IB Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/criticalessaysliOOtaylrich CBITICAL ESSAYS Ain> LITERARY NOTES BY BAYARD TAYLOR -- A ^ 77 *^ /o NEW YOBE G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 183 FoTB AvBiiro 3,880 3> * 1^" Till OnnrRioRT, vm, vt U. p. PtnrjfAM^t 8om. ;/ ■: DUOPAGE J Reproduced by XEROGRAPHY \ by Mioro Photo Inc. Cleveland 12. Ohio :-(jNw«i>.;-rfc.>-s'. (.-'*•**»•■ ^4 PAJ1G1 r3 PREFACE. Thk following pages may l»o said to fonn a soqiiol to tho "Studies in Gorman Literature" published last autumn, inasmuch as they show what the author accom- plished in the way of briefer literary and analytical criticism, It was only in tho latter part of liis very active life, and chiefly by force of circumstance, that he was led — in tlie midst of other work — to devoto himself more earnestly to critical writing, which he considered an assistance toward attaining, but not as N^ being essential to, his great object in life, ^ After he had arrived at that mature stage of exist- J*' once, when all the energy inherent in liis nature turned toward tho higher forms of creative art, ho was c driven back by an adverse fate to the field of daily ^ journalism, which he had loft uioyq than twenty years ^ before, as ho then thought never to return. His life consequently became a much more laborious one than S ever, not now from free choice as hitherto, but from ^ necessity. Yet, amid the severe pressure of his daily ) tasks, and the diversity of subjects which came under 610 iv PREFACE. his ever ready pen, lie never for a moment diecarded tliat Btrict literary conBcicnce which accompanied him through all the years of his life — from the time when his youthful mind first awoke to the conscioushess of an author, until that day arrived when all earthly con- Bciousiicss ceased for ever. The! work he did, either in the service of the paper on whoso staff he was em- ployed or for the periodicals that invited his contribu- tions, was done with the same jcare which ho bestowed on all that he wrote for his own purposes and his own special gratification. As the conditioning of things ter- i-ostrial calls for light where there is shadow, for com- pensating circumstances where there are trials, thus, amidst the cloudiness of sore and often uncongenial labor, there were intervals of grateful sunshine. These came when he was called upon to use his higher capa- bilities for the purpose of pronouncing on the writings of known and famous authors, or the life-work of rep- resentative men and women. There were reasons why this task should be enjoyable : — his extensive knowl- edge, his large personal experience, his intense love for literature and art, and his earnest desire to see the realm of letters grow in excellence and rise to pre-eml* Hence in his own country — all this fitted and inspired him for his work. Minor considerations were of tliem- selves excluded from his critical writings. These were the consummate conclusions of his mature intellect, based on that lofty ideal of beauty which is the true foundation of all Art. P KEF ACE, V Owing to the small epaco allowed in joiinialism, which does not pennit any but a brief expression of opinions and criticisms, some of the reviews contained in this volume may appear to be aphoristic; but they will nevertheless not be found wanting in suggestive- ness and in depth of thought, and, therefore, they will be of value to the lover of literature. With the exception of a few articles, sucli as those on Ilebel, Ileavysoge, Kiickert, and Thackeray — the latter consisting of personal reminiscences — the matter included in this volume is the product of a more or loss recent date. It has been collected from the pages of The Atlantic Monthly^ The Jntemational Review^ ScribnerU Magazine^ The North American Review^ and from the columns of The New York Tribune, Most of the "Notes on Books and Events" were originally contributed to the last mentioned journal, from the iiles of which they have been obtained with the kind and generous assistance of its chief editor. They are but a minute proportion of all of Bayard Taylor's critical and editorial contributions to that paper, and have been se- lected not merely with regard to their contemporary interest, but also with a view to their possible vahio to the future student of literature. The "Days at Weimar" have been included in this volume as possessing a decidedly literary interest, since they give evidence of the researches and studies of the author for that combined Life of Goethe and Schiller| Vi PREFACE, which, aB it unfortunately was written only on the tab- lets of his brain, liad to perish witli him. It will not escape the observant reader how largo an amount of gleanings from the yet unexhausted harvest of personal reminlBcences atid local tradition there was stored away for future ubo in the author*s mind. Gaining a clear insight into his great theme and contemplated task, he became imbued in those days with conclusive light, and whilst he vainly hoped, fi*om year to year, to pre- sent to the world the plan which he had conceived and matured, his wonderful memory grasped it and re- tained it in its fulhicHH to the very last. If some of the "Notes** contained within this vol- ume should be considered of slight importance by the reader, the blame thereof will have to bo laid to the editor, who may have been over-anxious in somo in- stances to save from oblivion — which is too often the unJuKt and undeserved fiite of daily Journalistic labors •—as much of the author*s "brain-work*' as seemed to her to bo her duty to preserve. MAUIl^: HANHKN-TAYLOIl. Nrw Youk, Aprils 1880. OOHTENTS. PAOB Preface , iii Tennyson 1 VitTOH Hugo 37 The German Burns...., ,.., 55 Friedrich RUckert Od The Author op "Saul" , , 113 William Makepeace Thackehay 134 Autumn Days in Weimar 155 Weimaii in June 208 NOTES ON BOOKS AND EVENTS. Fits-Orebne Halleck. Dedication of the Halleck Monument 233 The Halleck Statue in Central Park 245 William Cullen Bryant. Translation of the Iliad 258 Poems 276 KicuARD Henry Dana 277 George Sand 280 Edmund Clarence Stedman. Victorian Poets. 284 Hawthorne and other Poems 291 John Qreenleaf Whittier •«.•.. 294 Henrt Wadsworth Longfellow « 296 Viil CONTENTS. Jambs Rubskll Lowbll « • 208 Olivbb Wendbxl Holmbb •..* 901 TuoMAs Bailby Aldkicii '..*...*. » . « . 803 J.J. AND 8. M. B. Piatt 804 Richard Watson Gilder...... 808 (iRoROK Parhons Latiirop , 310 Sidney Lanikh.. ; » * 813 Urorqb D. Prkntick 814 The Right Hon. The Marquis ok Lornb. «. 818 William Morris.. . . , , 831 Lord IIouohton.. • • 830 Christina Rossbtti. 330 German Hymnolooy. • 833 George Eliot. 839 Robert Buchanan 847 '•Ouida" , 853 Nathaniel Hawthorne.. 854 Henry Jambs» Jr 857 William D. Howells 801 Elizaiietii Stuart Phelps.. Three American Novels.., 867 871 Pay for Brain. Work 870 Authorship IN America. ..,...%...... ..••.»•.... • 878 TENNYSON. ALFEED TENNYSON mnst be clagsed among the most fortunate poets of all time. lie discovered the true capacities of his genius while still in the first freshness and ardor of youth, overcame doubt and hostile criticism before his prime, and has already lived to see his predomi- nant influence upon the poetic literature of his day, "What ever judgment may be passed upon his work, his position and influence are beyond dispute. Posterity may take away a portion of what he has received, but can not give him more. It is possible, therefore, although he is still vigorously and successfully productive, to review his liter- ary career with something of the unreserve which we usually apply only to the authors of the past. Mr. Stedman, in his "Victorian Poets," has discussed^ Tennyson's genius with such breadth and clear judicial insight that the outline is complete. I should not venture upon a field so competently surveyed, were my purpose 2 BSSAYS AND NOTES. precisely the samer IBut there is always a certain differ- ence in individual vision, even when it has the same general direction : and, moreover, I propose to deal entirely with some characteristics of Tennyson's poetical growth and development, which, although they have not been over- looked by his critics, are capable of fuller illustration than they have yet received. The poet's intellectual biography, as wo deduce it from his works and such scanty details of his life as are generally known, is of a very exceptional and interesting character: it illustrates the value of art in literature as that of no other famous poet, with the possible oxcejition of Schiller. Unlike as are the two, their lives coincide in the utmost devotion to a definite aim — in the one case fulfilled in spite of poverty, persecution, and all manner of adverse circumstance : in the other, in spite of early discouragement, later ease, and the temptations of an almost unlimited popularity. Schiller's first literary venture, "The Robbers," carried Germany by storm, and made his name known in France and England ; Tennyson's only provoked the bewildered wrath of Christopher North and the flippant satire of Bulwer, Schiller experienced the inevitable reaction of ix)pular favor, as he began to do sounder and stronger work ; Tennyson slowly and steadily won that favor, by disregarding the sneers which greeted his early performance and holding to his faith in the divine right of poetry. The former died just as the con- sciousness that his achievement was recognized by the world came to him from the world; the latter has lived TENNYSON, . 3 for twenty years in the proud consciousneRS of such recog- nition. Yet the govcniing principle of the two lives lias been the same, and the end has nobly justified it. Poetry says to her chosen, " Give up all that thou liast, and follow me I " Yet how few of tlieui that are called heed the call 1 Nay, how few are able to heed it I For the poet is not less, but more, a man : dowered with " the love of love," he least of all men can renounce wife, home and family, and the duties they include, Unless bom under a fortunate star, and released from the petty cares that wear away by slow attrition the eager keenness and brightness of his imagina- tive faculty, he is too often compelled to choose between the temptation of turning to lower and more remiinerativo labor, and the prospect of making those nearest and dearest to him bear the weight of his sacrifice. Schiller heroically resisted the temptation; but in Tennyson's case it was probably never present, at least in its bare inexorable form. Ho was not rich, but neither could ho be called poor. We Lave, as yet, but little knowledge of his life from the ago of twenty-two to thirty-two ; but that very fact indicates that this period was marked by no serious vicissitudes of fortune. As far as the world knows, his days have pre- served a singularly even tenor. What emotional experi- ences, what periods of spiritual anxiety and suffering, he has passed through we do not know and do not need to know ; but for thirty years we have seen him moderately prosperous in external circumstances, and leading a quiet life of surren*' der to his art 4 £SSA yS AND NO T£S, r The fact that Buch exclusive devotion haa been possible to him gives him a separate interest in the long line of the world's poets. He took the talent, bestowed at birth, early estimated its full character and value, and invested it, at cumulative interest, in all attainable and serviceable know* ledge. Few poets — perhaps none — have ever been so clear- ly conscious of the exact quality of their gift, and so wise in their disposition to increase it. His intellectual biog- raphy is, therefore, more important than the rather une- ventful story of his life, and if I attempt an outline of it up to a certain point, I may be able to thi*ow some little light upon his works from a source outside of the direct line of criticism. In such a biography the starting-point is no less important than the terminus. It is quite natural that an author should seek to suppress his first crude efforts, and the more so in Tennyson's case, since they give not the slightest earnest of his later performance. His share in the first volume, "Poems by two Brothers" (published in 1827 or '28),* can not be very accurately ascertained now, but the book is so absolutely devoid of poetic ability that fur- ther knowledge is not required. Nevertheless his prize university poem of " Timbuctoo," beginning with distinct Miltonic echoes, yet constantly breaking into brief strains which prefigure the character of his own later blank verse, lifts itself high above the prim conventional level of its fellows. Compared with the resounding platitudes of * So far as I know, there is but one copy in this country : it is in the possession of the Rev. Dr. £. H. Chapin. TENNYSON, 6 Heber and Milman, it expresses an independence of con- ception remarkable in one so young. In fact, the lines— ** Divinest Atlantis, whom the waves Have buried deep, and thou of later name, Imperial Eldorado, roofed with gold ; Shadows to which, despite all shocks of change, All onset of capricious accident, Men clung with yearning hope which would not die," — might have been written at any later period of his life. They illustrate the first distinct characteristic of his genius «— an exquisitely luxurious sense of the charms of sound and rhythm, bjised upon an earnest if not equal capacity for sober thought and reflection. These two elements coex- isted in Tennyson's mind, but were not developed in the same proportion, and arc not always perfectly fused in his poetry. Take away either, and the half of his achieve- ment, falling, leaves the other half utterly insecure. The aim of his life has been to correct and purify a power which ho possessed almost in excess at the start, and to add to its kindred and necessary power by all the aids of study and science. In this aim, as I shall endeavor to show, ho has both succeeded and partially failed. His early poems show a considerable amount of intel- lectual struggle, "We find in them traces of the influence of Milton, Shelley, and Barry Cornwall, but very rarely of Keats, of whom Tennyson has been called singularly enough, the lineal poetical child. Indeed he and Keats liave little in common except the sense of luxury in words. 6 ESSAYS AND NOTES. which waa bom with both, and could not be ontgrown. But the echoes of Shelley, in the poeing afterwards omit- ted from the volume which Tennyson published in 1830, are not to be mistaken. Take this stanza as an example: "The varied earth, the moving heaveiii The rapid waste of roving sea, The fountain-pregnant mountains riven To shapes of wildest anarchy, By secret fire and midnight storms That wander round their windy conei, The subtle life, the countless forms Of living things, the wondrous tones Of man and beast are full of strange Astonishment and boundless change.** The sign-manual of Barry Cornwall is even more distinctly Bet in the following : " When will the stream be aweary of flowing Under my eye ? When will the wind be aweary of blowing Over the sky ? When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting f When will the heart be aweary of beating, And nature die ? Never, oh t never, nothing will die t The stream flows. The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats J Nothing will die.»» l^ENNYSON, 7 The poems from whicli these stanzas are taken, as well as "The Burial of Love," "Hero to Leander," and "Ele- giacs," are written from the inspiration which dwell in mel- ody and rhythm : the latter is a not wholly unsuccessful attempt to add rhyme to the classic elegiac metre : ** Creeping through blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall, rivulets babble and fall, Barketh the shepherd-dog chcerly ; the grasshopper carolleth clearly ; Deeply the turtle coos ; shrilly the owlet halloos ; Winds creep ; dews fall chilly ; in her first sleep earth breathes stilly ! Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur and mourn. Sadly the far kine loweth : the glimmering water outflowcth : Twin peaks shadowed with pine slojic to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks : but the Naiad Throbbing in wild unrest holds him beneath in her breast,'* Here the conception, as a picture, is so obscure that two different landscapes are suggested. Yet in the fragment we seem to discover the seed out of which Swinburne's poetry might have germinated. Where, then, shall we look for the seed of Tennyson's ? I do not refer to imitation or even to unconscious influence; but there is usually some- thing in each generation of poets — often some slight, seemingly accidental form of utterance — which, in the following generation, expands into a characteristic quality. Examples of poetry written for pure delight in sound and 8 JSSSA YS AND NOTES. movement are rare before Shelley's day; and his influence upon Tennyson was very transient. A better prototype it furnished by this glittering little carol from Coleridge'a drama of " Zapolya : " *' A sunny shaft did I behold, From sky to earth it slanted : And poised therein a bird so bold- Sweet bird thou wert enchanted ! He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troUed "Within that shaft of sunny mist ; His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, All else of amethyst I '* The substance of this is absolutely nothing, yet the sound forever lingers in the ear like the whisper in the folds of a seaHshell. Tennyson's " Claribel " is a precisely similar ex- ample, with a melody in the minor key. In the volume published in 1830, the poems " Lilian," " The Sea-Fairies," " The Dying Swan," " The Merman," and several others, are almost equally slight in conception, while brimming witli the luxury of a rhythm which touches the intellec- tual palate like a mellow perfumed wine. In " Mariana," "The Poet," and the sonnet to "J. M. K.," we find the earnest, contemplative side of the poet's nature, still lack- ing the certainty of his rhythmical genius, but already indi- cating the basis upon which he has built up all that is most enduring in his later work. Inasnmch as the first of these two distinct elements is undoubtedly that which marks Tennyson's place in English TENNYSON", 9 literature, and accounts for his almost phenomenal popular- ity, it deserves a careful consideration. Wo find premo- nitions of it in Byron's " Stanzas for Music ; " in passages of Keats's" Hyperion;" in Shelley's "Skylark," "Areth^ usa," and tlie choruses in "Prometheus Unbound;" in Coleridge, Mrs, Ilemans (wlioso passing popularity is al- most wholly forgotten now), and Barry Cornwall. But in Tennyson it first found superb embodiment. Before him no poet dared to use sound and metre in the same manner as the architect and sculptor use form, and the painter form and color. It was a new delight, both to the car and to an unrecognized sense which stands between sensuousness and pure intelligence. Because, more than most poets, ho consciously possessed his power, he rapidly learned how to use it. His "Mariana," written at the age of twenty, is an extraordinary piece of minute and equally-finished detail. The scenery represents that of the marshy lowlands of Lin- colnshire ; the theme was suggested by a phrase of Shake- speare (a peculiarity wherein Bro^vning, in " Childe Boland to the Dark Tower Came," has followed Tennyson) ; and the poem is a picture in the absolute Pre-Raphaelite man- ner, written more than a dozen years before Pre-Raphael- ism was heard of in art. Tennyson, once, in talking with a fellow-author about his own reluctance to publish his poems, said, " There is my * Mariana,' for example, A line in it is wrong, and I can not possibly change it, because it has been so long published ; yet it always annoys me. I wrote; I 10 ESSAYS AND NOTES. ' The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall.* Now, this Ib not a characteristic of the scenery I had In mind. The line should be : * That held the pear to the ^tfi/«-walL'" But the truth is that one who feels the for- lomness and desolation of the ballad will not ask whether this or that detail is strictly true of the scenery which the author may have had in his mind. "We are reminded of some of our own art-critics who turn away from the face of a saint or hero to find fault with the form of a leaf or pebble in the foreground. The chief defect of Tennyson's poetry is indicated in this over-anxiety in regard to un- important details : it will be referi*cd to again when I come to speak of his total achievement. No English poet, with the possible exception of Byron, has so ministered to the natural appetite for poetry in the people as Tennyson. Byron did this— unintentionally, as all genius does — by warming and aix)using their dormant sentiment ; Tennyson by surprising them into the recogni- tion of a new luxury in the hannony and movement of poetic speech. I use the word "luxury" purposely; for no other word will oxprcss the glow and richness and full- ness of his technical qualities. It Was scarcely a wonder that a generation accustomed to look for compact and pal- pable intellectual fonns in poetry, — a generation which was still hostile to Keats and Shelley, and had not yet caught up with AVordsworth — should at first regard this new flower as an interloping weed. But when its blossom-buds fully TENNYSOl/, 11 expanded into gorgeous, velvety-crimsoned and golden- anthered tiger-lillies, filling the atmosphere of our day with deep, intoxicating spice-odors, how much less wonder that others should snatch the seed and seek to make the acknowledged flower their own? Tennyson must be held guiltless of all that his followers and imitators have done. His own personal aim haa been pure and lofty ; but, without his intention or will, or even expectation, he lias Btiraulated.into existence a school of what might be called Decorative Poetry. I take the adjective from its present application to a school of art. I have heard more than one distinguished painter in England say of painting, " It is simply a decorative art. Hence it needs only a sufficiency of form to present color : the expression of an idea, per- spective, chiar* oscuro, do not belong to it; for these ad- dress themselves to the mind, whereas art addresses itself only to the eye," This is no place to discuss such a materialistic heresy; I mention it only to make my mean- ing clear. Wo may equally say that decorative poetry addresses itself only to the ear, and seeks to occupy an intermediate ground between poetry and music, I need not give instances. They are becoming bo common that the healthy natural taste of mankind, which may be Bu^ prised and perverted for a time, is beginning to grow fatigued, and the flower — as Tennyson justly complaina in his somewhat petulant poem — will soon be a weed again. But this is the one point wherein the poet, truly ap- prehending his art and rareily devoting all his powers to its 12 ESSAYS AND NOTES. service, oventeps its legitimate frontiers. His later omis- sions from tlie volume of 1830 have been made with a con rect instinct, and I have revived them with reluctance, because they were necessary illustrations, in endeavoring to describe his poetic development. The volume, published in the winter of 1832-3, is a remarkable advance in every respect. "We see that indifference or ridicule has been powerless to stay the warm, opulent, symmetrical growth of his best powers. In the " Lady of Shallot," " (Enone,'* the " Lotus-Eaters," the " Palace of Art," and the " Dream of Fair Women," we reach almost the level of his later achievement. In some of these the conception suffices to fill out the metrical form; the exquisite elaboration of detail is almost prescribed by the subject ; and the luxuries of sound and movement, while not diminished, are made obedient to an intelligent melodic law. Rarely has a young man of twenty-two written such poetry or justified such largo predictions of his future. Yet he was still almost unnoticed and unread. "Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Moore, and Lamb were then alive, yet we find no word of the new bard in their correspondence of those days. Bulwer's sneer, in his "New Timon," came twelve years later. For a decade thereafter Tennyson was silent, though not discouraged : we know very little of his life during this period, yet we may infer somewhat of its char- acter from his later activity. We must suppose that he calmly waited, not doubtful of his power because of his very consciousness of it, biit only the more ardently turned TENNYSOI^, 13 to its complete development through varied study, earnest thought, and free imagination. We may conjecture that more was written in these years than he has preserved ; for when we reach the volume of 184:2, wo find every former characteristic of his verse heightened and purified, not changed. Only a sportive element, which does not quite reach the humorous, is introduced ; it is another chord of the same strain, Midway between it and his poems of im- aginative sentiment lie his idylls of English country life, wherein we seem to detect some remote influence of Words- worth. With the exception of " Dora " and *< The Gard- ener's Daughter," they are hardly to be called poems. The fault of over-attention to detail makes itself most keenly felt when the subject is barely realistic; we are more willing to notice the texture of cloth-of-gold than of russet frieze. Such poems as « Morte d' Arthur," « The Talking Oak," "Locksley Hall," "Ulysses," and "The Two Voices," wherein thought, passion, and imagination, combined in their true proportions, breathe through full, rich, and haunting forms of verse, at once gave Tennyson his place in English literature. The fastidious care with which every image was wrought, every bar of the movement ad- justed to the next and attuned to the music of all, every epithet chosen for point, freshness, and picturesque effect, eveiy idea restrained within the limits of close and clear expression,— these virtues, so intimately fused, became a sadden delight for all lovers of poetry, and for a time I i . U MSSAYS AND NOTES. affected their appreciation of its more nnpretending and artless forms. The poet's narrow circle of admirers wid- ened at once, taking in so many of the younger generation that the old doubters were one by one compelled to yield. Pooy pOHHCHHlng much of the tordination to forms accepted a« classic ; secondly, a rebellion of the free creative power, which finds its own method of expression, whether through the romantic school, or othen\4se; and lastly, a return to the laws of elevation, proportion and repose, which are forever classic in poetry. Victor Hugo, halting at the second stage, and filled with vast visions of some yet undiscovered organic force in literature, has dashed off into space and become a comet of incalcula- ble elements, instead of a serene, silver-shining planet, filling its punctual place in the common heaven of song. His work has thus grown more and more chaotic ; genius, the dexterity of the literary craftsman, narrow prejudice, I I 40 ESSAYS AND NOTES. broad glimpses into the infinite of human fate^ tende^ ness, rant, idyllic sweetness and the bluster of simulated passion are so mingled in his later productions, that we are tempted to call them great and trivial, insane and prophetic, in the same breath. The " Legend of the Ages *' is even a better illustra- tion of this singular development of the author's mind than his recent prose works* His leading idea is to paint the stniggle of the human race with superstition, kingly oppression, and all other woes of the Past and Present, in a series of detached pictures drawn from all lands and all ages. But it is quite impossible to guess what law guided him in his selection of subjects. Many of the poems have not the slightest apparent relevancy ^to the plan; others either wilfully distort history or overlook the general progress of the race; and the lack of any advancing sohition of human woe and trouble, through the original design of the Eteiiial AVisdom, leaves a bitter after-taste in the mouth of the reader. These are the titles of the general divisions of the poem \ " The Earth ; Supremacy ; Between Giants and Gods ; the Vanished City ; After Gods, Kings ; Between Lions and Kings ; the Banished Cid ; "Welf , Warder of Osbor; Warnings and Chastisements; the Seven Won- ders of the World.'* Here the first volume ends. " The Epic of the Worm ; the Poet to the Earth-worm ; Purity of Soul; the Falls; the Pyrcncan Cycle; the Comet; Change of Horizon; the Group of Idylls; all the Past VICTOR HUGO. 41 and all the Future; the Present Time; the Plagues' Elegy: the Little Ones; Above; the Mountains; the Temple ; to Man ; Abyss." There is, however, a Prologue, called, "The Vision out of wliich this Book has arisen." Here, as else- where throughout the work, there are traces of the in- fluence of Dante upon the author; but the latter has aimed at reaching the gloomy grandeur, not the sharp distinctness of thought and image, of the Tuscan poet. The versification is frequently marked by intentional roughness. Only ^vhen Victor Hugo falls upon a quiet idyllic theme do we find again his incomparable sweet- ness and harmony. For this reason, in translating the introductory picture, we prefer to retain the original mea- sure, and drop the rhyme, which is less a loss to French heroic verso, owing to the repetitions which the language allows. Such rhymes as vague and vaguCy or sombre and sombre and the multitudes of such half-rhymes as tente and contenUy dhide and livide^ hideux and d'euxy which wo find in these volumes, would be intolerable to English ears. The following " vision " is put forth a^ the argu- ment of the work: I had a dream : the Wall of the Ages unto me Appeared,— of live flesh and rough granite built. An immobility made of restlessness, An edifice with the sound of multitudes, Black loop-holes starred "n-ith fierce, out-peering eyefl^ And evolutions of all monstrous groups 43 ESSAYS AUD NOTES. In giant frescoes and vast bas-relieft. Opened the wall at times, and showed the halli)«> Vaults where the happy sat, the powerful, Conquerers by crime imbruted, incense-drunk, Interiors of jasper, porphyry, gold ; Or crowned with towers or wheat-ears, every age Was there, sad sphinx o'er its enigma bent ; Each stage with some vague animation showed, Far rising into shadow, ^-^as an arm^d host "Were, with its leader, suddenly petrified, In act to storm by escalade the Night. The mass thus floated as a cloud that rolls | A wall it was, and then a multitude ; The marble held the scepter and the sword. The dust lamented and the dull clay bled. The stones that fell disclosed the human fomu Man, with the unknown spirit leading hhn, Eve undulating, Adam floating, one And diverse, being, universe, beat there, And destiny, black thread the tomb winds ofC Sometimes the lightnings on this livid plane Flashing, made million faces suddenly gleam* I saw the Nought there which we call the All,— The kings, the gods, the glory and the law. And generations down the age-stream borne ; And, as I looked, continued without end The plague, woe, hunger, ignorance. The superstition, science, history. As a black colonnade is lost to view. This Avail, composed of all that crumbles down, Hose gloomy, scarped, and formless. Where it WM t I know not ; somewhere in a darksome place. VICTOR HUGO, 43 The author looks steadily upon this confusion, and sees that it is a mixture of all human things, events and re- no\\Tied pei^sonages. While he gazes, two giant spirits soar past; one of them utters the word "Fatality!" the other the word "Godl" The wall crumbles and falls, everything becomes vague and obscure, except that there is a pale glimmering as of dawn, rising out of a cloud, "wherein, without seeing thunder, God was felt." Then, as a close, we have a description of the impression pro- duced by this vision upon the poet (dated Guernsey, April, 1857), and the final declaration: This book 'tis Babcrs fearful relic left,^ The dismal Tower of Things, the edifice Of evil, good, tears, sacrifice, and woe. Proud, yesterday, and lord of distant realms, To-day but dismal fragments in its hands. Thrown, scattered, lost, as in a vale obscure,— The Human Epic, harsh, immense, and— fairn. The wliole work is as curiously mixed as the ingred- ients of this proem. It resounds witli cries, tortures, and agonies, some keen and powerful, some unpleasantly con- strained ; but between them we come upon clear, joyous and exquisite strains of song. The opening hynm: " The Earth," is one of these ; and we give a few of the best stanzas, in the form and meter of the original: 44 ESSAYS AND NOTES. Qlory to Earth t^to the Dawn where Ood U To tingling eyes that ope in forest green^ To flowers, and nests the Day makes bright t Glory to nightly gleams of snowy hills,— To the blue sky which, unexhausted, spllli Buch prodigal morning-light I Earth shows the harvest, though she hides the gold^ And in the flying seasons doth she fold The germs of seasons that shall be,— Sends birds in air that carol : " Let us love ! ** Bets founts in shadow, while on hills above Quivers the great oak-tree* She pays to each his duo, to Day Kight*8 hours, To Night the Day, the herbs to rocks, fruits flowers | She fcedeth all she doth create \ When men arc doubtful, trusts in her the tree,— O, sweet comparison, shaming Destiny, O Nature, holy, great 1 Cradle of Adam and of Japhet she. And then their tomb \ she ordered Tyre to be, Now shorn of empire and of kings. In Homo and Sparta, Memphis of old fame, Wherever Man spake — and the silence came,— The loud cicala sings, VICTOR HUGO. 45 •. . And why ? To quiet all who sleep in dust. i And why ? Because the apotheosis must Succeed the ruin and the wrong ; After the ♦* No I " the ♦' Yes I " be spoken then, After the silent vanishing of men * The world's mysterious song. Earth's friends are harvestmen ; when evening falls She fain would free her dark horizon-walla From the keen swarm of ravenous crows ; When the tired ox says : *' Home, now, let us fare !