  play  on  words !  It  is  as  though  a  Chaldean 
soothsayer  had  comforted  Alexander  the  Great,  when 
dying  of  a  fever  at  Babylon  in  the  midst  of  his  honors 
and  enjoyments,  with  the  assurance,  that,  two  thousand 
years  afterwards,  an  emperor  of  Germany  would  wear 
his  image  on  a  ring.  Such  a  thought  may  be  aniusing 
enough  while  one  is  well,  but  is  a  poor  compensation 
for  the  loss  of  the  first  throne  in  the  universe. 

Jupiter.  I  should  have  thought,  friend  Numa,  that 
thy  sojournment  in  Olympus  had  been  sufficient  to 
have  rectified  thy  opinions  of  such  things. 

Numa.  I  know  very  well  that  a  decree  of  the  Ro- 
man senate  cannot  rob  thee  of  the  influence  which 
thou  hast  in  the  lower  world,  but — 

Jupiter,  (smiling.)  Out  with  all  thou  thinkest; 
my  ear  has  for  some  time  past  been  very  tolerant. 

Numa.  This  influence  cannot  appear  to  thee  very 
important,  or  I  do  not  comprehend  how  thou  canst 
suffer  thyself  to  be  deprived  of  the  divine  authority, 
and  exalted  privileges,  enjoyed  by  thee  for  so*  many 
centuries  in  the  whole  Roman  world,  without  lifting 
np  a  finger  in  opposition. 

Jupiter.  If  my  Flamen  were  not  to  comprehend 
this,  well  and  good :  but  thou,  Numa — 

Numa.  To  speak  sincerely,  Jupiter,  although  I  may 
in  some  measure  be  considered  as  the  founder  of  the 
old  Roman  religion,  it  was  never  my  intention  to  give 
more  hold  to  the  supet*stition  of  the  people  than  was  es- 
sential to  their  civilization.  I  changed,  indeed,  nothing 
fundamental  in  the  service  of  those  gods,  whom  old 
and  rooted  opinions  had  long  put  in  possession  of  pub- 
lic veneration : — but  I  was  uniformly  attentive  to  leave 
the  way  open  for  a  purer  knowledge  of  the  Supreme 

VOL.  n.  H  H 


466  HISTORIC  80RVBY 

BeiDg;  and  I  took  precautions  against  the  coarser 
kinds  of  idolatry,  by  forbidding  to  expose,  for  venera- 
tion in  the  temples,  images  of  the  Divinity,  either  in 
an  anitnal  or  human  form.  I  at  that  time  considered 
the  different  persons  and  names  which  tradition .  had 
deified,  either  as  symbols  of  the  invisible  and  inscru- 
table powers  of  nature,  or  as  men  whom  the  gratitude 
of  posterity  had  exalted  to  the  rank  of  guardian  geni- 
uses, for  great  services  to  social  and  civil  life. 

Jupiter.  In  this  last  opinion,  at  least,  it  is  clear 
thou  wast  not  much  deceived ;  however  I  may  differ 
from  thee  with  respect  to  images. 

NuMA.  Had  there  been  in  Latium  in  my  time  such 
artists  as  Phidias,  perhaps  they  might  have  reformed 
my  own  notion. 

JuprrER.  Since  thou  hast  never  taken  us  for  anv 
thing  but  what  we  are,  Numa,  whence  thy  surprise 
that  we  should  suffer  the  inhabitants  of  earth  to  think 
nothing  at  all  of  us  ? 

Numa.  The  habit  of  living  among  you,  and  of  see- 
ing yo\i  so  constantly  in  possession  of  the  adoration  of 
mankind,  may  be  the  cause.  Both  have  placed  you 
with  respect  to  me  in  so  mysterious  a  twilight,  and 
have  insensibly  given  me  so  high  an  opinion  of  your 
nature  and  sublimity — in  short,  I  own  it  would  cost 
me  infinite  pains  to  accustom  myself  to  any  other  point 
of  view. 

JupiT£R.  I  am  almost  inclined,  for  once,  to  break 
through  this  twili^t,  and  to  withdraw  the  veil  from  the 
secrets  of  my  family — aboat  which  so  many  worthy 
people  on  earth  have  idly  crack'd  their  wits. 

Numa.  I  am  certain  thou  wilt  lose  nothing  by  it. 

Jupiter.  One  always  gains  by  truth,  friend  Numa. 
Tliou  knowest  that  none  of  us  Olympians,  long  as  we 


OP  GERMAN  POETRY.  467 

have  existed;  and  far  as  onr  views  extend,  can  point 
out  the  period  at  which  this  immeasurable  Whole  be- 
gan. On  the  other  hand,  it  may  with  equal  probabi-^ 
lity  be  maintained  that,  of  its  visible  parts,  not  one  has 
always  been  as  it  is.  Thus  the  earth,  which  we  once 
inhabited,  has  sustained  many  great  revolutions,  of 
which  some  traces  remain  in  the  traditions  of  the  more 
ancient  nations,  (such  as  the  Goths,  Hindoos,  and 
Egyptians,)  that  the  earth  was  once  the  dwelling-place 
of  Gods.  In  fact,  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  at  that 
pristine  period,  if  they  may  be  called  mew,  were  a  sort 
of  men  bearing  much  the  same  relation  to  the  present^ 
as  the  Jupiter  Olympius  of  Phidias  bears  to  the  Pria- 
puses  of  fig-tree  wood,  set  up  as  scarecrows  in  the  or- 
chards :  so  much  did  they  excel  the  men  of  after-times 
in  size  and  beauty  of  figure,  in  bodily  strength  and 
vigor  of  mind !  With  them,  and  through  them,  the 
earth  was  in  a  state  of  perfection,  worthy  of  its  then 
inhabitants:  but,  after  some  millenniums,  great  changes 
took  place.  A  part  of  the  descendants  of  the  first  in- 
habitants degenerated  in  various  climates  to  which  their 
increase  had  driven  them.  Unusual  events,  earth- 
quakes, inundations,  and  vulcanoes,  altered  the  face 
of  the  planet ;  while  some  lands  were  swallowed  by  the 
ocean,  others  were  laid  bare ;  and  the  majority  of  these 
primaeval  races  perished  amid  the  convulsion  of  things.  . 
Chance  might  here  and  there  bring  together  a  Deuca- 
lion and  a  Pyrrha :  but  their  successors  soon  relapsed 
from  want  and  misery  into  brutish  wildness.  Mean- 
while, the  earth  gradually  recovering  from  the  chaotic 
state,  which  was  a  natural  consequence  of  those  terrible 
convulsions,  constantly  became  fitter  to  afford  refuge 
and  nourishment  to  its  new  inhabitants.  The  fresh 
families,  which    repeopled  it,   nourished   themselves 

H  H» 


468  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

sparingly,  by  hnnting  and  fishing,  and  when  these 
failed,  with  acorns  and  other  wild  fruits.  They  dwelt 
mostly  in  caves  and  forests,  and  knew  not  even  the 
use  of  fire.  Fortunately,  a  tribe  of  the  earlier  and 
more  perfect  race  of  men  had  preserved  itself  amid 
the  heights  of  Imaus,  in  full  enjoyment  of  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  arts  and  sciences  that  their  forefathers 
had  invented.  By  similar  catastrophes,  compelled  to 
abandon  its  hereditary  dwelling-place,  this  colony  spread 
toward  south  and  west,  and,  wherever  it  arrived,  its 
appearance  was  like  that  of  beneficent  deities: — for 
they  brought,  beside  a  formed  and  cultivated  language, 
those  mild  manners  and  arts,  of  which  no  longer  any 
traces  remained  among  the  savage  men  of  the  wilder- 
ness ;  and  the  want  of  which  degraded  them  to  this 
inhuman  brutality.  Thou  mayst  conceive,  friend  Nu- 
ma,  that  they  were  received  by  these  poor  creatures 
like  GodSy  and. that,  by  the  good  they  imparted  in 
the  arts  of  pasturage  and  husbandry ;  by  becoming 
the  creators  of  a  new  earth  ;  by  the  social  life  which 
they  instituted  ;  by  the  towns  which  they  founded  and 
to  which  they  gave  laws ;  by  the  lovely  arts  of  the 
Muses,  which  they  employed  to  diffuse  softer  manners 
and  pleasures  more  refined ;  thou  mayst  conceive,  I 
say,  that  by  all  these  benefits,  they  deserved  of  man- 
kind to  be  honoured  after  their  death  (the  natural  con- 
sequence of  which  was  an  ascent  into  this  purer  re- 
gion) by  a  thankful  posterity,  as  guardian  geniuse^. 
Nor  wilt  thou  think  it  surprising,  that  those,  who  for- 
merly were  so  useful  to  the  human  race,  should,  after 
their  transit  into  a  higher  state  of  being,  still  take  a 
concern  in  the  men  who  received  from  them  what  made 
them  men ;  and  in  general  should  be  anxious  for  the 
preservation  df  that,  of  which  they  were  in  some  mea- 
sure the  creators. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  469 

NuMA.  Now,  Japiter,  I  clearly  conceive  what  hither- 
to I  have  but  dimly  comprehended. 