•* And in the farmer^s hands, returning there, The plowshare-armor glows. Incessant, transient blossoms bears her sod ; They never breathe the least complaint to God : Chaste lilies, vines that ripen free. The shivering myrtles never send a cry From winds profane up to the sacred sky, To move with innocent plea. Wo cannot pass in review all the poems drawn from the ancient themes. Those which are purely philosophical, such as "The Titan," have a vague and shadowy mean- ing, but no tangible outlines. " The Three Hundred " (of Thermopylae), on the other hand, contains a description of the army of Xerxes, which is so brilliant and full of move- ment that we do not stop to inquire into its historical cor- rectness. One of the longest and most satisfactory poems in the fmst volume is the story of the Oid, which is told it ESSAYS AND NOT£S, in admirably clear and liqnid verse. But we pi^Bsently come upon a singular dramatic fragment, called ""Welf, the "Warder pf Osbor,' * which seems to be an arbitrary un- historical invention. The cliaracters are "Welf, the Ger- man Emperor Otto, Pope Silvester, " The King of Aries,*' " Cyadmis, Marquis of Thuringia '* (!) and a chorus of sol- diers and people. Welf (Guelf) is represented as the incar- nation of the spirit of Freedom, although his family name denotes the Papal party in the mediseval wars* Where the castle of " Osbor *' is, we are not informed. It is not necessary, in such matters, for the author to confine him- self to strict historical truth, but he should at least not violate all historical features in such grotesque wise. In the division called, " After the Gods, the Kings," there is a stirring little chamon^ in Victor Hugo's old manner. It is called "Z^« Keitveti^^ ("Troopers"), and is evidently meant to describe the mercenaries of the Middle Ages. It is hardly possible to translate its short lines and two only rhjines; so we give two stanzas of the original: •'Sonnez, clairons, Sonnez, cymbales 1 On entcndra siffler Ics balles ; L'ennemi vient, nous le battrons ; Les d^routes sont des cavales Qui s'envolent quand nous soufflons ; Nous jouerons aux des sur les dalles ( Sonnez, rixdales 8onnez, doublons 1 VICTOR HUGO, 47 **Sonnez, clairons, Sonnez, cymbales 1 On entendra sifflcr les balles ; Nous sommcs les dura forgerons Des victoires imperiales ; Personne n'a vu nos talons ; Kous jouerons aux dcs sur les dalles ; Bonncz, rixdalcs, Sonnez, doublons t^* The subject of the smaller poems are not only willfully but oftentimes whimsically chosen. Thus, in " Homo Duplex," we have sixteen lines, representing soul and body under the fonns of an angel and an ape. This is followed by " A Yerse from the Koran," eight lines long, and one of the least significant in the volume. The want of any clear, elevated philosophical plan in the work is sufficiently evident from the fact that all reference to Egypt's great share in the civilization of man is omitted ; that all ancient Indian culture is represented by a single apologue ; that of the monotheis- tic victory of the Hebrews, we have nothing ; that the su- preme art of Greece, the marvelous civil organization of Borne, are hardly touched upon ; that the Middle Ages are given to us mainly as legends of Spain and the Pyrenees ; and that all reference to the achievements of the German race is strenuously avoided. He even says, toward the dose of the work : It is in wandering thus, and deeper plummets buried, That EfvXtir found a law, Columbus found a worid. 48 MSSAYS AND NOTES. Euler, thongli a German, was a Kussian subject : hence his name is used. The thought of the author requires the name of Kepler : nevertheless; we will give Victor Hugo the benefit of the doubt, and admit that he may not have known of Kepler. But if we leave him his free, arrogant will, — accept his mingling of piercing insight and crass ignorance, — in short, if we take the whole poem for what it actually is, a "Wall of the Ages (to amplify his own ex- pression a little) built of living flesh, coarse granite, mud, tinsel, nuggets of gold, and full of gaps and chasms, part firmly-based and part very shaky, — we shall enjoy it all the better. It has beauties enough to repay reading, but not coherent idea enough to repay study. The second volume opens with a poem — ^much too long — called "The Epic of the TVorm." It simply ex- tends through the whole universe the imago of Edgar A. Poe^B " The Conqueror Worm." The meaning is too obvious to need explanation; but, in spito of its being so commonplace, Victor Hugo has made it fresh again by some new and daring variations. We will quote four of the most striking stanzas, giving the first also in the original : **Dieu qui m'avait fait Ver, Je vous feral fum^e. 81 jo ne puis toucher votre essence Innomm^e, ^ Je puis tonger du moins L^amour dans Thomme, et Tastre au fond du ciel liYido, Dieu jaloux, et, faisant autour de vous le vide, Vous oter vos t^molns.** VICTOR HUGO, 49 God having made me worm, I make you— smoke, Though safe your nameless essence from my stroke, Yet do I gnaw, no less, Love in the heart, stars in the livid space, -^ . God jealous,— making vacant thus your place,-* And steal your witnesses. Since the star flames, man would be wrong to teach That the grave's worm such glory cannot reach ; Naught real is, save mo. Within the blue, as 'noath the marble slab, I lie i I bite, at once, the star within the sky, The apple on the tree. To gnaw yon star is not more tough to me Than hanging grapes on vines of Sicily ; I clip the rays that fall ; Eternity yields not to splendors brave. Fly, ant, all creatures die, and naught can save The constellations all. The starry ship, high in the ether-sea, Must split and wreck in the end : this thing ihaU be t The broad-ringed Saturn toss To ruin ; Sirlus, touched by me, decay, At the small boat from Ithaca away That steers to Ealymnoa, Then follows «The Poet to the Earth-Wonn," and among other irrelevant matter, "the Pjrenean Ojle" of romantic legends. We will pass all these bj, as of less 50 ESSAYS AND i^OTES, interest, and pause at the most charming portion of the whole work, which the author calls " A Group of Idyls.'' They are twenty-two in number, beginning with Orpheus and ending with Andr^ Ch^nier. They have but the re- motest connection with the plan of the work: some of them seem singularly out of placo^ as Aristophanes, Dante, Shakespeare, Diderot, and Voltaire: and we are greatly surprised to find in this illustrious company Ttacan, page of Henri lY. and pupil of Malesherbes, Chaulieu, who was called the French Anacreon in his day, but died young, and Segrais, of whom the world knows really nothing. The attempt to force this list Upon us as that of the typical idyllists of the world (if that be the author^s meaning) pro- vokes a feeling of resentment. The world is growing too intelligent to accept the dictation of any eccentric indi- vidual taste. But some of the short poems in this group are very striking. Take the following as a specimen : SOLOMON. 1 am the king who mystic power commanded \ I built the Temple, mined towns supreme ; Hiram, my architect, and Charos, my right-handed, Still hero beside me dream. ^ One as a trowel, one as a sword, was given ; I let them plan, and what they did was well : My breath mounts higher, nearer unto heaven Than Libyan whirlwinds swell •,— VICTOR HUGO. '51 ., ^ God sometimes feels it. Child of guilty kisses, Vast, gloomy is my wisdom : demons shun To take between high Heaven and their abysses, A judge but Solomon. I make men tremble, and believe my story ; Conquering, they hail and follow to my feast : , As king, I bear down mortals with the glory. And with the gloom, as priest. Mine was of festals and of cups the vision, The finger writing Mem Tehel then, And war, and chariots, clarions, and collliion Of horses and of men. Grand as some sullen idoVs form discloses, Mysterious as a garden's closed retreat, Yet, though I bo more mighty than the roses In moons of May are sweet, Take from me sceptre with the bright gold laden. My throne, the archer on my tower above, But men shall never take, O sweet young maiden, From out my heart its love ! Men shall not take the love, virgin purest. That as in fountains beams to mirror thee, More than from out the darkness of the forest The song-bird^8 minstrelsy 1 Still more satisfactory is tHs, wherein the entire free- 63 ESSAYS A:^D NOTES. dom of the poet's imagination is characterized by an ex- quisite grace : M08CHU8. Bathe ye, Nymphs, in the cool fdrest-springs t Although the thicket with dull voices rings, And in its rocks the eaglets nest finds place, *Twa8 ne'er invaded by such gathering gloom Ai grows to darkness, and will yield no room To nude Kesra's grace. Fair is Nesera, pure, and glimmers white, Transparent, through the forest's horrent night ; An echo dialogues with one afar, Gossips a hive with flowers upon the leas,— What says the echo ? — what the wandering bees f She, naked, is a star t For, when thou bathest, starry splendor falls, Chaste one, on thee, with vague fear that appalls And beauty's boldness ever must imbue t In shades where eye of ardent faun peers now, To show thee woman, — ^knowest, Neoera, thou,— » Shows thee as goddess too 1 Though man be darkened by the high king's powers Above my head I here have built a bower With boughs of elm and boughs of holly green | 1 love the meadows, woods, the unfettered air, Neoera Phyllodoxis, and the fair Fond idyl's strain setene* VICTOR HUGO. 63 Though hero, where sleep sometimes our lids may fill, The distant thunders stray from hill to hill, — Though spectral lightnings here forever shoot, And the sky threatens, — as we pace along Is it forbid to dream, or hear the song, Betwixt the thunders, of a flute ? Of the remaining poems, " The Cemetery of Ejlau " is much the best. It is a story of the Napoleonic ware, told with all the vigor and keen dramatic effect which Victor Hugo knows so well how to use. The volume contains also a bitter poem on Napoleon III., episodes of the Com- mune, and the deep-mouthed panting after revanche! which Victor Hugo, Burgundian (and thoroforo ancient German) in blood, daro not omit— for, if ho did, ho might be consistent in his theories of humanity. The concluding poem is called " Abyss." Man speaks first, then the Earth, and after the bright joyous hymn with which the work opens, we are amazed to hear her thus speaking to the human race — which we wero led to believe she loved: Only my vermin, thou ! Sleep, heavy need, fever and subtile fire, The crawling belly, hunger, thirst, vile paunch. "Weigh thee, black fugitive, with unnumbered ills. Old, thou^rt but spectre, dead, thou art but shade : Thou goest to ashes, I exist in day. Saturn, the Sun, Sirius, Aldebaran, the Comet, Ursa JaI 54 £SfAVSAJ^DA'dr£S. Major, the Zodiac, the Milky Way, the Nebnlae, then speak '^but wo do not iind thoir mcBsogos either so Bublime or 00 myBtorioitu an thoir titlen. * At the laitt, ^* the Infinite **— * utters this line: Multiplied life inhabits my sombre unit j. And " Diou " responds i I havo but to breathe, and all wore dark. If there were any distinctly announced message of hope to mankind in this '* Legend of | the Ages," wo should re- joice to give it. There are manifold — and, we will not doubt, very sincoro-^tokons of sympathy with human suffering and weakness; of a broad, generous disregard of titles, renowns and accepted values in History. "We could feel these qualities more deeply, and acknowledge them more gratefully, if they did not co-exist with the evidence of restricting prejudice, singular lapses of knowledge, and arrogant individual assertion. Mabch, 1877. THE GEKMAN BUENS, THE extreme eouthwestem comer of Germany is an irregular riglit-angle, formed by tlio course of the Rhine. Within this angle and an hypothenuse drawn from the Lake of Constance to Carlsruhe lies a wild mountain- region — a lateral offshoot from the central chain which ex- tends through Europe from west to east — known to all readers of robber-romances as the Black Forest, It is a cold, undulating upland, intersected with deep valleys, which descend to the plains of the Rhine and the Danube, and covered with great tracts of fir-forest. Here and there a peak rises high above the general level, the Feldberg at- taining a height of five thousand feet. The aspect of this region is stem and gloomy : the fir-woods appear darker than elsewhere ; the frequent little lakes are as inky in hue as the pools of the High Alps; and the meadows of living emerald give but a partial brightness to the scenery. Here, however, the solitary traveller may adventure without fear. Robbers and robber-castles have long since passed away, and the people, rough and uncouth as they may at first seem, are as kindly-hearted as they are honest. Among 56 MSSA YS AND NOTE& them was bom — and in their incomprehenfiible dialect wrote — Hebel, the German Bums. We dislike the practice of using the name of one author as the characteristic designation of another. It is, at best, the sign of an imperfect fame, implying rather the imita- tion of a scholar than the independent position of a master. We can, nevertheless, in no other way indicate in advance the place which the subject of our sketch occupies in the literature of Germany. A contemporary of Bums, and ignorant of the English language, there is no evidence that he had ever even heard of the former ; but Bums, being the first truly great poet who succeeded in making classic a local dialect, thereby constituted himself an illustrious standard, by which his successors in the same path must be measured. Thus Bellman and Beranger have been in- appropriately invested with his mantle, from the one fact of their being song-writers of a democratic stamp. The Gascon, Jasmin, better deserves the title ; and Longf ellowj in translating his " Blind Girl of Cast^l-Cuille," says,— " Only the lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright " :— a conviction which we have frequently shared, in transla- ting our German author. . It is a matter of surprise to us that, while Jasmin's poems have gone far beyond the bounds of France, the name of John Peter Hebel — who possesses more legitimate THE GERMAN BURNS. 57 claims to. the peculiar distinction which Bums achieved— is not only unknown outside of Gennany, but not even familiarly known to the Germans themselves. The most probable explanation is, that the Alemannic dialect^ in which he wrote, is spoken only by the inhabitants of the Black Forest and a portion of Suabia, and cannot be under- stood, without a glossary, by the great body of the North- Germans. The same cause would operate, with greater force, in preventing a translation into foreign languages. It is, in fact, only within the last twenty years that the Germans have become acquainted with Bums, — chiefly through the admirable translations of the poet Freiligrath, To Hebel belongs the merit of having bent one of tho harshest of German dialects to the use of poetry. "We doubt whether tho lyre of Apollo was ever fashioned from a wood of rougher grain. Broad, crabbed, guttural, and unpleasant to the ear which is not thoroughly accustomed to its sound, the Alemannic ^atoia was, in truth, a most un- promising material. Tho stranger, even though he wero a good German scholar, would never suspect tho racy humor, the Twitw, childlike fancy, and the pure human tenderness of expression which a little culture has brought to bloom on such a soil. The contractions, elisions, and corruptions which German words undergo, with the multitude of terms in common use derived from the Gothic, Greek, Latin, and Italian, give it al- most the character of a difterent language. It was Hebel's mother-tongaei and his poetic faculty always 58 ESSAYS AND NOTES. returned to its use with a fresh delight which insured BucceBB. His German, poems are inferior in all respects. Let us first glance at the .poet's life, — a life uneventful, perhaps, yet interesting from the course of development He was bom in Basle, in May, 1760, in the house of Major Iselin, where both his father and mother were at service. The former, a weaver by trade, afterwards became a soldier, and accompanied the Major to Flanders, France and Corsica. He had picked up a good deal of stray knowledge on his campaigns, and had a strong nat- ural taste for poetry. The qualities of the son were in* herited from him rather than from the mother, of whom wo know nothing more than that she was a steady, in- dustrious person. The parents lived during the winter in the little village of Hauson, Ju the Black Forest, but with the approach of spring returned to Basle for their summer service in Major Iselin's house. - The boy was but a year old when his father died, and the discipline of such a restless spirit as he ex- hibited in early childhood seems to have been a task almost beyond the poor widow*s powers. An incorrigi- ble spirit of mischief possessed him. He was an arrant scapegrace, plundering cupboards, gardens and orchards, lifting the gates of mill-races by night, and playing a thousand other practical and not always innocent jokes. Neither counsel nor punishment availed, and the entire weight of his good qualities, as a counterbalance, barely sufficed to prevent him from losing the patrons whom THE GERMAN BURNS, 59 his bright, eager, inquisitive mind attracted. Something of this was undoubtedly congenital, and there are indica* tions that the strong natural impulse, held in check only by a powerful will and a watchful conscience, was tho torment of his life. In his later years, when he filled the posts of Ecclesiastical Counsellor and Professor in tho Gymnasium at Carlsruhe, the phrenologist Gall, in a sci- entific seancCf made an examination of his head. "A most remarkable development of" , said Gall, ab- ruptly breaking off, nor could he be induced to complete the sentence. Hebel, however, frankly exclaimed, — "You certainly mean the thievish propensity. I know I have it by nature, for I continually feel its suggestions." What a picture is presented by this confession ! A pure, hon- est and honorable life, won by a battle with evil desires, which, commencing with birth, ceased their assaults only at the brink of the grave! A daily struggle, and a daily victory! Hebel lost hig mother in his thirteenth year, but he was fortunate in possessing generous patrons, who con- tributed enough to the slender means he inherited to en- able him to enter the Gymnasium at Carlsruhe. Leaving this institution with the reputation of a good classical scholar, he entered the University at Erlangen as a stu- dent of theology. Here his jovial, reckless temperament, finding a congenial atmosphere, so got the upperhand that he barely succeeded in passing the necessary exami- nation, in 1780. At the end of two years, during whicli I 60 ESSAYS AND NOTJES. time lie Bnpported himBelf as a private tutor, he was or- dained, and received a meagre situation as teacher in the Academy at Lorrach, with a salary of one hundred and forty dollars *a year I Laboring patiently in this humble position for eight years, he was at last rewarded by be- ing transferred to the Gymnasium at Carlsruhe, with the rank of Sub-Deacon. Hither, the Markgraf Frederick of Baden, attracted by the warmth, simplicity and genial humor of the man, came habitually to listen to his ser-. mons. lie found himself, without seeking it, in the path of promotion, and his life thenceforth was a series of sure and moderate successes. Ilis expectations, in- deed, were so humble that they were always exceeded by his rewards. "When Baden became a Grand-Duchy, with a constitutional form of government, it required much persuasion to induce him to accept the rank of Prelate, with a seat in the Upper House. His friends were dis- appointed that, with his readiness and fluent power of speech, he took so little part in the legislative proceed- ings. To one who reproached him for this timidity ho naively wrote, — " Oh, you have a right to talk : you are the son of Pastor N. in X. Before you were twelve years old, you heard yourself called Mr. Gottlieb; and when you went with your father down the street, and the judge or a notary met you, they took off their hats, you waiting for your father to return the greeting, be- fore you even lifted your cap. But I, as you well know, grew up as the son of a poor widow in Hansen; and THE GERMAN BURNS. 61 when I accompanied my mother to Schopfheim or Basle, and we happened to meet a notary, she commanded, * Peter, jerk your cap off, there 's a gentleman 1 ' — but when the judge or the counsellor appeared, she called out to me, when they were twenty paces off, * Peter, stand still where you are, and off with your cap quick, the Lord Judge is cominM' Now you can easily im- agine how I feel, when I recall those times, — and I re- call them often, — sitting in the Chamber among Barons, Counsellors of State, Ministers and Generals, with Counts and Princes of the reigning House before me." Ilebel may have felt that rank is but the guinea-stamp, but ho never would have dared to speak it out with the de- fiant independence of Bums. Socially, however, he was thoroughly democratic in his tastes; and his chief objec- tion to accepting the dignity of Prelate was the fear that it might restrict his intercourse with humbler friends. His ambition appears to have been mainly confined to liis theological labors, and he never could have dreamed that his after-fame was to rest upon a few poems in a rough mountain dialect, written to beguile his intense longing for the wild scenery of his early home. After his transfer to Carlsruhe, he remained several years ab- sent from the Black Forest; and the pictures of its dark hills, its secluded valleys, and their rude, warm-hearted and unsophisticated inhabitants, became more and more fresh and lively in his memory. Distance and absence turned the quaint dialect to music, and out of this mild 62 £SSA YS AND NOTES. home-eickness grew the Alemannic poems. A healthy oyster never produces a pearL These poems, written in the years 1801 and 1802, were at first circulated in manuscript among the author's friends. He resisted the proposal to collect and publish them, until the prospect of pecuniary advantage decided him to issue an anonymous edition* The success of the experiment was so positive that in the course of five years four editions appeared, — a great deal for those days. Not only among his native Alemanni, and in Baden and Wurtemberg, where the dialect was more easily under- stood, but from all parts of Germany, from poets and scholars, came messages of praise and appreciation. Jean Paul (Eichter) was one of Ilebers first and warmest ad- mirers. " Our Alemannic poet,'' he wrote, " has life and feeling for everything, — the open heart, the open arms of love; and every star and every flower are human in hifl sight, . • . ♦ In other, better words,— the evening- glow of a lovely, peaceful soul slumbers upon all the hills he bids arise ; for the flowers of poetry he substi- tutes the flower-goddess Poetry herself; he sets to his lips the Swiss Alp-horn of youthful longing and joy, while pointing with the other hand to the sunset-gleam of the lofty glaciers, and dissolves in prayer, as the sound of the chapel-bells is flung down from the mountains." Contrast this somewhat confused rhapsody with the clear, precise, yet genial words wherewith Goethe wel- comed the new poet. He instantly seized, weighed in THE GERMAN BURNS, 63 the fine balance of his ordered mind, and valued with nice discrimination, those qualities of Hebers genius which had but stirred the splendid chaos of Richter with an emotion of vague delight. " The author of these poems," says he, in the Jena " Literaturzeitung," (1804,) *^ is about to achieve a place of his own on the Gcnnan Parnassus, His talent manifests itself in two opposite directions. On the one hand, he observes with a fresh, cheerful glance those objects of Nature which express their life in positive existence, in growth and in motion, (objects which we are accustomed to call lifelc%B^ and thereby approaches the field of descriptive poetry; yet he succeeds, by his happy personifications, in lifting his picture to a loftier plane of Art. On the other hand, he inclines to the didactic and the allegorical; but here, also, the same power of personification comes to his aid, and as, in the one case, he finds a soul for his bodies, so, in the other, he finds a body for his souls. As the ancient poets, and others who have been developed through a plastic sentiment for Art, introduce loftier spirits, related to the gods,— such as nymphs, dryada and hamadryads, — in the place of rocks, fountains and trees: so the author transforms these objects into peas- ants, and countrifies \ycTbaueT(\ the universe in the most ndive^ quaint and genial manner, until the landscape, in which we nevertheless always recognize the human figure, seems to become one with man in the cheerful enchantment exercised upon our fancy." 64 ESSAYS AUD NOTES, Tills is entirely correct, as a poetic cliaracterization. Hebel, however, possesses the additional merit — no slight one either— of giving faithful expression to the thoughts, emotions, and passions of the simple people among whom his childhood was passed. The hearty native kindness, the tenderness, hidden under a rough exterior, the lively, droll, unformed fancy, the timidity and the boldness of love, the tendency to yield to temptation, and the unfeigned piety of the inhabitants of the Black Forest, are all reproduced in his poems. To say that they teach, more or less directly, a wholesome morality, is but indifferent praise; for morality is the clieap veneering wherewith would-be poets attempt to conceal the lack of the true faculty. We prefer to let our readers judge for themselves concerning this fea* ture of HebePs poetry. The Alemannic dialect, we have said, is at first harsh to the car. It requires, indeed, not a little practice, to perceive its especial beauties ; since these consist in cer- tain quaint playful inflections, and elisions, which, like the speech of children, have a fresh, natural, simple charm of their own. The changes of pronunciation, in German words, are curious. K becomes a light gutural eA, and a great number of monosyllabic words— especially those ending in ut and iih — receive a peculiar twist from the introduction of e or ei : as gut^ friihy which become guet^ frueih. This seems to be a characteristic feature of the South-German dialects, though in none is it so THE GERMAN BURNS, 05 pronounced as in the Alemannic. Tlie cliango of ist into isch^ hast into hesch, ich into ?', dich into de^ etc., is much more widely spread, among tlio peasantry, and is readily learned, even by the foreign reader. But a good German scholar would bo somewhat puzzled by the consolidation of several abbreviated words into a single one, which occurs in almost every Alemannic sentence: for instance, in woni ho would have some difficulty in recognizing wo ich; sdfjcno does not sug- gest sage ihnen, nor vffeme, auf einem. Those singularities of the dialect render the transla- tion of Ilebers poems into a foreign language a work of great difficulty. In the absence of any English dia- lect which possesses corresponding features, the peculiar quaintncss and raciness which they confer must inevit- ably be lost. Fresh, wild and lovely as the Schwarz- wald heather, they are equally apt to die in transplant- ing. How much they lose by being converted into classical German was so evident to us (fancy, ** Scots who have with Wallace bled "I) that we at first shrank from the experiment of reproducing them in a lan- guage still further removed from the original. Cer- tainly, classical English would not answer; the indi- vidual soul of the poems could never be recognized in such a garb. The tongue of Bums can be spoken only by a bom Scot; and our Yankee, which is rather a grotesque English than a dialect, is unfortunately so associated with the coarse and the farcical — Lowell's 66 £s)sAyS AND NOTES, little poem of "'Zekers CourtBhip** being the einglo exception — that it seems hardly adapted to the simple and tender fancies of Rebel. Like the comedian whose one seriotis attempt at tragic acting was greeted with roars of laughter, as an admirable burlesque, the reader might, in such a case, persist in seeing fun where sen- timent was intended. In this dilemma, it occurred to us that the common, rude form of the English language, as it is spoken by the uneducated everywhere, without reference to pro- vincial idioms, might possibly bo the best medium. It offers, at least, the advantage of simplicity, of a direct- ness of expression which overlooks grammatical rules, of natural pathos, even, — and therefore, so far as these traits go, may reproduce them without detracting seri- ously from the original. Those other qualities of the poems which spring from the character of the people of whom and for whom they were written must de- pend, for their recognition, on the sympathetic insight of the reader* We can only promise him the utmost fidelity in the translation, having taken no other lib* erty than the substitution of common idiomatic phrases, peculiar to oUr language, for corresponding phrases in the other. The original metre, in every instance, has been strictly adhered to. The poems, only fifty-nine in number, consist prin- cipally of sliort songs or pastorals, and narratives. The latter are written in hexameter, but are by no means THE GERMAN BURNS, 67 classic in form. It is a rough, irregular metre, in whicli the trochees preponderate over the dactyls: many of the lines, in fact, would not bear a critical scansion. We have not scnipled to imitate this irregularity, as not inconsistent with the plain, ungrammatical speech of the characters introduced, and the homely air of even the most imaginative passages. The opening poem is a charmingly wayward idyl, called " The Meadow," {Die Wieae^ the name of a mountain-stream, which, rising in the Feldberg, the highest peak of the Black Forest, flows past Hansen, Ilebers early homo, on its way to the Ehino. An extract from it will illustrate what Jean Paul calls the "hazardous boldness" of Hobel's personifications : — Beautiful ** Meadow," daughter o* Feldberg, I welcome and greet you. Listen : I'm goin* to sing a song, and all in y'r honor, ^lakin' a music beside ye, foUerin' wherever you wander. Bom unbeknown in the rocky, hidden heart o' the mountain, Suckled 0* clouds and fogs, and weaned by the waters o* heaven. There you slep' like a babblin* baby, a-kep^ in the bed-room, Secret, and tenderly cared-for : and eye o* man never saw you,— Never peeked through a key-hole and saw my little girl sleepin* Sound In her chamber o* crystal, rocked in her cradle o* silver, Neither an ear o* man ever listened to hear her a-breathin\ Ko, nor her voice all alone to herself a-laughin* or cryin*. 