Jupiter.  I  hope,  too,  thou  canst  conceive  why  I 
said,  I  could  very  well  be  contented,  that  men  should 
advance  so  far  in  information  as  to  take  us  for  no 
more  than  we  really  are.  Superstition  and  priest- 
craft, powerfully  supported  by  poets,  artists,  and  my- 
thologists,  had  gradually  transformed  the  service  paid 
to  us  (in  which  we  took  a  pleasure  merely  from  its 
beneficial  influence  on  mankind)  into  a  stupid  idola- 
try, which  neither  could  nor  should  continue ;  which 
was  necessarily  undermined  by  the  progress  of  know- 
ledge ;  and,  like  all  other  human  things,  was  to  crum- 
ble in  pieces.  How  could  I  desire  that  any  thing  should 
not  happen,  which  was  to  happen  by  the  eternal  laws 
of  necessity  ? 

NuMA.  These  fanatical  innovators,  however,  are  not 
satisfied  with  purifying  an  ancient  worship  founded  on 
such  great  benefits ;  they  disturb  and  annihilate  it. 
They  rob  you  even  of  what  is  your  strict  due ;  and, 
very  far  from  merely  lowering  to  the  plain  truth  the 
opinions  of  the  people  concerning  the  gods  of  their 
forefathers,  they  push  their  absurdity  and  impious  , 
audacity  so  far  as  even  to  call  you  evil  daemons  and 
hellish  spirits,  and  treat  you  as  such. 

Jupiter.  Be  not  so  warm,  friend  Numa.  While 
my  altars  still  smoaked,  had  I  not  to  listen  to  every 
absurd  and  indecent  tale,  with  which  the  poets,  at  my 
expense,  amused  their  applauding  hearers?  Little  can 
it  concern  me  what  is  said  or  thought  of  me  below, 
now  that  the  worship  of  Jupiter  has  ceased  to  be  use- 
ful to  mankind.  Should  I  compel  them  with  thunder- 
bolts to  be  more  respectful  ?  What  can  it  signify  to 
me  whether  they  assign  me  a  dwelling  in  Olympus  or 


470  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

in  Tartarus  ?  Am  I  not  here  secured  against  all  effect 
from  their  opinions  ?  Will  Ganymede  poar  me  oat  one 
shell  the  less  of  nectar  ? 

NuMA.  But  to  them,  Jupiter,  it  signifies,  Whether, 
by  abolishing  all  intercourse  between  you>  they  will 
not  deprive  themselves  of  the  advantages  which  the 
world  has  hitherto  derived  from  your  government. 

Jupiter.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  good  opinion,  Pom- 
pilius.  There  are  long  heads  below,  who  have  not 
quite  so  high  a  notion  of  my  influence  over  human 
affairs ;  and,  every  thing  considered,  they  may  not  be 
wholly  wrong.  One  cannot  do  more  for  people  than 
they  are  capable  of  receiving.  I  was  never  fond  of 
working  miracles ;  and  thus  every  thing,  for  the  most 
part,  goes  on  its  own  way, — madly  enough,  sometimes, 
as  thou  seest,  but  in  the  main  tolerably ; — ^and  thus,  1 
believe,  things  will  continue  to  go  on.  Whatever  I 
can  contribute  to  the  general  good,  without  forgoing 
my  repose,  I  shall  always  perform  with  pleasure :  but 
to  turn  enthusiast,  and  offer  myself  a  sacrifice  for  the 
sake  of  fools  and  ingrates,  is  not  Jupiter's  way,  I  as- 
sure thee,  friend  Numa ! 

The  Stranger  appears. 

Numa.  Who  is  this  approaching  us?  Dost  thou 
know  him,  Jupiter? 

Jupiter.  Not  that  I  recollect.  There  is  a  something 
in  his  appearance  which  announces  no  common  man. 

Stranger.  Is  it  allowed  to  take  a  part  in  your  dis- 
course ?  I  own  that  it  has  attracted  me  from  a  consi- 
derable distance. 

Jupiter,  (apiJ^t.)  A  new  species  of  magnetism  !— 
(To  the  Stranger.)  Thou  knowest  then  the  subject 
of  our  conversation  ? 

Stranger.  I  possess  the  gift  of  being  where  I 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  471 

please ;  and  wbeu  two  of  yoa  are  seeking  truths  I 
seldom  fail  visibly  or  invisibly  to  be  the  third. 

NuMA,  (low,  to  Jupiter.)  A  singular  pexsonage ! 

Jupiter,  (with4mt  heeding  Numa^)  Then  thou  art 
a  very  good  companion,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  acquaint^ 
ed  with  thee. 

NuMA,  (to  the  Stranger.)  May  one  ask  thy  name, 
and  whence  thou  comest  ? 

Stranger.  Neither  signifies  anght  to  the  matter  of 
which  ye  were  conversing. 

Jupiter.  We  spoke  merely  of  facts ;  and  these  ap- 
pear, as  thon  knowest,  to  every  spectator,  according 
to  his  situation,  and  to  the  construction  of  hia  optics, 
differently. 

Stranger.  Yet  every  thing  can  be  viewed  aright 
only  from  one  point  of  view. 

NuMA.  And  that  is — 

Stranger.  The  centre  of  the  whole.  v 

Jupiter,  (to  Numa.)  Behind  that  lurks  very  much 
-r-or  nothing  at  all.  (To  the  Stranger.)  Thou  knowest, 
then,  the  whole? 

Stranger.  Yes. 

Numa.  What  callest  thou  its  centre  ? 

Stranger.  Perfection ;  from  which  all  is  equidis- 
tant, and  to  which  all  is  approaching. 

Numa.  How  does  every  tbing  appear  to  thee  from 
this  point  of  view  ? 

Stranger.  Not  partially,  not  what  it  is  in  single 
places  and  periods,  not  as  it  relates  to  these  or  those 
things,  not  as  it  loses  or  gains  by  being  plunged  into 
the  atmosphere  of  human  opinions  or  passions,  not  as 
it  is  poisoned  by  folly  or  by  corruption  :  but  as  it  re- 
lates to  the  whole  in  its  outset,  progress,  and  event,  in 
its  internal  tendency,  in  all  its  forms,  motions,  effects. 


472  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

and  consequences — that  is,  in  as  much  as  it  contri- 
butes to  the  eternal  progress  toward  perfection. 

Jupiter.  This  is  sound  enough. 

NuMA.  From  this  point  of  view,  what  thinkest  thou 
of  the  topic  which  we  were  discussing  at  thy  arrival 
— of  the  great  catastrophe,  which,  in  these  days,  has 
overthrown,  without  retrospect  or  exemption,  what- 
ever has'  been  for  ages  most  sacred  and  most  respect- 
able to  the  human  race? 

Stranger.  It  took  place  necessarily,  for  it  had  long 
been  preparing ;  and,  as  thou  knowest,  a  mere  puflT  of 
wind  is  at  last  sufficient  to  throw  down. an  old  ill- 
joined  and  decayed  building,  founded  on  sand. 

NuMA.  Yet  was  it  so  magnificent  an  edifice,  so  ve- 
nerable for  its  antiquity,  so  simple  in  its  variety,  so 
beneficial  by  the  shelter  which  humanity,  law,  and  the 
security  of  states,  had  long  found  beneath  its  lofty 
arches — that  it  had  surely  been  wiser  to  improve  than 
to  overthrow  it.  Our  philosophers  of  Alexandria  had 
imagined  such  fine  plans,  not  only  to  restore  its  for- 
mer authority,  but  to  give  it  additional  lustre,  and 
especially  a  symmetry,  a  beauty,  and  a  convenience 
before  \inknown.  It  was  a  pantheon  of  such  vast  ex- 
tent, and  of  such  dexterous  architecture,  that  all  the 
religions  in  the  world — even  this  new  one,  could  it 
but  be  tolerant, — might  have  found  place  within  it. 

Stranger.  It  is  a  pity  that,  with  all  these  apparent 
advantages,  it  was  constructed  only  on  a  quicksand. 
As  for  tolerance,  how  canst  thou  fancy  that,  in  a  thing 
of  such  importance,  truth  and  illusion  should  be  com- 
patible ? 

NuMA.  That  may  very  well  be,  if  men  will  but  bear 
with  one  another :  men  who  are  never  more  deceived 
than  when  they  think  themselves  exclusively  possess- 
ed of  truth. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  473 

Stranger.  If  to  be  deceived  be  not  their  destina* 
tion — which  thou  wilt  not  maintain — it  neither  can 
nor  will  be  their  lot  for  ever  to  wander  in  illusion  and 
deception^  like  sheep  withoat  a  shepherd.  Between 
darkness  and  light,  twilight  is  no  doubt  better  than 
gloom,  but  only  as  the  passage  into  the  pure  and  per- 
fect day.  The  dawn  is  now  risen ;  and  wouldst  thou 
grieve  that  night  and  twilight  are  passed  away  ? 

Jupiter.  Thou  art  fond  of  allegory,  young  man,  I 
perceive.  For  my  part,  I  like  to  speak  out.  Proba- 
bly, thou  meanest  that  mankind  will  be  happier  with 
this  new  order  of  things.  I  wish  so  too,  though  I 
can  discover  but  faint  appearances  of  it. 

Stranger.  Undoubtedly,  things  will  go  better,  in- 
finitely better  with  unfortunate  mortals.  Truth  will 
put  them  in  possession  of  freedom,  which  is  the  most 
indispensable  condition  of  happiness ;  for  truth  alone 
maketh  free. 

Jupiter.  I  have  heard  this  to  satiety,  five  hundred 
years  ago.^Positions  of  this  kind  are  as  incontrovert- 
ible, and  contribute  just  as  much  to  the  salvation  of 
the  world,  as  the  great  truth  that  once  one  is — one. 
As  soon  as  thou  shalt  bring  me  intelligence  that  the 
poor  folk  below,  since  a  large  portion  of  them  have 
believed  differently  from  their  forefathers,  are  become 
better  men  than  their  predecessors,  then  will  I  ac- 
knowledge thee  as  the  messenger  of  good  tidings. 

Stranger.  The  corruption  of  mankind  was  too  great 
for  the  most  extraordinary  provisions  at  once  to  reme- 
dy the  evil :  but  most  certainly  they  will  be  better  off, 
when  the  truth  shall  have  made  them  free. 

Jupiter.  I  think  so  too :  but  in  saying  all  this,  lit- 
tle more  seems  to  me  to  be  said,  than  that,  as  soon  as 
men  shall  be  good  and  wise,  they  will  cease  to  be  fool- 


474  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

ish  and  corrnpt — or  that,  when  the  golden  age  shall 
arrive,  in  which  every  one  has  his  fill,  nobody  will  die 
of  hunger. 

Stranger.  I  see  the  period  advancing,  at  which  each 
who  shall  not  obstinately  shot  his  heart  against  truth, 
will  through  its  means  arrive  at  a  perfection,  of  which 
your  philosophers  had  no  idea. 

Jupiter.  Hast  thou  been  initiated  into  the  myste- 
ries of  Eleusis  ? 

Stranger.  I  know  them  as  well  as  if  I  had. 

Jupiter.  Then  thou  knowest  the  final  object  of 
these  mysteries  ? 

Stranger.  To  live  happy,  and  to  die  with  the  hope 
of  a  better  life. 

Jupiter.  Thou  seemest  to  me  a  sincere  friend  of 
human  kind.  Knowest  thou  aught  more  beneficial  to 
mortals  than  this  ? 

Stranger.  Yes. 

Jupiter.  Let  us  hear. — 

Stranger.  Really  to  give  them  what  the  mjfstor 
gogues  of  Eleusis  pj^omised. 

Jupiter.  I  fear  that  is  more  than  thou  or  I  can  per- 
form. 

Stranger.  Thou  hast  not  tried,  Jupiter. 

Jupiter.  Thou  wilt  readily  presume,  that  I  have  not 
arrived  at  the  honors,  which  have  been  paid  to  me  for 
some  centuries  by  so  many  great  and  polished  nations, 
without  having  deserved  somethipg  at  their  hands  ? 

Stranger.  That  may  be.  He  who  will  do  no  more 
for  the  good  of  men,  than  he  can  do  without  forgoing 
his  repose,  wiU  exert  no  very  saving  powers.  I  ac- 
knowledge that  mine  has  been  a  more  formidable  toil. 

Jupiter.  Thou  pleasest  me,  young  man.  At  thy 
age,  this  amiable  enthusiasm,  which  sacrifices  itself  for 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  475 

Others,  is  a  real  merit.  Who  could  ofier  himself  up 
for  mankind  without  loivng  them  ?  Who  could  love 
them  without  thinking  better  of  them  than  they  de- 
serve ? 

Stranger.  I  think  neither  too  ill  nor  too  well  of 
them.  Their  misery  wounds  me.  I  see  that  it  can 
be  helped ;  and  helped  it  shall  be. 

Jupiter.  Thou  art  full  of  courage  and  good-will; 
but  thou  art  yet  young.  The  folly  of  terrestrials  has 
not  matured  thee.  At  my  years,  thou  wilt  sing  in 
another  strain. 

Stranger.  Thou  speaVst  as  I  expected  from  thee. 

Jupiter.  It  vexes  thee,  methinks,  to  hear  me  speak 
so.  Thou  hast  imagined  some  great  plan  for  the  good 
of  the  human  race ;  thou  bumest  with  the  desire  of 
executing  it ;  in  it  thou  livest  and  movest.  Thy  far- 
seeing  glance  shows  thee  all  thy  advantages.  Thy 
courage  swallows  all  difficulties.  Thou  hast  staked 
thine  existence  on  it — how  shouldst  thou  not  expect 
to  bring  it  to  bear  ? — but  thou  hast  to  do  with  men. 
Take  it  not  amiss  that  I  speak  to  thee  as  I  think ;  it 
is  the  privilege  of  age  and  experience.  Thou  resem- 
blest,  methinks,  a  tragic  poet,  who  attempts  to  have 
an  excellent  piece  performed  by  maimed,  dwarfish,  and 
limping  actors.  Once,  again,  friend,  thou  art  not  the 
first,  who  has  attempted  to  execute  something  great 
with  men :  but,  I  tell  thee,  so  long  as  they  are  what 
they  are,  nothing  comes  of  such  experiments. 

Stranger.  Therefore  we  must  make  new  men  of 
them. 

Jupiter.  New  men — that  is  easily  said — if  thou 
canst  do  that; — but  I  think  that  I  understand  thee. 
Thou  wonldst  form  them  anew,  give  them  another  and 
a  better  figure ;  the  model  is  in  being,  thou  hast  only 


476  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

to  shape  after  thyself.  Alas !  this  is  not  all.  The 
clay  for  thy  new  creation  nature  has  given ;  and  that 
mast  be  taken  as  it  is.  Think  of  me  awhile  hence. 
Thou  wilt  have  taken  all  possible  pains  with  thy  pot- 
ter^s  work,  and  when  it  comes  out  of  the  oven,  thoa 
wilt  behold  to  thy  confiision — 

Stranger.  The  day  is  of  itself  not  so  bad  as  thou 
belie  vest;  it  may  be  purified  and  tempered  as  much  as 
I  need,  to  form  out  of  it  new  and  better  men. 

Jupiter.  That  will  delight  me.  Hast  thou  tried 
the  experiment? 

Stranger.  Undoubtedly. 

Jupiter.  I  mean  on  the  large  scale : — for  that 
among  a  thousand  pieces  >  one  should  succeed  proves 
little. 