08 £SSA YS AND NOTES. Only the close little ipirits that know erery passage and en- trance, In and out dodging they brought ye up and teached ye to toddle, Qov* you u cheerful nntur\ and larnt you how to bo useful ) Yes, and their words did n*t go into one ear and out at the t'other. Stand on your slippery feet as soon as may be, and use *cm, That you do, as you slyly creep from your chamber o* cryntivl Out 0* doors, barefoot, and sc^ulnt up to lioaven, mischievously smilin*. Oh, but you Ve pretty, my dArlin\ yV eyes have a beautiful sparkle ! Is n't it nice, out o* doors ? you did n't guess ^t was so pleasant t Listen, the leaves is rustlin*, and listen, the birdies a-singin' I "Yes," says you, "but I'm goln' furder, and can't stay to hear 'm : Pleasant, truly, 's my way, and more so the furder I travel" Only see how spry my little one Is at her jumpin' 1 " Ketch me ! *' she shouts, in her fun, — **lf you want me, foUer and ketch me I '* Every minute she turns and jumps in another direction. There, you'll fall from the bank I You see, she's done It : t said so. Did n't I say it ? And now she wobbles furder and furder, Creepin' along on all-fours, then off on her legs she 's a-tod« dlin',— Blips in the bushes,-^" Hunt me ) '*^4&nd there, on a sudden, she peeks out. "Wait, I 'm a-comin' ! Back o' the trees I hear her a-callin' i THE GERMAN BURNS, 69 « Guess where I am 1 " — she 's whims of her own, a plenty, and keeps 'em. But, as you go, you *re growin' hnn'somer, bigger, and stronger. Where the breath o' y'r breathin* falls, the meadows is £T"eener, Fresher o' color, right and left, and the weeds and the grasses Sprout up as juicy as mn be, and posies o' loveliest colors Blossom as brightly as wink, and bees come and suck 'em. Water- wagtails come tilting — and, look I there 's the geese o' tlie village 1 All are a-comin to see you, and all want to give you a welcome ; Yes, and you Ve kind o' heart, and you prattle to all of 'em kindly : "Come, you well-behaved creeturs, eat and drink what I bring you,— I must be oil and away : God bless you, wcU-bchayed cree- turs I"* • * At the reader of Gcrmnn may be cuHons to see a dpoclmcn of the original we give this l«»t paflsatro, which contnlnt, In a brief compass, many distlDCtlve features of tbe Alemannic dialect >— *• Ncl so lucg me doch, wl cha ml Mciddell ppringo I * Chnnnfich ml ubcr,* scite nnd lacht, *nnd witt me, se hoi ml I * Air wil en andcre Wcg, und alH>viI andcri Sprungli I Fall mer nit pel Rcinli ab I— Do hemmer's, 1 sags lo— Hani's denn nit gfclt ? Doch gauckelct's witers nnd wltera, Groblct uf allc Viercn, nnd etellt si wicder nf d' Beinll, Bchlleft in d' Hurst— iez such mer's eis I— dort guggciet's use. Wart, 1 chnmm I Drnf ruefts mer Mricdcr hinter de Baome t • Roth wo bin 1 iez 1 '—und bet si urige Phatcst. Aber wlc de goech. wirsch sichtll grosser and sch6ner. Wo di liebligcn Othem wciht, se farbt si der Ease Oriiener rechts nnd links, cs stohn In saftige Trlcbe Gras nnd Chriiter nf , cs etohn In frischere Gstalte Farbigi Blucmll do, und d' Immli ch&mmen nnd snge. *S Wassorstclzll chnmmt, nnd laeg doch, *■ Wall vo TodtnAU t AUes will dl bschauen, nnd Alles will di bigrttue, Und dl frttndlig Hen git alle frfindligi Rede ; *Ohdmmet Ihr ordlige Thierli, do bonder, esset nnd trinket I Witen goht ml Weg, Osegott, ihr ordlige Tblerli 1 * '* i 70 £SSA rS AND NOTES. The poet follows the stream through her whole course, never dropping the figure which is adapted, with infinite adroitness, and with the play of a fancy as wayward and unrestrained as her own waters, to all her changing aspects. Beside the Catholic chapel of Fair-Beeches she pauses to listen to the mass; but far- ther down the valley becomes an apostate, and attends the Lutheran service in the Ilusemer church. Stronger and statelier grown, she trips along with the step of a maiden conscious of her own beauty, and the poet clothes her in the costume of an Alemannic bride, with a green kirtle of a hundred folds, and a stomach- er of Milan gauze, "like a loose cloud on a morning sky in spring-time.'* Thus equipped, she wanders at will over the broader meadows, around the feet of vine- yard-hills, visits villages and churches, or stops to gossip with the lusty young millers. But the woman's destiny is before her; she cannot escape it; and the time is drawing near when her wild, singing, pastoral being shall be absorbed in that of the strong male stream, the bright-eyed son of the Alps, who has come so far to woo and win her. Daughter o' Feldberg, half-and-half I've got a suspicion How aa you Ve virtues, and faults enough now to choose ye a husband. Castin' y'r eyes dowa, ore you ? Pickin* and pUttln' y*r rib- bons ? THE GERMAN BURNS. 71 Doij'i be 80 fooUfib, wencb !— Sbe tbinks I know nothin' about it, How sbe's a'ready engageti, and eacb is a-waitin* for t* otber. Don't I know him, my darlin', the lusty young fellow, y'r sweetheart ? Over powerful rocks, and through the hedges and thickets. Right away from the snowy Swiss mountains he plunges at Rheineck Down to the lake, and straight ahead swims through it to Con- stance, Sayin^ : '* 'T 's.no use o* talking TU have the gal Fm engaged tol" But, as he reaches Stein, he goes a little more slowly, Leavin' the lake where he 'a decently washed his feet and his body. Dicssenhofcn don't please him, — no, nor the convent beside it« For'ard he goes to Schaffhausen, onto the rocks at the corner ; There he says : '*It 's no use o' talkin'. Til git to my sweet- heart ! Body and life I '11 stake, cravat and embroidered suspenders.^* Woop t but ho jumps t And now he talks to hisself, goin* furder, Giddy, belike, in his head, but pushes for'ard to Rheinau, Eglisau, and Kaiserstuhl, and Zurzach, and Waldshut,--> All are behind him, passin' one village after another Down to Grenzach, and out on the broad and beautiful bottoms Kigh unto Basle ; and there he must stop and look after his license. 72 ESSAYS ANb NOTES. Look t is n^t that y V bridegroom a-comln* down yonder to meet you f— Tcfl, it ^8 him, it *s him, I hear *t, for his voice is so jolly t Yes, it *8 him, it *s him, with his eyes as blue as the heavens, With his Swiss kaee-breeches o* green, and suspenders o* velvet, "With his shirt o* the color o* pearl, and buttons o' crystal, With his powerful loins, and his sturdy back and his shoulders, Grand in his gait, commanding beautiful, free in his motions, Proud as a Basle Councilman, — yes, it 's the big boy o* Gothard I ♦ The daring with which Hebel countrifies (or, rather fa/rmerlze%^ to translate Goethe's word more literally) the spirit of natural objects, carrying his personifications to that point whore the imaginative borders on the gro- tesque, is perhaps his strongest characteristic. Ilis poetic faculty, putting on its Alcmannio costume, seems to abdicate all ambition of moving in a higher sphere of society, but within the bounds it has chosen allows itself the utmost range of capricious enjoyment. In another pastoral, called "The Oatmeal Porridge,*' he takes the grain which the peasant has sown, makes it a sentient creature) and carries it through the processes of gennina- tion, growth, and bloom, without once dropping the figure or introducing an incongruous epithet. It is not only a child, but a child of the Black Forest, uttering its hopes, its anxieties, and its joys in the familiar dia- * The Rhine. THE GERMAN BURNS, 73 lect. The beetle, in his eyes, becomes a gross, hard headed boor, carrying his sacks of blossom-meal, and drinking his mug of XX morning-dew; the stork pa- rades about to show his red stockings; the spider is at once machinist and civil engineer; and even the sun, the moon and the moniing-star are not secure from the poet's familiarities. In his pastoral of "The Field- Watchman," ho ventures to say, — blister Schoolmaster Moon, with y*r forehead wrinkled with teaching With -fx fftce full o' larnin', a plaster stuck on y'r cheek-bone, Say, do y'r children mind ye, and lam their psalm and their texes ? We much fear that this over-quaintness of fancy, to which the Alomannio dialect gives such a racy flavor, and whicli belongs, in a less degree, to the minds of the people who speak that dialect, cannot be success- fully clothed in an English dress. Let us try, therefore, a little poem, the sentiment whereof is of tmiversal application : — THE CONTENTED FARRIER. I GUESS I Ul take my pouch, and fill My pipe just once,— yes, that I will I * Turn out my plough and homewards go i Bwk thinks, enough ^s been done, I know. f I ■ 74 £SSA yS AND NOTES. Why, when the Emperor^s council *• done^ And he can hunt, and have his fun, He stops, I guess, at any tree. And fills his pipe as well as me. But smokin* does him little good : He can^t have all things as he would. His crown 's a precious weight, at that : It is n't like my old straw hat. He gits a deal o' tin, no doubt, • But all the more he pays it out ; And everywheres they beg and cry Heaps more than he can satisfy. And when, to see that nothln' \ wrong, He plagues hisself the whole day long, And thinks, "I guess I've fixed it now,'V Nobody thanks him, anyhow. And so when in his bloody clones The Gineral out o' battle goes, He takes his pouch, too, I'll agree. And fills his pipe as well as me. But in the wild and dreadfle fight, His pipe don't taste ezackly right i He *8 galloped here and galloped there. And things a'n't pleasant, anywhere. And slch a cursin' : "Thunder ! " •• Hell ! And "Devil ! " (worse nor I can tell :) His grannydiers in blood lay down, And yonder smokes a bumin' town. THE GERMAN BURNS. ^ 76 And when, a-travelin* to the Fairs, , The merchant goes with all his wares. He t^ikes a pouch o' the' best, I guess, And fills and smokes his pi^x), no less. Poor devil, 't is n't good for you I With all y'r gold, you 've trouble too. Twice two is four, if stocks '11 rise ; I see the figgers in your eyes. It *8 hurry, worry, tare and tret ; Ye ha'n't enough, the more ye get,— And could n't use it, if ye had : No wonder that y'r pii)e tastes bad ! But good, thank God I and wholesome 's mine : The bottom-w^hcat is growin' fine, And God, o' momin's, sends the dew, And sends his breath o' blessin' too, • And home, there's Nancy bustlin* round : The supper 's ready, I '11 be bound, And youngsters waitin*. Lord I I vow, I dunno which is smartest now. My pipe tastes good ; the reason 's plain t (I guess I 'U fill it once again :) With cheerful heart, and jolly mood, And goin' home, all things is good, Hebel's narrative poems abound with the wayward pranks of a fancy which seems a little too restive to be entirely controlled by his artistic sense ; but they possess ' . I ' I I 76 JSSSAYS AND NOTES. much dramatto truth and power. He delights in the Bupematural element, but approaches it from the gentler human side. In "The Carbuncle" only, we find some- thing of that weird, uncanny atmosphere which casts its glamor around the "Tam O' Shanter'* of Bums. A more satisfactory illustration of his peculiar qualities is " The Ghost's Visit on the Feldberg," — a story told by a loafer of Basle to a group of beer-drinkers in the tavern at Todtnau, a little village at the foot of the mountain. This is, perhaps, the most popular of HebeVs poems, and we therefore translate it entire. The superstition that a child born on Sunday has the power of seeing spirits is universal among the German peasantry. THE GHOST'S VISIT ON THE FELDBERG. Hark yc, fellows o* Todtnau, if ever I told you the Scythe- Ghost* Was a spirit of Evil, I Ve now got a different story. Out of the town am I,-— yes, that I'll honestly own to, — Related to merchants, at seven tables free to take pot-luck. But I 'm a Sunday's child ; and wherever the ghosts at the cross* roads Stand in the air, in vaults, and cellars, and out-o'-way places,** Guardin' hidden money witli eyes like fiery sauce-pans, Washin' with bitter tears the spot where somebody 's murdered^ Shovellin' the dirt, and scratchin' it over with nails all so bloody,— * DengU'OtUt, literally, '' Whettittg-Sptrit/* The exact meaning of dengdn It to sharpen a ecythu by hammering the edge of the blade, which wa* practiced be- fore whetatones came in aaei THE GERMAN BURNS. 77 Clear as day I can eee, when it lightens. Ugh I how they whimper t Also, whenever with beautiful blue eyes the heavenly angels, Deep in the night, in silent, sleepin' villages wander, Peekin' in at the windows, and talkin' together so pleasant, Smilin' one at the toother, and settin* outside o* the house-doors, So that the pious folks shall take no harm while they 're sleepin*: Then ag'in, when in couples or threes they walk in the grave- yard, Talkin' in this like i ''There a faithful mother is layln' ; And here 's a man that was poor, but took no advantage o* no one : Take your rest, for you 're tired, — ^we '11 waken yo up when the time comes I " Clearly I see by the light o' the stars, and I hear them a-talkin'. Many I know by their names, and speak to, whenever I meet 'em, Give 'em the time o' day, and ask 'em, and answer their questions, ♦*How do ye do?" ''How 's y'r watch?" "Praise God, it 's tolerable, thank you I " Believe it, or not I Well, once on a time my cousin, he sent me Over to Todtnau, on business with all sorts o' troublesome people, Where you 've coffee to drink, and biscuit they give you to soak in't. ** Don't you stop on the road, nor gabble whatever comes fore* most," Hooted my cousin at startin', '' nor don't you let go o' your snuff- box, Leavin' it round in the tavern, as gentlemen do, for the next time." Up and away I went, and all that my cousin he 'd ordered Fairly and squarely I fixed.' At the sign o' the Eagle in Todtnau 78 BSSAYS AND NOTES, Set for a while ; then, sure o* my way, tramped off agHn, home> *ard8,' Nigh by the village, treckonedt — ^but found myself climbln* the Feldberg, Lured by the birdies, and down by the brooka the beautiful posies t That ^s a weakness o' mine, — I run like a fool after such things. Now it was dusk, and the birdies hushed up, sittin* still on the branches. Hither and yonder a starlie stuck its head through the darkness, Peekin' out, as oncertain whether the sun was in bed yet, — Whether it might n^t come, and called to the other ones : '*Come now I " Then I knowed I was lost, and laid myself down, — I was weary : There, you know, there ^s a hut, and I found an armful o^ straw in 't. ** Here *8 a go I " I thinks to myself, *' and 1 wish I was safely Cuddled in bed to home; — or ^t was midnight, and some little spirit Somewhere popped out, as o* nights when it *§ twelve they *re accustomed, Passin* the time with me, friendly, till winds that blow early o* mornings Blow out the heavenly lights, and I see the way back to the Villnge.** Xow, as thlnkin* in this like, I felt all over my watch-face, — Dark as pitch all around, — and felt with my finger the hour- hand, Found it was nigh onto Ueven, and hauled my pipe from my pocket, Thinkin' : "Maybe a bit of a smoke 'll keep me from snoozin* : *• Thunder 1 all of a sudden beside me was two of *em talking THE GERMAN BURNS. 