Stranger,  (after  some  hesitation.)  If  the  experi- 
ment on  a  large  scale  has  not  yet  answered  to  my  full 
intentions,  I  know  at  least  why  it  could  not  be  other- 
wise.    It  will  in  time  do  better. 

Jupiter.  In  time  ? — From  time  one  always  hopes 
the  best.  Without  this  hope,  who  would  undertake 
any  thing  great  ?  We  shall  see  how  time  will  answer 
thy  expectations.  For  the  next  thousand  years,  I 
would  promise  thee  no  great  success. 

Stranger.  Thou  hast,  I  see,  but  a  narrow  mea- 
sure, old  King  of  Crete.  A  thousand  years  are  but 
as  one  day  compared  with  the  period,  which  the  com- 
pletion of  the  great  work  requires,  of  forming  the 
whole  human  race  into  a  single  family  of  good  and 
happy  beings. 

Jupiter.  Thou  art  in  the  right.  How  many  thou- 
sands of  years  the  hermetic  philosophers  toiled  after 
their  stone,  without  bringing  it  to  bear;  and  what  is 
the  work  of  these  sages  compared  with  thine  ? 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  477 

Stranger.  Thy  pleasaDtry  is  ill-timed.  The  work 
which  I  have  undertaken  is  fully  as  possible^  as  that 
the  seed  of  a  cedar  should  grow  up  to  a  large  tree :  it 
is  true  that  the  cedar  does  not  attain  its  perfection  so 
speedily  as  the  poplar. 

Jupiter.  Nor  would  any  one  grudge  thee  time  to 
accomplish  thy  great  work,  if  that  were  all : — but  the 
certain  and  monstrous  evils,  for  centuries  together, 
with  which  men  are  to  purchase  the  hope  of  an  uncer- 
tain good,  give  to  the  enterprize  another  shape.  What 
are  we  to  think  of  a  plan,  which  should  be  beneficial 
to  the  human  race,  and  in  its  execution  succeeds  so 
ill,  that  a  considerable  portion  of  them,  and  for  a  pe- 
riod of  which  the  end  is  not  to  be  foreseen,  have  been 
made  unhappier,  and,  which  is  more  lamentable,  still 
worse  in  head  and  in  heart  than  before  ?     I  appeal  to 
what  is  apparent ; — and  yet  all  that  we  have  seen,  since 
the  fall  of  the  brave  enthusiast  Julian,  is  but  a  prelude 
to  the  immeasurable  mischief  which  the  new  hierarchy 
must  bring  on  these  poor  wights,  who  are  drawn  into 
the  unexpected  snare  by  every  new  tune  that  is  whis- 
tled to  them. 

Stranger.  All  these  evils  of  which  thou  complain- 
est  in  the  name  of  mankind, — ^thou  on  whose  heart 
their  sufferings  never  sat  heavy, — are  neither  essential 
conditions,  nor  even  effects  of  the  great  plan  of  which 
we  are  talking.  They  are  the  impediments,  which 
withstand  it  from  without,  and  with  which  the  light 
will  have  to  struggle  but  too  long  till  it  shall  have 
entirely  overcome  the  darkness.  Is  the  fault  in  the 
wine  if  it  be  spoiled  in  mouldy  casks  ?  As  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  mankind  should,  by  imperceptible 
degrees,  advance  in  wisdom  and  in  goodness,  as  their 
amelioration  is  resisted  by  so  many  foes  both  from 


478  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

within  and  from  withoat,  as  the  difficulties  multiply 
with  every  victory,  and  even  the  most  well  directed 
means,  merely  because  they  pass  through  human  heads, 
and  borrow  the  instrumentality  of  human  hands,  again 
become  new  impediments, — how  can  it  apJ3ear  surpriz- 
ing that  I  am  not  able  to  procure  for  my  brethren  the 
happiness  which  I  intend  them  at  a  cheaper  rate  ?  How 
gladly  would  I  have  abolished  all  their  misery  at  once ! 
But  even  I  can  do  nothing  against  the  eternal  laws  of 
necessity :  it  is  enough  that  the  time  will  at  length  come. 

Jupiter,  (a  little  out  of  hunvor.)  Well,  then,  let  it 
come;  and  the  poor  wretches,  for  whom  thou  hast 
such  good  intentions,  in  the  mean  time  must  manage 
for  the  best.  As  I  said,  my  foresight  does  not  reach 
far  enough  to  judge  of  a  plan  so  comprehensive  and 
so  involved.  It  is  fortunate  that  we  are  immortal,  and 
may  live  to  see  its  evolution,  however  many  Platonic 
years  we  must  wait  for  it. 

Stranger.  My  plan,  vast  as  it  seems,  is  the  simplest 
in  the  world.  The  way,  by  which  I  am  certain  of  ef- 
fecting general  felicity,  is  the  same  by  which  I  lead 
each  individual  to  happiness ;  and  a  pledge  to  me  of 
its  certainty  is  that  there  can  be  no  other.  I  now  end 
as  I  began :  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  deceived,  so  long 
as  we  consider  things  piecemeal,  and  as  they  appear 
by  themselves  and  insulated.  They  are  nothing  in 
reality  but  what  they  are  in  relation  to  the  whole ;  and 
perfection,  the  centre  which  unites  all  in  one,  towards 
which  all  tends,  and  in  which  all  shall  finally  repose, 
is  the  only  point  of  view  whence  every  thing  can  be 
seen  aright.  Herewith,  farewell !  [He  vanishes. 

NuMA,  (to  Jupiter.)  What  sayst  thou  to  this  appari- 
tion, Jupiter? 
c    Jupiter.  Ask  me  fifteen  hundred  vears  hence. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  479 

The  twenty-sixth  volume  contains,  (1)  Alceste; 
(2)  Rosamond ;  (3)  The  Choice  of  Hercules ;  (4)  The 
Birth-day;  (5)  The  Judgement  of  Midas,  five  operas, 
which  were  set  to  music  by  Schweitzer,  and  performed 
in  1773  and  1774  with  success  on  the  theatre  at  Wei- 
mar. Two  dissertations  follow  on  the  history  and 
theory  of  the  opera ;  a  third  on  the  fable  of  Rosa- 
mond ;  and  a  fourth  on  that  of  Richard  Lion-heart, 
which  Wieland  had  translated  from  a  french  piece  of 
Sedaine.     Of  each  in  its  order. 

Admetus  is  dangerously  ill.  Alceste  is  waiting  the 
answer  of  the  oracle  concerning  his  fate :  her  sister 
Parthenia  brings  word  that  Admetus  will  recover,  if 
any  one  is  devoted  for  him ;  but  that  even  his  old  fa- 
ther had  refused.  Alceste  devotes  herself  in  a  rimed 
address  to  the  Parcae,  which  is  sung :  the  rest  of  the 
dialogue,  the  recitative,  is  in  blank  verse. 

In  the  second  act,  the  victim  is  accepted,  and  Ad- 
metus is  recovered ;  but  has  to  witness  the  fatal  illness 
and  vicarious  sacrifice  of  his  wife,  who  takes  leave  of 
her  children  and  husband,  and  dies.  In  the  third, 
Hercules  arrives,  and  finds  his  firiend  Admetus  mourn- 
ing over  the  urn  of  Alceste ;  he  offers  to  descend  to 
Tartarus  to  bring  back  the  departed  one.  In  the  fourth 
act  the  funeral  rites  continue.  In  the  fifth,  Hercules 
retnrns ;  and,  after  preparing  Admetus  for  the  catas- 
trophe, presents  to  him  the  restored  Alceste.  A  joyful 
chorus  closes  the  piece. 

The  dialogue  of  this  tragedy  is  exquisitely,  classically, 
beautiful ;  the  choral  odes,  which  are  in  rime,  less  so : 
the  finest  passages  are  indeed  transplanted  from  Euri- 
pides, but  the  general  structure  of  the  fable  is  more 
tasteful  than  that  of  the  greek  poet,  and  the  various 
scenes  of  tenderness,  if  possible,  still  more  pathetic  : 
so  Sophocles  would  have  executed  the  poem. 


480  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  plot  of  Roi^amond  is  in  some  degree  borrowed 
from  Addison.  At  least  queen  Elinor  in  like  manner 
administers  poison  to  her,  which  is  exchanged  by  the 
assistant  Belmont  for  a  sleeping  draught:  King  Henry 
returns,  while  Rosamond  is  supposed  to  be  dead :  bat 
learns  from  Belmont  that  he  may  expect  her  recovery, 
which  takes  place.  The  concluding  scene  will  best 
explain  the  new  catastrophe. 

[The  theatre  represents  a  vast  haU  in  the  royal  palace.  A 
throne  is  placed  at  the  upper  end.  Knights  and  nobles  take 
their  places  on  either  side.  The  king  enters^  accompanied 
by  Belmont,  and  ascends  the  throne.  Rosamond  Jbllou>s,w 
the  habit  of  a  novice,  accompanied  by  females /rom  the  cm- 
vent,  where  she  had  projected  to  take  the  veil,  and  remains 
at  a  respectful  distance,  in  front  of  the  scene,  on  one  side,] 

KING  HENRY   II  Spcaks. 

Copartners  of  my  victories  and  glory, 

Nobles  of  Albion,  whose  loyal  courage 

I  oft  have  witnessed  in  the  field  of  battle, 

It  now  befits  us  in  our  father's  halls 

Again  to  cultivate  the  homely  virtues. 

Happy  who,  with  his  children's  mother,  shares 

The  bliss  of  mutual  love  and  confidence. 

And  spends  the  years  of  peace  in  household  comfort. — 

To  England's  king  this  solace  is  denied ; 

Beneath  his  gilded  canopies  of  state 

A  bosom-serpent  harbours. — Elinor 

Has  cast  away  all  claim  upon  my  heart. 

Has  by  her  treason  forfeited  all  right 

To  share  my  crown — a  poison-mixeress 

Ought  not  to  sully  England's  royal  throne. 

Let  her  to  her  own  heritage  return; 

'T  is  seemly  that  her  perfidy  be  punish'd. — 

I  put  her  from  me and  to  Rosamond 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  481 


Transfer  my  heart  and  hand.   You  see  her  here ; 
Let  your  eyes  judge  if  she  he  worthy  of  me. — 
A  miracle  preserv'd  her.    Heaven's  protection, 
My  choice,  your  love,  combine  in  one  decision, 
And  call  her  presence  to  adorn  my  throne. 


CHORUS  OF   KNIGHTS. 


Live,  reign,  our  queen;  live  Rosamond  for  ever! 
The  throne  of  England  be  the  prize  of  beauty. 

CHORUS   OP   VIRGINS. 

Thou  fairest  of  the  daughters  of  our  country. 
Be  long  the  ornament  of  England's  throne. 

[The  king  descends  from  his  secU,  and  takes  Rosamond  by  the 
hand,  in  order  to  lead  her  up  to  it :  at  this  moment  the  doors 
f^  the  hall  are  burst  open,  and  queen  EUnor,  accompanied 
by  armed  knights^  breaks  in.] 

ELINOR. 

And  am  I  not  expected  at  this  feast  ? 

HENRY. 

Belmont,  how  happens  this  ? 

{^During  the  confusion,  the  queen  advances  strait  to  Rosamond, 
and  plants  a  dagger  in  her  bosom,  before  the  attendants  sus^ 
pect  her  purpose."] 

ELINOR. 

Die,  traitress,  I  'am  revenged,  and  little  reck 
What  fate  awaits  me :  banishment,  or  death. 

HENRY. 

Unhappy  Rosamond ! 

[While  the  king  and  the  attendants  place  Rosamond  at  the 
foot  of  the  throne  ;  the  queen  retires  mth  her  armed  band, 
and  the  curtain  drops.] 

VOL.  II.  1 1 


482  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  Choice  of  Hercules,  the  Birth-day,  and  Midas, 
are  less  remarkable  as  poems :  nor  do  the  Disserta- 
tions require  commentary. 

The  twenty-seventh  and  twenty-eighth  volumes  con- 
tain the  secret  history  of  Peregrinus  Proteus.  The 
basis  of  the  story  is  to  be  found  in  Lucian;  who,  in  nar- 
rating the  death  of  this  cynic  philosopher,  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  a  spectator  a  very  unfavourable  statement  of 
his  life  and  conduct.  In  this  account  by  Lucian,  the 
penetration  of  Wieland  discovers  ethic  inconsistency, 
incompatible  attributes  of  character,  and  moral  impos- 
sibility. He  undertakes,  therefore,  a  fresh  statement  of 
the  incidents,  so  as  to  account  punctiliously  for  every 
report  concerning  Peregrinus  which  is  preserved  by 
Lucian,  yet  so  as  to  assign  him  a  character  perfectly 
consistent  and  radically  amiable,  although  he  is  the  fre- 
quent dupe  of  enthusiastic  hallucinations.  The  novel  is 
thrown  into  the  form  of  a  dialogue  in  Elysium  between 
Lucian  and  Peregrinus :  the  latter  of  whom  particular- 
izes enough  of  his  early  life  to  shew  that,  in  his  educa- 
tion, in  his  circumstances,  and  in  his  propensities,  was 
already  sown  the  seed  of  an  inflammable  and  ardent 
imagination.  In  his  immature  youth,  he  had  detected 
within  himself  a  something  damonic ;  and  his  idea  of  the 
supreme  good  was  modified  by  this  persuasion  through- 
out life,  and  consequently  the  tenor  of  his  pursuits. 
A  love-adventure  with  Kallippe  obliges  him  to  remove 
from  Parium  to  Athens ;  and  calumny  drives  him  to 
Smyrna.  The  more  his  peculiar  ideas  of  ultimate  fe- 
licity (eudsemonia)  unfold,  the  stronger  becomes  his 
desire  of  attaining,  by  the  cultivation  of  the  higher  sort 
of  magic,  a  communion  with  more  exalted  natures. 
One  Menippus,  with  whom  he  converses  on  these  to- 
pics^ directs  him  to  a  daughter  of  ApoUonius  of  Tyana, 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  483 

resident  at  Halicarnassus.  She  intrusts  to  him  manu- 
scripts of  her  father^  and  she  prescribes  to  him  initia- 
tory rites,  for  the  purpose  of  conciliating  the  Venus 
Urania.  He  is  indulged  with  a  theophany.  By  degrees, 
he  discovers  that  he  has  been  the  dupe  of  Mamilia 
Quintilla,  a  rich  Roman  widow,  who  wished  to  make 
him  instrumental  to  her  pleasures ;  and  of  Dioclea,  a 
pantomime-dancer,  who  had  personated  the  daughter 
of  Apollonius.  The  scenery  of  this  third  section  is  so 
loosely  luscious  that  it  thoroughly  cloys  ;^  and  in  effect 
it  tires  the  hero  himself,  who  returns  to  Smyrna  in  a 
disappointed  and  melancholy  mood  :  a  natural  conse- 
quence of  the  disappearance  of  that  vivid  scenery  which 
had  lately  engrossed  his  attention.  He  is  aroused  from 
this  intellectual  listlessness,  by  falling  in,  (accidentally, 
as  he  supposes,)  with  an  inexplicable  but  interesting 
stranger,  who  introduces  him  to  an  assembly  of  Chris- 
tians at  Pergamus ;  and  from  that  moment  a  new  mys- 
tic life,  a  regeneration  of  mind,  begins  within  him.  The 
stranger  continues  to  act  powerfully  on  him,  to  excite 
his  curiosity  and  expectations,  and,  by  dexterous  but 
circuitous  steps,  to  prepare  and  discipline  the  intended 
convert.  A  mysterious  appointment  to  meet  again 
precedes  their  sudden  separation.  A  new  guide  at- 
taches himself  toPeregrinus,  and  introduces  him  to 
a  family  of  Christians  residing  in  a  solitary  part  of  the 
country ;  whose  amiableness,  harmony,  and  simplicity 
of  manners,  were  calculated  to  make  so  deep  an  im- 
pression on  his  mind,  as  to  inspire  the  settled  wish  of 
devoting  his  whole  life  to  the  society  of  persons  so 
beautifully  and  holily  virtuous.   Peregrinus  is  at  length 


f  It  drew  on  the  author  an  epigram  in  the  Xenien,  which  appears  to  have  been 
felt  by  the  mode  in  which  it  was  avenged :  see  the  Teutscher  Merkur  for  Jan.  and 
Feb.  179^. 