70 Like a* they *d business together I You 'd better believe that I listened. **Say, a'n't I late a-comin' ? Because there was, over in Mam- bach, Dyin*, a girl with pains in the bones and terrible fever : Now, but she 's easy I I held to her mouth the drink o' departure, So that the sufferin' ceased, and softly lowered the eyelids. Say in* : * Sleep, and in peace,— I '11 waken thee up wheu tho time comes I * Do me the favor, brother : fetch in the basin o' silver Water, ever so little : my scythe, as you see, must be whetted.' **Whetted?" says I to myself, *'and a spirit?" and peeked from the window. Lo and behold, there sat a youngster with wings that was golden; White was his mantle, white, and his girdle the color o' roses, Fair and lovely to see, and beside him two lights all a burnin\ "All the good spirits," says I, "Mr. Angel, God have you in keepin' 1 " "Praise their Master, the Lord," said the angel ; "God thank you, as I do I " "Take no offence, Mr, Ghost, and by y'r good leave and per- mission. Tell me, what have you got for to mow ?" " Why, the scythe I " was his answer. "Yes," says I, " for I see it ; and that is my question exackly, What you Ve goin* to do with the scythe." " Why, to mow P was his answer. Then I ventur'd to say : " And that is my question exackly. What you 're goin' to mow, supposin' you 're willin' to tell me." " Grass I And what is your business so late up here in the night* time?" L 80 ESSAYS ANJ> NOTES. " KotWn' special," 1 answered ; "I *m burnln* a little tobacco. Lost my way, or most likely I *d be at the Eagle, In Todtnau. But to come to the subject, supposln* it is n't a secret, Tell me, what do you make o' the grass ? " And he answered me : "Fodder 1" " Don't understand it,'' says I ; ** for the Lord has no cows up in heaven." *'Not precisely a cow," he remarked, **but heifers and asset. Seest, up yonder, the star ? " and he pointed one out with his finger, «* There 's the ass o* the Christmas-Child, and Fridolin's heifers,* Breathin^ the starry air, and waitin' for gross that I bring 'em t Grass does n't grow there, — nothin' grows but the heavenly raisins, Milk and honey a-runnln' in rivers, plenty as water : But they 're particular cattle, — grass they must have every morn in', Mouthfuls o' hay, and drink from earthly fountains they 'ro used to. Bo for them I 'm a-whettln* my scythe, and soon must be mowln* x Would n't it be worth while. If politely you 'd offer to help me ? " 8o the angel he talked, and this way I answered the angel : **Hark ye, this it Is, just : and I '11 go wi' the greatest o' pleasure. Polks from the town know nothin' about It i we write and we cipher, Reckon up money, — that we can do t— >and measure and weigh out) Unload, and on-lood, and eat and drink without any trouble. All that we want for the belly. In kitchen, pantry, and cellar, * AccohUng to an old le^^nd, Fridollb (a favorite valnt with the Catholic popola« tton of the Black Forest) harnei^sed two yoong heifers to a mighty flr>tree, and hauled It Into the Rhine near Sacklngen, thereby damming the river and forcing it to tak* a new coarse, on the other aide of the town. THE GERMAN BURNS, 81 Comes in lots through every gate, in baskets and boxes, Runs in every street, and cries at every corner j * Buy my cherries I * and * Buy my butter ! * and ' Look at my salad P * Buy my onions 1 * and ' Here 's your carrots 1 * and ' Spinage and parsley I * * Lucifer matches ! Lucifer matches I * * Cabbage and turnips ! * * Here 's your umbrellas 1 ' * Caraway-seed and juniper-berries I Cheap for cash, and all to be traded for sugar and coffee I * Say, Mr. Angel, didst ever drink coffee ? and how do you like it?'» <* Stop with y'r nonsense I " then he said, but he could n't help laughin* ; **No, wo drink but the heavenly air, and eat nothin* but raialci. Four on a day o^ the week, and afterwards five on a Sunday. Come, if you want to go with me, now, for I 'm off to my mowin*. Back o* Todtnau, there on the grassy holt by the highway," <* Yes, Mr, Angel, that will I truly, seein* you 're willin* i Seems to me that it 's cooler : give me yV scythe for to carry : Here *s a pipe and a pouch, — you 're welcome to smoke, if yew want to." While I was talkin*, "Poohoo 1 " cried the angel. A fiery man stood, Quicker than lightnin*, beside me. ** Light us the way to the village ! ' Said he. And truly before us marched, a-bumln*, the Poohop, Over stock and rock, through the bushes, a trarellin* torch- light. «Handy, U n't it?'* laughing the angel said.— "What are ye , doin» f Why do you nick at y'r flint ? Tou can light ft pipe at the Poohoo, 82 ESSAYS ASD NOTES. tJee him Mrheneyeir you like ; but It seems to me you Ve a-fright* ened,— ' Tou, and a Sunday^s child, as you are : do you think he will bite you?" "NO) he ha*n*t bit me ; but this you *11 allow me to say, Hr. Angel,— Half-and-half I mistrust him \ besides, my tobacco *s a-bumin\ That ^s a weakness o* mine, — ^I 'm afeard o* them fiery creeturs : Give me seventy angels, instead o^ this big bumin* devil t " ** Really, it 's dreadfle," the angel says he, "that men Is so silly, Fearful o* ghosts and spectres, and skeery without any reason. Two of *cm only is dangerous, two of 'em hurtful to mankind t One of *em 's known by the name o* Delusion, and Worry the' t'other. Him, Delusion, 's a dweller in Wine : from cans and decanters Up to the head he rises, and turns your sense to confusion. This is the ghost that leads you astray in forest and highway t Undermost, uppermost, hither and yon the ground is a-roUin', Bridges bendin', and mountains movin*, and everything double. Hark ye, keep out of his way ! ♦* *' Aha I " I says to the angel, "There you prick me, but not to the blood : I see what you 're after, Sober am I, as a Judge. To be sure, I emptied my tankard Once, at the Eagle,-— when the notice to which we have referred appeared in the "North British Beview." The author had sent a copy to Mr. Hawthorne, then residing in Liverpool, and that 118 ESSAVS AND NOTES. gentleman, being on friendly terms with some of the writers for the "Korth British,'* procured the insertion of an appreciative review Of the poem. Up to that time, we believe, no favorable notice of tiie work had ap- peared in Canada. The little circulation it obtained was chiefly among the American residents. A few copies found their way across the border, and some of our authors (among whom we may mention Mr. Emerson and Mr. Longfellow) were the first to recognize the genius of the poet. "With this double indorsement, his fellow-townsmen hastened to make amends for their neg- lect. They could not bo expected to give any very en- thusiastic welcome nor was their patronage extensive enough to confer more than moderate success; but the remaining copies of the first small edition were sold, and a second edition issued in 1859. In February, 1860, we happened to visit Montreal. At that time we had never read the poem, and the bare fact of its existence had almost faded from memory, when it was recalled by an American resident, who was acquainted with Mr. Heavysege, and whose account of his patience, his quiet energy, and serene faith in his poetic calling strongly interested us. It was but a few hours before our departure; there was a furious snow- storm blowing; yet the gentleman ordered a sleigh, and we drove at once to a large machine-shop in the outskirts of the city. Here, amid the noise of ham- mers, saws and rasps, in a great grimy hall smelling THE AUTHOR OF » SAUir 119 of oil and iron-dust, we found the poet at his work- bench. A small, slender man, with a thin, sensitive face, bright blonde hair, and eyes of that peculiar blue which bums warm, instead of cold, under excitement,-— in the few minutes of our interview the picture was fixed, and remains so. His manner was quiet, iiatural and unassuming: he received us with the simple good- breeding which a gentleman always possesses, whether we find him on a throne or beside an anvil. Not a man to assert his claim loudly, or to notice injustice or neglect by a single spoken word; but one to take quietly guccess or failure, in the serenity of a mood habitually untouched by either extreme. In that one brief first and last interview, we discov- ered, at least, the simple, earnest sincerity of the man's nature, — a quality too rare, even among authors. When we took our seat in the train for Rouse's Point, •we opened the volume of " Saul." The first part was -fin- ished as wo approached St. Albans; the second at Yer- gennes; and twilight was falling as we closed the book between Bennington and Troy. "Whatever crudities of expression, inaccuracies of rhythm, faults of arrange- ment, and violations of dramatic law met us from time to time, the earnest purpose of the writer cairied us over them all The book has a fine flavor of the Eliz- abethan age, — a sustained epio rather than dramatio char- acter, an affiuence of quaint, original images; yet the construction was frequently that of a school-boy. In 120 MSS^yS AND NOTES. opnlenoe and matarity of ideaB, and poverty of artistic skill, the work stands almost alone in literature. What little we have learned of the history of the author sug- gests an explanation of this peculiarity. Never was so much genuine power so long silent. "Saul'* is yet so little known, that a descriptive outline of the poem will be a twice-told tale to very few persons. The author strictly follows the history of the renowned Hebrew king, as it is related in i. Samuel, commencing with the tenth chapter, but divides the subject into three dramas, after the manner of Schiller's " TVallenstein.*' The first part embraces the history of Saul, from his anointing by Samuel at Eamah to David's exorcism of the evil spirit, (xvi. 23,) and con- tains five acts. The second part opens with David as a guest in the palace at Gibeahi The defeat of the Phil- istines at Elah, Saul's jealousy of David, and the latter's marriage with Michal form the staple of the four. acts of this part. The third part consists of six acts of un- usual length, (some of them have thirteen scenes,) and is devoted to the pursuits and escapes of David, the "Witch of Eudor, and the final battle, wherein the king aijd his three sons are slain. Ko liberties have been taken with the order of the Scripture narrative, al- though a few subordinate characters have here and there been introduced to complete the action. The author seems either to lack the inventive faculty, or to have feared modifying the sacred record for the purposes of THE AUTHOR OF ''SAUL,** 121 Art. In fact, no considerable modification was neces* eary. The simple narrative fulfils almost all the re- quirements of dramatic writing, in its succession of striking situations, and its cumulative interest. From beginning to end, however, Mr. Heavysege makes no attempt to produce a dramatic effect. It is true that he has availed himself of the phrase "an evil spirit from the Lord," to introduce a demoniac element, but, singularly enough, the demons seem to appear and to act unwillingly, and manifest great relief when they are allowed to retire from the stage, The work, therefore, cannot be measured by dra- matic laws. It is an epic in dialogue ; its chief charm lies in the march of the story and the detached indi* vidual monologues, rather than in contrast of charactera or exciting situations. The sense of proportion — the latest developed quality of the poetic mind — is dimly manifested. The structure of the verse, sometimes so stately and majestic, is frequently disfigured by the commonest faults ; yet the breath of a lofty purpose has been breathed upon every page. The personality of the author never pierces through his them 3. The lan- guage is fresh, racy, vigorous, and utterly free from the impress of modem masters: much of It might have been written by a contemporary of Shakespeare. In the opening of the first part, Saul, recently anointed king, receives the messengers of Jabesh Gilead, and promises succor. A messenger says: — 122 ESSAYS AI/D NOTES. * **Tha wind! of hearflo Behind the« blow i and on our enomlot* oyei, May tho lun •mlto to-morrow^ and blind thorn for thM t But, Saul, do not fail ui. ''Saut, FaUye! Lot the morn fail to break ; I will not break My word. IlaHto, or Fm there before you. Fallt Let tho morn full tlie oust ; Til not foil yott ; But, swift and silent as tho streaming wind, Unseen approach, then, gathering up my force At dawning, sweep on Ammon, as Night's blast Sweeps down from Carmel on tho dusky sea.** This is a fino picture of Saul etccllng his nature to cruelty, when he has reluctantly resolved to obey Sam- nel's command "to trample out the living fire of Amalek *' : — •*Now let me tighten every cruel sinew, And gird the whole up in unfeeling hardness, That my swollen heart, which bleeds within me tears, May choke itself to stillness. I am as A shivering bather, that, upon the shore. Looking and shrinking from the cold, black waves, Quick starting from his reverie, with a rush Abbreviates his horror.** And this of the satisfied hist of blood, uttered by a Hebrew soldier, after the slaughter:— THE AUTHOR OF **SAC/L:* 128 «• When I was killing, such thoughts cam© to me, like The sound of cleft-dropped waters to the ear Of the hot mower, who thereat stops the oftener To whet his glittering scythe, and, while he smiles, | With the harsh, sharpening hone beats their fairs time And dancing to it in his heart's straight chamber, • Forgets that he is weary." After the execution of Agag by the hand of Sam- uel, the demons are introduced with more propriety than in the opening of the poem. The following passage has a subtle, sombre grandeur of its own:— *^Firit Demon, Now let us down to hell : we 've seen the last ♦♦ Second Demon, Stay ; for the road thereto is yet incumbered With the descending spectres of the killed. 'T is said they choke hell's gates, and stretch from thence Out like a tongue upon the silent gulf ; Wherein our spirits — even as terrestrial ships That are detained by foul winds in an offing- Linger perforce, and feel broad gusts of sighs That. swing them on the dark and billowless waste, O'er which come sounds more dismal than the boom, At midnight, of the salt flood's foaming surf,-— Even dead Amalek's moan and lamentation." The reader will detect the rhythmical faults of the poem, even in these passages. But there is a yast dif; ference between such blemishes of the unrhymed he- roic measure as terminating a line with "and," "of," or ^< bat|" or inattention to the ceeeural pauses, uid that 124 ESSAYS AND NOTES. mathematical precision of foot and accent, which) after all, can scarcely be distingnished from prose. What* ever may be his shortcomings, Mr. Heavysege speaks in the dialect of poetry. Only rarely he drops into bald prose, as in these lines t — *'But let us go abroad, and in the twllight*s Cool, tranquillizing air discuBS this matter.** We remember, however, that Wordsworth wrote, **A band of officers Then stationed in the city were among the chief Of my associates.** We have marked many other fine passages of "Saul" for quotation, but must be content with a few of those which are most readily separated from the context* •* Ha! hat the foe, Having taken from us our warlike tools, yet leave ut The little scarlet tongue to scratch and sting with.** "Here's lad*s-love, and the flower which even death Cannot unscent, the all-transcending rose.** **The loud bugle, « And the hard-rolling drum, and clashing cymbals, Now reign the lords o* the air. These crises, David, Bring with them their own music, as do storms Their thunders.