Ii  2 


484  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  this  pare  and  attractive 
sect ;  and  he  again  meets  the  impressive  stranger,  who 

,  becomes  known  to  him  by  the  name  of  Kerinthus,  and 
from  whom  he  receives,  as  the  reward  of  his  growing 
zeal,  a  second  grade  of  initiation.  The  property,  which 
about  this  time  he  inherits  from  his  father,  is  chiefly 
made  over  to  the  common  stock  of  the  religions  soci- 
ety, into  which  he  is  now  grafted ;  and  he  gradnally 
obtains  an  apparently  more  intimate  knowledge  of  its 
interior  constitution  and  the  spirit  of  its  directors :  who 
destine  him,  however,  rather  for  their  instrument  than 
their  confidant.  He  undertakes  the  office  of  a  mission- 
ary :  but,  in  consequence  of  the  well-known  edict  of 
Trajan,  he  incurs  imprisonment.  The  attentions  of 
the  faithful  console  the  irksomeness  of  his  confinement. 
A  deaconess  is  sent  to  him  with  the  offerings  of  affec- 
tionate charity ;  and  she  is  no  other  than  Dioclea,  the 
priestess  of  Halicarnassus,  and  the  sister  of  Kerinthus. 
Her  explanations  convince  him  that  he  has  been  hi- 
therto the  dupe  of  artifice,  and  the  blind  conductor  of 
purposes  of  politic  ambition.  Through  the  manage- 
ment of  Dioclea,  he  obtains  his  liberty :  but  he  is  be- 
come disgusted  with  the  interior  of  a  sect  externally 
so  pure,  so  lovely,  and  so  insinuating.  He  now  falls 
into  a  kind  of  misanthropy,  which  leads  the  way  to 
his  annexation  to  the  order  of  Cynics ;  whose  severity, 
whose  privations,  and  whose  erect  independence,  form 
his  next  idea  of  human  perfection.  He  is  drawn  to 
Rome,  and  sets  up  for  a  distinguished  scourge  of  cor- 

.  ruption,  and  an  avowed  woman-hater.  The  empress 
Faustina  (in  whose  character,  incautious  levity  was  a 
marked  feature)  becomes  curious  about  the  puritanic 
snarler ;  and,  having  laid  a  wager  on  the  subject  with- 
a  Roman  lady,  she  contrives,  without  committing  her 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  485 

oWn  dignity,  to  gain  a  victory  over  the  misogyny  of 
Peregrinus  by  attacking  him  on  his  weak  side.  He 
now  becomes  the  town-talk,  and  the  jest  of  the  court 
and  the  metropolis.  This  increases  his  ill-humour 
with  the  world,  from  which  he  attempts  to  retire,  and 
which  he  now  fancies  he  can  best  serve  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  a  voluntary  death,  which  should  demonstrate 
his  confidence  in  the  essentmWy  dcemonic  nature  of  man, 
and  its  necessary  continuance  through  future  existence. 
This  leads  to  the  catastrophe,  which  he  announces  to 
all  Greece,  and  realizes  at  Olympia. 

Many  traits  in  the  character  of  this  honest  enthusi- 
ast seem  derived  from  the  study  of  that  of  Rousseau. 
It  is  a  new  and  masterly  delineation,  imbued  with  the 
profoundest  knowledge  of  human  nature ;  and  it  is  so 
perfectly  consonant  with  moral  probability,  that  one 
can  hardly  imagine  the  tale  of  Lucian  to  have  had  any 
other  substratum.  So  complete  is  the  adaptation  of 
every  circumstance  in  the  new  story  to  the  outline  of 
the  old  one,  that  it  seems  the  only  possible  solution  of 
this  moral  aenigma,  the  only  manner  in  which  events 
so  misrepresented  could  truly  have  passed :  it  presses 
on  conviction  with  that  degree  of  illusion  which  is 
confounded  with  reality.  The  erudite  intimacy  of 
Wieland  with  the  manners  and  opinions  of  the  age, 
and  the  sects,  which  he  undertakes  to  characterize,  is 
no  where  more  conspicuous  than  in  this  novel ;  and 
the  equity  with  which  he  depicts  the  pure  morals  of 
the  family  near  Pitane,  as  naturally  resulting  from  the 
religion  of  the  Christians,  is  a  tribute  to  impartiality 
not  common  among  philosophers  who  are  so  perpetu- 
ally busied  in  satirizing  the  priests.  With  all  its  in- 
sight into  human  nature,  the  whole  work  tends  perhaps 
to  chill  the  pursuer  of  the  ardent  virtues,  and  to  insi- 


486  HISTORIC   SURVEY 

nuate  a  loose  sensuality :  one  would  rather  wish  it  to 
be  seriously  studied  by  those  who  chance  to  read  it^ 
than  to  see  it  very  generally  read. 

The  twenty-ninth  volume  opens  with  an  admirable 
dissertation  on  the  free  use  of  reason  in  matters  of  faith. 
It  has  been  entirely  translated  in  the  Varieties  of  LU 
terature;  and  it  well  deserves  a  more  than  cursory 
perusal. 

Essays  on  the  French  Revolution  succeed,  which  are 
distinguished  for  calm  and  penetrating  observation,  for 
a  poising  equity  of  estimate,  and  for  a  discriminating 
urbanity  of  praise  and  censure. 

Volume  the  thirtieth  contains  an  account  of  the 
earlier  essavs  of  the  Aeronauts.  Next  follows  The 
Secret  of  the  Order  of  Cosmopolites ^  which  may  be  re- 
commended to  the  consideration  of  our  heresy-ferrets. 
The  Account  of  Nicolas  Flamel  has  appeared  in  the 
Varieties  of  Literature.  The  Philosophers  Stone,  and 
the  Salamandrine,  are  pleasing  fairy  tales :  the  latter 
accomplishes  a  prediction  of  Horace  Walpole,  that  it 
would  be  possible  to  construct  a  good  story^  in  which 
every  thing  should  appear  supernatural,  and  yet  be  na- 
turally explained  at  last.  The  Dialogue  with  a  Parish 
Priest  is  tedious  and  feeble :  it  attempts  an  apology 
for  the  author's  frequent  obscenities.  The  priest, 
among  other  things,  asks,  "  Would  you  wish  to  find, 
in  the  hands  of  your  daughter,  yonr  Idris,  or  your 
Comic  Tales?"  Wieland  answers,  "  I  should  not  put 
them  into  her  hands :  but  I  have  so  educated  her,  that, 
if  she  reads  them,  she  will  read  them  without  contami- 
nation.** 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  487 


§  14. 

Reviewal of  Wieland's  CollectiveWorks  continued^ vol.  xxxi — 
XL — Dialogues — Agathodcemoiv — Correspondence  of  Arts- 
fippus — Euthanasia — Hexameron  of  Rosenthal — Menan- 
der  and  Glycerion — Krates  and  Hipparchia — Translations 
— Juvenile  Works — Conclusion. 

The  thirty-first  volume  contains  twelve  Dialogues 
between  a  Pair  of  Tongues;  such  seems  to  be  the  idiom- 
atic rendering  of  what  the  Germans  call  dialogues 
under  four  eyes^  and  the  French,  more  neatly,  Ute- 
a-tdtes.  They  relate  to  phaenomena  of  the  French 
revolution :  among  them,  in  the  second  dialogue  on 
the  French  oath  of  hatred  to  royalty,  occurs  the  pro- 
posal, afterwards  acted  upon  by  the  French,  for  invest- 
ing Bonaparte  with  dictatorial  power,  as  the  most  tried 
and  efficient  remedy  for  anarchy.  This  proposal,  how- 
ever natural  and  obvious  a  consequence  of  the  known 
opinions  and  learning  of  Wieland,  appeared,  after  its 
realization,  like  the  inspired  dictate  of  supernatural 
prescience ; 

For  old  experience  can  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

In  order  to  destroy  the  merit  of  this  guess,  or  counsel, 
the  enemies  of  Wieland's  sentiments  attributed  it  to 
secret  intelligence,  conveyed  through  supposed  confe- 
deracies of  the  illuminati.  The  vulgar  (ambassadors 
belong  sometimes  to  the  vulgar)  weakly  credited  this 


488  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

impntation :  the  curs  of  anti-jacobinism  were  hallooed 
throughout  Europe  upon  the  sage  of  Osmaustadt :  he 
was  reviled  and  insulted  as  the  hired  mouth-piece  of 
Parisian  conspirators. 

The  most  important  of  these  dialogues  is  the  tenths 
entitled  Dreams  Awake.  It  is  too  long,  and  in  its 
bearing  too  local,  for  transcription.  It  unfolds  a  pro- 
ject for  reconstituting  the  German  empire.  It  points 
out  the  practicability  of  assimilating  the  German  con- 
stitution to  the  British ;  recommends  bestowing  on  the 
imperial  cities^  and  on  the  circles,  or  shires,  a  represen- 
tation analogous  to  our  house  of  commons ;  proposes 
to  the  petty  sovereigns  to  accept  a  sort  of  peerage, 
under  the  name  of  dukes  and  athelings ;  and  to  the 
emperor,  to  assume  an  all-pervading  sovereignty,  and 
an  efficacious  executive  power.  After  noticing  the  in- 
efficiency of  the  German  constitution  for  purposes  of 
public  defense,  as  became  evident  from  the  sacrifice  of 
the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine  to  France,  the  dialogists 
proceed  to  animadvert  on  the  state  of  institution  and 
opinion  in  Germany.  They  agree,  that,  of  three  pos- 
sible forms  of  dissolution,  one  is  approaching.  These 
are^ — 1st.  A  violent  revolution,  as  in  France ;  2nd.  A 
partition,  as  in  Poland ;  3rd.  A  constitutional  reform^ 
or  consolidation  of  the  minor  sovereignties  under  the 
chief  sovereign,  to  be  accomplished  by  offering  a  dona- 
tive of  freedom  to  the  people,  which  should  purchase 
the  transfer,  or  concentration,  of  their  allegiance.  Af- 
ter some  reciprocal  criticisms,  the  disputants  agree  to 
prefer  this  last  disposition  of  their  country. 

The  opinion  of  Wieland  is  in  nothing  a  solitary 
opinion :  he  is  rather  an  eclectic  philosopher,  than  an 
original  thinker ;  apd  collects,  from  the  whole  surface 
of  Europe,  the  results  of  the  best  discussions,  with  an 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  489 

equity  which  makes  him  in  a  remarkable  degree  the 
herald  of  public  opinion,  the  representative  of  disinter- 
ested and  instructed  judges.  He  makes  his  political 
pamphlets,  like  his  poems,  by  the  process  of  inlaying; 
he  veneers  not  with  autochthonous  wood,  but  with  the 
finest ;  and  he  gives  that  exquisite  fashion  to  his  work, 
which  secures  its  presence  in  the  apartments  of  luxury 
and  the  palaces  of  sovereigns.  His  advice  therefore 
is  sure  to  be  weighed  by  such  as  are  within  reach  of 
those  interior  seats  of  political  volition,  which  commu- 
nicate to  the  practical  world  the  critical  and  decisive 
impulse.  The  statesman  reads  Wieland  to  know  what 
the  world  expects  from  his  beneficence.  The  conso- 
lidation of  Germany  is  the  favourite  project  of  the 
country ;  and  whichever  of  the  two  courts,  the  Aus- 
trian or  the  Prussian,  first  offers  to  carry  through  the 
design  on  conditions  favourable  to  the  liberty  of  the 
subject,  will  probably  accomplish  the  conquest  or  ab- 
sorption of  all  Germany. 

As  works  of  art,  these  dialogues  are  not  excellent : 
they  abound  with  common-places  and  needless  inter- 
locutions :  a  great  deal  of  conversation  seems  to  have 
been  introduced  only  to  increase  the  number  of  sheets 
for  the  printer:  the  talkers  assert  often,  reason  some- 
times, and  demonstrate  rarely:  their  drift  is  vague; 
their  excursions  rather  resemble  an  airing,  than  a  stage 
on  a  journey.  There  is  not  enough  of  dramatic  dis- 
tinction :  both  speakers  are  too  voluble;  both  select 
their  decorations  and  allusions  with  far-fetched  appos- 
iteness ;  both  have  information  and  urbanity.  The 
concluding  dialogue  between  Geron  and  a  stranger 
(that  is,  between  Wieland  and  the  young  sovereign 
whom  he  aspires  to  counsel)  has  more  dramatic  merit 
than  the  rest:  it  holds  up  Marcus  Antoninus,  the  au- 


490  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

tbor  of  the  Meditations,  as  the  very  attainable  model 
of  a  highly  praiseworthy  sway ;  and  treats  the  art  of 
reigning  as  one  of  the  liberal  pursuits,  to  excel  in  which 
is  quite  within  reach  of  a  gentleman  of  good  taste,  com- 
mon attention,  and  appropriate  ambition* 

Vol.  xxxii.  Philostratus,  who  was  bom  at  Lemnos 
and  educated  at  Athens,  flourished  as  a  rhetorician  in 
Rome,  under  Septimius  Severus,  and  was  patronised  by 
the  literary  taste  of  the  empress  Julia.  He  composed, 
at  her  instigation,  a  life  of  ApoUonius  of  Tyana,^  which 
has  been  translated  into  French  and  English,  and  has 
riot  unfrequently  been  employed  by  the  world  of  phi- 
losophists,  like  Lucian*s  account  of  Alexander  of  Abo- 
noteichos,  as  an  antidote  against  the  credulity  that  at- 
tributes  to  extraordinary  persons  supernatural  powers. 
This  biography  of  ApoUonius,  the  best  edition  of  which 
is  that  of  Olearius,  printed  in  1709,  at  Leipzig,  forms 
the  substratum  of  Wieland's  Agatbodsemon,  a  novel  in 
greek  garments,  which  exactly  fills  his  thirty-second 
volume. 

The  history  of  ApoUonius,  or  of  Agathodeemon,  as 
he  is  here  called,  is  not  given  as  it  (/2^  happen,  but  as  it 
might  have  happened :  a  train  of  natural  events  being 
every  where  supposed,  which  were  likely  to  initiate 
such  marvellous  and  miraculous  misrepresentations 
as  have  actually  been  made  of  the  real  ApoUonius. 
Thus  the  legendary  matter  of  Philostratus  is  plausibly 
accounted  for  ;  and  a  natural  solution  of  those  pheno- 
mena is  attempted  which  heathen  credulity  received 
as  true.  All  this  is  obviously  designed  as  a  side  blow 
at  other  legends,  or  more  than  legends ;  and  prepares 


8  In  the  Monthly  Magazine,  vol.  liii,  p.  112,  occurs  a  curious  dissertation  entitled: 
**  Who  was  ApoUonius  of  Tyana?"  the  author  of  which  has  evidently  consulted 
Wieland's  Agathodaemon. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  491 

a  discussion^  confined  to  the  sixth  and  seventh  books, 
of  those  events  which  occurred  in  Palestine  during  the 
origin  of  Christianity. 

The  four  volumes,  thirty-three  to  thirty-six,  contain 
Letters  of  Aristippus^  and  his  friends.  Wieland  sup- 
poses this  philosopher,  a  native  of  Cyrene^  to  have 
visited  Greece  in  the  time  of  Socrates,  and  to  have 
prolonged  his  stay  in  the  several  principal  cities,  until 
after  the  death  of  the  sage. 

Aristippus  gives  an  account  of  this  tour  in  a  series 
of  letters,  which  are  sometimes  addressed  to  his  Afri- 
can friends,  sometimes  to  the  courtesan  Lais,  with 
whom  he  became  intimate  at  Corinth^  and  sometimes 
to  European  authors  and  artists,  whom  he  had  met, 
and  whose  acquaintance  he  wishes  to  retain.  He  re- 
ceives many  letters  in  return,  which  sift  or  correct  his 
own  points  of  view.  The  court  of  Dion  at  Syracuse 
attracts  Aristippus,  tempts  a  long  residence,  and  is 
pourtrayed  with  complacence.  Every  where  what  is 
remarkable  in  the  public  monuments,  institutions,  the- 
atres, temples,  and  works  of  art,  is  carefully  noticed. 
Whoever  is  distinguished  among  the  men  in  poetry, 
oratory,  literature,  and  philosophy,  for  moral,  politi- 
cal, or  military,  rank,  is  diligently  sought  out.  All  is 
described  with  picturesque  detail,  commented  with 
critical  skill,  and  authenticated  with  comprehensive 
erudition :  and  thus  a  book  of  imaginary  travels  has 
been  composed,  analogous  in  its  purpose  and  character 
to  the  voyage  of  the  young  Anacharsis. 