** THE AUTHOR OF *'SAUL:' 125 **Ere the morn Shall tint the orient with the soldier's color, We must be at the camp." **But come, I Ul disappoint thee ; for, remember, Samuel will not be roused for thee, although I knock with thunder at his resting-place." The lyrical portions of the work — introduced in con- nection with the demoniac chjiractere — are inferior to the rest. They have occasionally a quaint, antique flavor, suggesting the diction of the Elizabethan lyrists, but without their delicate, elusive richness of melody. Here most we perceive the absence of that highest, ripest intellectual culture which can be acquired only through contact and conflict with other minds. It is not good for a poet to bo alone. Even where the con- Btructive faculty is absent, its place may be supplied through the development of that artistic sense which files, weighs, and adjusts, — which reconciles the utmost freedom and force of thought with the mechanical sym- metries of language, — and which, first a fetter to the impatient mind, becomes at length a pinion, holding it serenely poised in the highest ether. Only the rudi- ment of the sense is bom with the poet, and few lite- rary lives are fortunate enough, or of sufficiently varied experience, to mature it Nevertheless, .before closing the volume, we must quote what we consider to be the author's best lyrical 126 £SSAyS AffD NOTES. paBsage* Zaph, one of the attendants of Malzah, the . "evil spirit from the Lord,'* aings aa follows to one of his fellows: — "Zepho, the sun^s descended beam Hath laid his rod on th* ocean stream, And this overhanging wood-top nods ' Like golden helms of drowny gods. Methlnks tlmt now V\\ stretch for rest, With eyelids sloping toward the west ; That, through their half transparencies^ The rosy radiance passed and strained, Of mote and vapor duly drained, I may U'liovo, in hollow bllw, My rest in the empyrean is. Watch thou ; and when up comes the mooDf Atowards her turn me ; and then, boon, Thyself compose, *ncath wavering leaves That hang these branched, majcstio cavot t That so, with Mi*lMm|K)Mud deceit, Both, in this halcyon retreat, By trance possessed, imagine may We couch in Heaven's night-argent ray.** In 1800 Mr. IToavyBogo published by subscription a drama entitled "Count Filippo, or the Unequal Mar- riage.** This work, of which we have seen but one critical notice, added nothing to his reputation- His genius, as we have already remarked, is not dramatic; and there is. moreover, internal evidence that "Count THE AUTHOR OF *' SAVU* 127 Filippo'* did not grow, like "Saul," from an idea wliicli took forcible possession of tlie author's' mind. The plot is not original, the action languid, and the. very names of the dramatis personm convey an impres- sion of unreality, Though we know there never was a Duke of Pereza in Italy, this annoys us less than that ho should bear such a fantastic name as "Tremohla"; nor does the feminine "Yolina" inspire us with much respect for the heroine. The characters are intellectual abstractions, rather than creatures of flesh and blood; and their lovo, sorrow and remorse fail to stir our sym* pathies. They have an incorrigible habit of speaking in conceits. As "Saul" is pervaded with the spirit of the Elizabethan writers, so "Count Filippo" suggests the artificial manner of the rivals of Dryden. It is the work of a poet, but of a poet working from a mechani- cal impulse. There are very fine single passages, but the general effect is marred by the constant rdomrdncd of Buoh forced metaphors as these:-— «* Now shall the he-goat, black Adultery, With the roused ram, Retaliation, twine Their horns in one to butt at Filippo." <* As the salamander, cast in fire, Exudes preserving mucus, so my mind, Cased in thick satisfaction of success, BhaU be uninjured,** 128 ESSAYS AND NOTES, The work, nevertheless, appears to have had some share in improving its author's fortunes. From that time, he has received at least a partial recognition in Canada. Soon after its publication, he succeeded in procuring employment on the daily newspaper press of Montreal, which enabled him to give up his uncongen- ial labor at the work-bench. The Montreal Literary Club elected him one of its Fellows, and the short-lived literary periodicals of the Province no longer ignored his existence. In spite of a change of circumstances which must have given him greater leisure, as well as better opportunities of culture, he has published but two poems in the last five years, — an Ode for the ter- centenary anniversary of Shakespeare's birth, and the sacred idyl of " Jephthah's Daughter.'* The former is a production the spirit of which is worthy of its occa* eion, although, in execution, it is weakened by an over- plus of imagery and epithet, It contains between seven and eight hundred lines. The grand, ever-chang- ing music of the ode will not bear to be prolonged beyond a certain point, as all the great Masters of Song have discovered x the ear must not be allowed to be- come quite accustomed to the surprises of the varrying rhythm, before the closing Alexandrine. "Jephthah's Daughter" contains between thirteen and fourteen hundred lines. In careful finish, in sus- tained sweetness and grace, and solemn dignity of lan- guage, it is a marked advance upon any of the author's THE AUTHOR OF » SAUir 129 previous works. We notice, indeed, the same technical faults as in " Saul," but they occur less frequently, and may be altogether corrected in a later revision of the l)Ocm. Hero, also, the Scriptural narrative is rigidly followed, and every temptation to adorn its rare sim- plicity resisted. Even that lament of the Ilobrew girl, behind which there seems to lurk a romance, and which is so exquisitely paraphrased by Tennyson, in his "Dream of Fair "Women," — " And I went mourning j * No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers,'" — is barely mentioned in the words of the text. The passion of Jephthah, the horror, the piteous pleading of his wife and daughter, and the final submission of the latter to her doom, are elaborated with a careful and tender hand. From the opening to the closing line, the reader is lifted to the level of the tragic theme, and inspired, as in the Greek tragedy, with a pity which makes lovely the element of terror. The cen- tral sentiment of the poem, through all its touching and sorrowful changes, is that of repose. Observe tho grave harmony of the opening lines:— •«T was in the olden days of Israel, When from her people rose up mighty men To judge and to defend her ; ere she knew, i laO £SSjfy$ AND NOTES. * Or clamored for, her coming line of kingii A father, rashly vowing, sacrificed His daughter on the altar of the Lord; — 'T was in those ancient days, coeval deemed With the song-famous and heroic ones, When Agamemnon, taught divinely, doomed JTm daughter to expire at Dianas shrine, — Bo doomed, to free the chivalry of Greece, In Aulis lingering for a favoring wind To waft them to the fated walls of Troy. Two songs with but one burden, twin-like tales* Sad talcs ! but this the sadder of the twain,— This song, a wail more desolately wild ; More fraught this story with grim fate fulfilled.** The length to which this article has grown warns 116 to be sparing of quotations, but we all the more earnestly recommend those in whom we may have in- spired some interest in the author to procure the poem for themselves. We have perused it several times, with increasing enjoyment of its solemn diction, its Bad, monotonous music, and with the hope that the few repairing touches, which alone are wanting to make it a perfect work of its class, may yet be given. This pas- sage, for example, where Jephthah prays to be absolved from his vow, would be faultlessly eloquent, but for the prosaic connection of the first and the second lines:— " * Choose Tabor for thine altar : I will pile It with the choice of Bashan's lusty herds, THB AUTHOR OF ** SAUL.** 181 And flocks of fatlings, and for fuel^ thither WiU hring umbrageous Lebanon to burn.^ 1^ ' m * 4* *'He said, and stood awaiting for the sign, And heard, above the hoarse, bough-bending wind^ The hill-wolf howling on the neighboring height, And bittern booming in the pool below. Borne drops of rain fell from the passing cloud That sudden hides the wanly shining moon. And from the scabbard instant dropped his sword, And, with long, living leaps, and rock-struck clang, From side to side, and slope to sounding slope. In gleaming whirls swept down the dim ravine," Tho finest portion of tlio poem is tho description of that transition of feeling, through which the maiden, wann with young life and clinging to life for its own unfulfilled promise, becomes the resigned and composed victim. No one but a true poet could have so con- ceived and represented the situation. The narrative flows in one unbroken current, detached parts whereof hint but imperfectly of the whole, as do goblets of water of the stream wherefrom they are dipped. We will only venture to present two brief passages. The daughter speaks:— *'Let me not need now disobey you, mother, But give me leave to knock at Death^a pale gate, Whereat indeed I must, by duty drawn, By Nature shown the sacred way to yield. 132 SSSAYS ASD NOTES. Behold, the coasting cloud obeys the breese \ The slanting smoke, the invisible sweet air ; The towering tree its leafy limbs resigns To the embraces of the wilful wind : Shall I, then, wrong, resist the hand of Heaven f Take me, my father 1 take, accept me. Heaven t Slay me or save me, even as you will." " Light, light, I leave thee !~yet am I a lamp, Extinguished now, to be relit forever. Life dies : but in its stead death lives.'* In " Jeplitliah'fl Daughter,** (published In 1865,) we think Mr. HoavjBege has found that fonn of poetic utterance for which his genius is naturally qualifled. It is difficult to guess the future of a literary life bo exceptional hitherto, — difficult to affirm, without a more intimate knowledge of the man's nature, whether he is capable of achieving that rhythmical perfection (in the higher sense wherein sound becomes the symmet- rical garment of thought) which, in poets, marks the line between imperfect and complete success. "WTiat ho most needs, of external culture, we have already indicated; if we might be allowed any further sug* gestion, he supplies it himself, in one of his fragmen- tary poems J •'Open, my heart, thy ruddy valves,— It is thy master calls \ Let me go down, and, curious, traoo Thy labyrinthine halls. THE AUTHOR OF *' SAUL:* ^88 Opon, heart I and let me view The secrets of thy den : Myself unto myself now show With introspective ken. Expose thyself, thou covered nest. Of passions, and be seen : 8tir up thy t»rood, that in unrest Are ever piping keen : — Ah ! what a motley multitude, Magnanimous and mean I ** OOTOBXB, 1865. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THAOEBRAT. WHEN the great master of English prose left ns suddenly in the maturity of his powers, with his enduring position in literature fairly won and recog- nized, his death saddened us rather through the sense of our own loss than from the tragic regret which is associated with an unaccomplished destiny. More for^ tunate than Fielding, he was allowed to take the meas* ure of his permanent fame. The niche wherein he shall henceforth stand was chiselled while he lived. One by one the doubters confessed their reluctant faith, unfriendly critics dropped their blunted steel, and no man dared to deny him the place which was his, and his only, by right of genius. In one sense, however, he was misunderstood by the world, and he has died before that profounder rec- ognition which he craved had time to mature. All the breadth and certainty of his fame failed to com- pensate him for the lack of this; the man's heart coveted that justice which was accorded only to the author's brain. Other pens may sum up the literary WILLIAM MAKEPEACE Til ACKER AY, 135 record he has left behind : I claim the right of a friend who knew and loved him to speak of him as a man. The testimony which, while living, he was too proud to have desired, may now be laid reverently upon his grave. I made Thackeray's acquaintance in New York to- wards the close of the year 1855. With the first grasp of his broad hand, and the first look of his large, serious gray eyes, I received an impression of the es- sential manliness of his nature, — of his honesty, his proud, almost defiant candor, his ever-present, yet shrinking tenderness, and that sadness of the moral sen- timent which the world persisted in regarding as cyni- cism. This impression deepened with my further ac- quaintance, and was never modified. Although he be- longed to the sensitive, irritable genus, his only mani- festations of impatience, which I remember were when that which he had written with a sigh was interpreted as a sneer. When so misunderstood, he scorned to set himself right. " I have no brain above the eyes," he was accustomed to say; "I describe what I see." He was quick and unerring in detecting the weaknesses of his friends, and spoke of them with a tone of dis- appointment sometimes bordering on exasperation: but ho was equally severe upon his own short-comings. He allowed no friend to think him better than his own deliberate estimate made him. I have never known a man whose nature was bo unmovably based on tmth. 186 BSiAYS AND NOTES. In a converBation upon the United States, shortly after we first met, he said:— "There is one thing in this country which astonishes me. You have a capacity for culture which contradicts all my experience. There are " (mentioning two or three names well known in New York) " who I know have arisen from nothing, yet they are fit for any society in the world. They would be just as self-pos- sessed and entertaining in the presence of stars and garters as they are here to-night. Now, in England, a man who has made his way up, as they have, does not seem able to feel his social dignity. A little bit of the flunky sticks in him somewhere. I am, perhaps, as in- dependent in this respect as any one I know, yet I am not entirely sure of myself.'* "Do you remember,'* I asked him, "what Goethe says of the boys in Venice? He explains their clever- ncss, grace, and self-possession as children by the possi- bility of any one of them becoming Doge.'