Barthelemy  dwells  more  on  history  and  geography 
and  politics ;  Wieland  more  on  men  and  manners  and 
opinions.  Barthelemy  has  more  vivacity,  Wieland  more 
garrulity;  Barthelemy  has  more  condensation, Wieland 
more  completeness ;  Barthelemy  aims  at  embellishment, 
Wieland  at  fidelity. 


492  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

The  thirty-seventh  volume  contains  Euthanasia^ 
thre6  dialogues  concerning  the  life  after  death,  or  the 
future  state  of  the  departed.  A  German  doctor  had 
published  an  account  of  the  apparition  of  his  deceased 
wife  after  her  burial.  This  relation  is  here  dissected, 
and  referred  to  probable  causes  of  illusion.  Several 
ghost-stories  pass  in  review;  and  the  general  inference 
is  drawn,  that  experience  supplies  no  adequate  proof 
of  the  continued  existence  of  the  spirits  of  the  dead. 

The  thirty-eighth  volume  contains  the  Hexameron 
of  Rosenthal^  a  collection  of  agreeable  tales  in  prose, 
which  a  party,  assembled  for  a  week  in  a  country- 
house,  alternately  relate  to  one  another  daily.  Perhaps 
it  would  have  been  wiser  to  entitle  this  volume  a  new 
Decameron,  and  to  have  included  in  it  those  three  or 
four  fairy  tales,  which  lie  scattered  in  disconnection 
among  the  preceding  volumes. 

The  thirty-ninth  is  a  classical,  elegant,  interesting, 
and  valuable  volume:  it  contains  two  of  the  best  greek 
novels  of  Wieland  told  in  his  liveliest  manner,  and  il- 
lustrated with  his  profoundest  erudition.  Menander 
and  Glycerion  relates  the  love  of  a  comic  poet  for  an 
Athenian  flower-girl,  whose  disinterested  attachment 
to  her  talented  lover  is  most  winningly  pourtrayed. 

In  Krates  and  Hipparchioy  a  young  lady  of  beauty 
and  fortune  attends  in  boy's  clothes  the  lectures  of  a 
philosopher,  falls  in  love  with  her  tutor,  and  at  length 
marries  him  with  the  consent  of  her  family.  This 
anecdote  had  been  related,  with  some  coarse  circum- 
stances, by  Diogenes  Laertius,  but  has  been  purged  by 
Wieland  of  its  improbabilities,  and  is  become  decorous 
and  attractive.  It  was  translated  into  English  by  Mr. 
Charles  Richard  Coke,  of  Norwich,  the  meritorious 
assistant  at  the  British  Museum. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  493 

The  fortieth  and  succeeding  volames  contain  Trans- 
lations of  Lucian  s  works,  illustrated  with  a  biography 
and  learned  notes  (this  has  been  englished  by  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Tooke) ;  of  Horace's  Epistle  to  Piso  on  the  poetic 
art;  of  Cicero's  letters,  and  some  others.  The  juvenile 
works  of  Wieland  close  and  complete  the  collection  : 
they  have  been  sufficiently  alluded  to  (see  p.  249)  in 
the  biography. 


In  looking  back  on  this  vast  mass  of  diversified  com- 
position, the  attention  will  chiefly  centre  on  the  epic 
efforts  in  prose  and  verse.  Wieland's  novels  are  of  a 
form  nearly  peculiar.  Wholly  negligent,  apparently, 
of  living  manners  and  opinions,  he  has  laid  the  scene 
of  all  his  fables  in  remote  ages  and  countries,  and  is 
scrupulously  attentive  to  the  costume  not  only  of  the 
objects  but  of  the  very  ideas  introduced :  yet  he  art- 
fully indicates  a  perpetual  analogy  between  the  ways 
of  acting  and  thinking  in  different  times  and  places; 
he  steadily  keeps  in  view  the  general  laws  of  human 
hallucination ;  and  he  is  ever  solicitous  to  inculcate  the 
truism,  that  under  other  masks  and  names  men  are 
still  repeating  the  same  comedy.  An  enthusiast,  tamed 
into  a  worldling  by  the  delusions  of  a  mistress  and  the 
lessons  of  a  philosopher,  is  the  favourite  subject  of  his 
intellectual  sculpture.  For  pathetic^  and  even  for  high- 
ly  comic  passages,  one  may  long  seek  in  vain :  but  for 
beautiful  description,  and  delicately  interesting  situa- 
tions, one  is  never  at  a  loss :  he  does  not  aim  at  ex- 
citing passion,  but  at  analyzing  character :  he  seldom 
attains  to  dramatic  vivacity :  he  produces  a  calm  and 
placid,  not  a  boisterous  and  turbulent  delight, — the 
intoxication  of  the  sharoot,  not  of  the  wine- flask. 


494  HISTORIC  SURVEY 

It  is  observable  that  he  seldom  describes  the  scenery 
of  mere  nature.  From  the  profusion  of  beautiful  objects 
of  art,  among  which  his  personages  are  exhibited  to 
view,  his  fancy  may  be  thought  to  have  laid  in  its 
stock  of  decoration  under  the  gilded  cielings  of  the 
opera-house,  not  beneath  the  blue  cope  of  heaven ; 
and  he  seems  more  to  have  dwelt  in  the  palace  than 
on  the  mountain-side.  ,  He  every  where  flatters  the 
luxurious,  and  encourages  a  delicate  sensuality:  a  stoic 
would  call  him  "  the  sycophant  of  refinement ;"  an 
epicurean  would  style  him  ^*  the  philosopher  of  the 
Graces.'*^  His  writings  are  therefore  adapted  to  attach 
the  inhabitants  of  cities,  and  to  find  favor  with  the 
opulent,  the  travelled,  and  the  polished :  their  whole 
impression  is  not  made  at  first ;  they  gain  by  repeated 
perusal.  If  not  the  greatest  genius  among  the  poets, 
he  is  the  greatest  poet  among  the  geniuses  of  Ger- 
many. ^ 

Of  Wieland's  poetic  works  the  most  successful  are 
his  metrical  romances.  Wiser  than  Ariosto,  he  has  not 
attempted  to  combine  into  a  disjointed  whole  the  seve- 
ral tales  of  knighthood  which  he  has  thrown  into  rime. 
Sometimes,  (as  in  Geron  le  Courtois,)  it  is  a  single 
adventure  which  he  versifies ;  sometimes,  (as  in  06e- 
row,)  it  is  a  whole  story-book  to  which  he  gives  the 
form  of  an  epopoea.  Pagan  legends  also,  and  fairy 
tales,  have  often  furnished  him  with  a  basis  of  narra- 
tive ;  for  he  bestrides  with  equal  skill  the  Pegasus 
of  Olympus,  the  HyppogriflTon  of  chivalry,  and  the 
Simoorg  of  Ginnistan.     His  omnipresent  fancy  can 

9  If  any  living  English  poet  is  adapted  to  contend  with  Wieland  for  the  prize  of 
beautiful  tell-tale,  by  his  voluptuous  imagery,  picturesque  delineation,  and  radiance 
of  fancy,  it  is  the  author  of  the  Fire-worshippers-^if  any  one  is  adapted  to  rival  the 
graceful  narration  and  erudite  costume  of  the  classical  novels,  it  is  the  author  of  the 
Epicurean. 


OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  495 

evoke  at  will  the  divinities  of  every  mythology,  and 
enrobe  them  all  with  dazzling  magnificence  and  classi- 
cal propriety.  Yet  his  heroes  and  heroines  want,  per- 
haps, a  certain  heroism  of  character :  they  are  Sacri- 
pants,  Zerbinos,  and  Rinaldos,  Angelicas,  and  Armi- 
das ;  they  are  neither  Agamemnon,  nor  Achilles,  nor 
Diomed,  nor  Clytemnestra,  nor  Andromache :  but,  if 
they  win  less  on  the  admiration,  they  gain  perhaps 
more  on  the  affection.  The  youngest  of  the  Graces, 
not  the  highest  of  the  Muses,  besought  for  him,  of 
Apollo,  the  gift  of  song :  Echo  was  his  nurse,  Pallas 
his  preceptress,  Venus  his  inspireress. 


END  OP  VOL.  II. 


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