* " That may be the secret, after all," said Thackeray. " There is no country like yours for a young man who is obliged to work for his own place and fortune. If I had sons, I should send them here." Afterwards, in London, I visited with him the studio of Baron Marochetti, the sculptor, who was then his next-door neighbor in Onslow Square, Brompton. The Baron, it appeared, had promised him an original wood-cut of Albert Diirer's for whom Thackeray had WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 137 a special admiration. Soon after our entrance, the sculptor took down a small engraving from the wall, saying :— "Now you have it, at last." The subject was St. George and the Dragon, Thackeray inspected it with great delight for a few minutes: then, suddenly becoming grave, he turned to me and said ; — "I shall hang it near the head of my bed, where I can see it every morning. We all have our dragons to fight. Do you know yours? I know mine: I have not one, but two." "What are they?" I asked, " Indolence and Luxury 1 " I could not help smiling, as I thought of the pro^ digious amount of literary labor he had performed, and at the same time remembered the simple comfort of his dwelling, next door. "I am serious," ho continued; "I never take up the pen without an effort ; I work only from necessity, I never walk out without seeing some pretty, useless thing which I want to buy. Sometimes I pass the same shop-window every day for months, and resist the temptation, and think I 'm safe; then comes the day of weakness, and I yield. My physician tells mo I must live very simply, and not dine out so much; but I cannot break off the agreeable habit I shall look 188 ESSAYS AjirD //oi'Es. at this picture and think of my dragons^ though I don't expect ever to overcome them." After his four lectures on the Georges had been delivered in New York, a storm of angry abuse was let loose upon him in Canada and the other British Prov- inces* The British-Americans, snubbed both by Gov- ernment and society when they go to England, repay the slight, like true Christians, by a rampant loyality unknown in the mother-country. Many of their news- papers accused Thackeray of pandering to the preju- dices of the American public, affirming that he would not dare to repeat the same lectures in England, after his return. Of course, the papers containing the arti- cles, duly marked to attract attention, were sent to him. lie merely remarked, as he threw them contemp- tuously aside : — " These fellows will see that I shall not only repeat the lectures at home, but I shall make them more severe, just because the auditors will be English- men." He was true to his promise. The lecture on George IV. excited, not indeed the same amount of newspaper abuse as he had received from Canada, but a very angry feeling in the English aristocracy, some members of which attempted to punish him by a social ostracism. When I visited him in London, in July, 1856, he related this to me, with great good-humor. " There, for instance," said he, " Lord " (a prom- inent English statesman) "who has dropped me from his dinner parties for three months past. AVell, he will WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 139 find that I can do without his society better than he can do without mine." A few days afterwards Lord resumed his invitations. About the same time I witnessed an amusing in- terview, which explained to mo the gi*eat personal re- spect in which Thackeray was held by the anstocratic class. He never hesitated to mention and comment upon the censure aimed against hina in tlie presence of him who had uttered it, Ilis fearless frankness must have seemed phenomenal. In the present instance, Lord , who had dabbled in literature, and held a position at Court, had expressed himself (I forget whether orally or in print) very energetically against Thackeray's picture of George lY. We had occasion to enter the shop of a fashionable tailor, and there found Lord . Thackeray immediately stepped up to him, bent his strong frame over the disconcerted champion of the Royal George, and said, in his full, clear, mellow voice, "I know what you have said. Of course, you are quite right, and I am wrong. I only regret that I did not think of consulting you before my lecture was written." The person addressed evi- dently did not know whether to take this for irony or truth: he stammered out an incoherent reply, and seemed greatly relieved when the giant turned to leave the shop. At other times, however, he was kind and consider- ate. Beaching London one day in June, 1857| I found 140 ESSAYS AND NOTES, him at home, grave and sad, having that moment re- turned from the funeral of Douglas Jerrold, He spoke of the periodical attacks by which his own life' was threatened, and repeated what he had often said to me before, — "I shall go some day, — perhaps in a year or two. I am an old man already." He proposed visiting a lady whom we both knew, but whom he had not seen for some time. The lady reminded him of this fact, and expressed her dissatisfaction at length. He heard her in silence, and then taking hold of the crape on his left arm, said, in a grave, quiet voice, — "I must remove this, — I have just come from poor Jer- rold^s grave." Although from his experience of life, he was com- pletely d^sillusionnif the well of natural tenderness was never dried in his heart. Ho rejoiced, with a fresh, boyish delight, in every evidence of an unspoiled nature in others, — in every utterance which denoted what may have Boomed to him over-faith in the good. The more he was saddened by his knowledge of human weakness and folly, the more gratefully he welcomed strength, virtue, sincerityi His eyes never unlearned the habit of that quick moisture which honors the true word and the noble deed. His mind was always occupied with some scheme of quiet benevolence. Both in America and in England, I have known him to plan ways by which he could give pecuniary assistance to some needy acquaintance or WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 141 countryman without wounding his sensitive pride. He made many attempts to procure a good situation in New York for a well-knowu English author, who was at that time in straitened circumstances. The latter, probably, never knew of this effort to help him. In November, 1857, when the financial crisis in America was at its height, I happened to say to him, playfully, that I hoped my remittances would not be stopped. He instantly picked up a note-book, ran over the leaves, and said to me, " I find I have three hundred pounds at my banker's. Take the money now, if you are in want of it ; or shall I keep it for you, in case you may need it?" Fortunately, I had no occasion to avail myself of his generous offer; but I shall never forget the impulsive, open-hearted kindness with which it was made. I have had personal experience of Thackeray's sense of justice, as well as his generosity. And here let me say that he was that rarest of men, a cosmopolitan Englishman, — ^loving his own land with a sturdy, en- during love, yet blind neither to its faults nor to the virtues of other lands. In fact, for the very reason that he was unsparing in dealing with his countrymen, he considered himself justified in freely criticizing other nations. Yet he never joined in the popular de- preciation of everything American; his principal reason •for not writing a book, as every other English author does who visits us, was that it would be superficial, 142 SSS^ys AND NOTES. and might be tinjuBt. I have seen him, in America, indignantly resent an ill-natured sneer at " John Bull,'* •—and, on the other hand, I have known him to take our part, at home. Shortly after Emerson's ** English Traits" appeared, I Was one of a dinner-party at his house, and the book was the principal topic of conver- sation. A member of Parliament took the opportunity of expressing his views to the only American present. "What does Emerson know of England?" he asked. " He spends a few weeks here, and thinks he under- stands us. His work is false and prejudiced and shal- low." Thackeray happening to pass at the moment, the member arrested him with— "What do you think of the book, Mr. Thack- eray ? " "I don't agree with Emerson.'* "I was sure you would notl" the member triumph- antly exclaimed; "I was sure you would think as I do." "I think,'* said Thackeray, quietly, "that he is alto- gether too laudatory. He admires our best qualities so greatly that he does not scourge us for our faults as we deserve." Towards the end of May, 1861, I saw Thackeray again in London. During our first interview, we talked of little but the war, wliich had then just begun. His chief feeling on the subject was a profound regret, not WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. I43 only for the nation itself, whose fate seemed thus to be placed in jeopardy, but also, ho said, because he had many dear friends, both North and South, who must now fight as enemies. I soon found that his ideas con- ceniing the cause of the war were as incorrect as wero those of most Englishmen at that time. IIo understood neither the real nature nor the extent of the conspiracy, supposing that Free Trade was the chief object of the South, and that the nght of Secession was tacitly ad* mitted by the Constitution, I thereupon endeavored to place the facts of the case before him in their true light, saying, in conclusion : — " Even if you sliould not believe this statement, you must admit, that, if we be- lieve it, we are justified in suppressing the Eebellion by force." He said : — " Come, all this is exceedingly interesting. It is quite new to me, and I am sure it will be new to most of us. Take yolir pen and make an article out of what you have told me, and I will put it into the next number of the *Cornhill Magazine.' It is just what we want." I had made preparations to leave London for the Continent on the following day, but he was. eo urgent that I should stay two days longer and write the* article that I finally consented to do bo. I was the more de- sirous of complying, since Mr. Clay's ill-advised letter to the London "Times" had recently been published, and was accepted by Englishmea as the substance of all 144 £SSAVS ANt> NOTES. that could be said on the side of the UnioiL Thackeray appeared Bincorely gratified by my compliance with his M'iHhofl, and immodiutoly sent for a cab, saying:— "Now wo will go down to the publiehors, and have the mat- ter settled at once. I am bound to consult them, but I am sure they will see the advantage of such an arti- clo/> "We found the managing publiHhor in his ofHco. lie looked U2>on the mutter, however, in a very different light. lie admitted the interest which a statement of the character, growth, and extent of the Southern Con- spiracy would poHHCHH for the readors of the "Cornhill,** but objected to itn publication, on the ground that it would call forth a counter-statement, which ho could not justly exclude, and thus introduce a political contro- versy into the magazine. I insisted that my object was not to take notice of any statements published in Eng- land Up to that time, but to reprcHcnt the crisis as it was understood in the Loyal States and by the National Government; that I should do tlfis simply to explain and justify the action of the latter; and that, having once placed the loyal view of the subject fairly before the KngliHh people, I should decline any controvei'sy. The events of the war, I added, would soon draw the public attention away from its origin, and the "Corn- hill,^' before the close of the struggle, would probably be obliged to admit articles of a more strongly partisan character than that which I proposed to write. The WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 145 publisher, nevertheless, was firm in his refusal, not less to Thackeray's disappointment than my own. IIo de- cided upon what then seemed to him to bo good busi- ness-reasons ; and the same consideration, doubtless, sub- sequently led him to accept statements favorable tc the side of tlio Rebellion. As wo were walking away, Thackeray said to me : — " I am anxious that these things should bo made public: suppose you write a brief article, and send it to the < Times'?" "I would do so," I answered, "if there were any probability that it would bo published." "I will try to arrange that," said he. "I know Mr. ," (one of the editors,) "and will call upon him at once. I will ask for the publication of your letter as a personal favor to myself." Wo parted at the door of a club-house, to meet again the same afternoon, when Thackeray hoped to have the matter settled as he desired. He did not, how. ever, succeed in finding Mr. , but sent him a letter. I j;hereupon went to work the next day, and prepared a careful, cold, dispassionate statement, so condensed that it would have made less than half a column of the "Times." I sent it to the editor, referring him to Mr. Thackeray's letter in my behalf, and that is the last I ever heard of it. All of Thackeray's American friends will remember 146 £SSAys AND NOTES. the feelings of pain and regret with which they read his "Eoundabout Paper'* in the "Comhill Magazine,'* in (February, I think) 1862, — wherein he reproaches our entire people as being willing to confiscate the stocks and other property owned in this country by English- men, out of spite for their disappointn^.ent in relation to the Trent affair, and directs his New York bankers to sell out all his investments, and remit the proceeds to London, without delay. It was not his fierce denuncia- tion of such national dishonesty that we deprecated, but his apparent belief in its possibility. "We felt that ho, of all Englishmen, should have understood us better. We regretted, for Thackeray's sake, that he had per- mitted himself, in some spleenful moment, to commit an injustice which would sooner or later be apparent to his own mind. Three months afterwards, (in May, 1862,) I waa again in London. I had not heard from Thackeray since the publication of the "Roundabout" letter to his bankers, and was uncertain how far his evident ill-tem- per on that occasion had subsided; but I owed him too much kindness, I honored hira too profoundly, not to pardon him, unasked, my share of the offence. I found him installed in the new house he had built in Palace Gardens, Kensington. He received mo with the frank welcome of old, and when we were alone, in the pri- vacy of his library, made an opportunity (intentionally, I am sure) of approaching the subject which, he knew. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 147 I could not liavo forgotten. I asked him why he wrote the article, <*I was unwell," he answered, — "you know what the moral effects of my attacks are, — and I was indignant that such a shameful proposition should bo n.ade in your American newspapers, and not a single voice be raised to rebuke it." "But you certainly knew," said I, "that the -— •— — does not represent American opinion. I assure you, that no honest, respectable man in the United States ever entertained the idea of cheating an English stockholder." "I should hope so, too," he answered; "but when I saw the same thing in the _ ^, which, you will admit, is a paper of character and influence, I lost all confidence. I know how impulsive and excitable your people are, and I really feared that some such measure might bo madly advocated and carried into effect. I see, now, that I made a blunder, and I am al- ready punished for it. I was getting eight per cent, from my American investments, and now that I have the capital here it is lying idle. I shall probably not be able to invest it at a better rate than four per cent." I said to him, playfully, that he must not expect me, as an American, to feel much sympathy with this loss: I, in common with his other friends beyond the Atlantic, expected from him a juster recognition of the national character. I I J 149 ESSAYS AfiD NOTES. "Well,** said he, "let tis say no tnore about it. 1 admit that 1 have made a mistake." Those who knew the physical torments to which Thackeray was periodically subject — spasms which not only racked his strong frame, but temporarily darkened his views of men and things — must wonder that, with the obligation to write permanently hanging over him, he was not more frequently betrayed into impatient or petulant expressions. In his clear brain, he judged himself no less severely, and watched his own nature no less warily, than he regarded other men. II is strong sense of justice was always alert and active. He some- times tore away the protecting drapery from the world's pet heroes and heroines, but, on the other hand, he de- sired no one to set him beside them. He never be- trayed the least sensitiveness in regard to his place in literature. The comparisons which critics sometimes in- stituted between himself and other prominent authors simply amused him. In 1866, he told me he had writ- ten a play which the managers had ignominiously re- jected. "I thought I could write for the stage," said he; "but it seems I can't. I havp a mind to have the piece privately performed, here at home. I *11 take the big footman's part." This plan, however, was given up, and the material of the play was afterwards used I believe, in "Lovel, the Widower." He delighted in the use of the pencil, and often spoke to me of his illustrations being a pleasant relief WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 149 to hand and brain, after the fatigue of writing. He had a very imperfect sense of color, and confessed that his forte lay in caricature. Some of his sketches were charmingly drawn upon the block, but he was often unfortunate in his engraver. The original manu- script of " The Eoso and the Hing," with the illustra- tions, is admirable. He was fond of making groups of* costumes and figures of the last century, and I have heard English artists speak of his talent in this genre; but ho never professed to be more than an amateur, or to exercise the art for any other reason than the pleas- ure it gave him. He enjoyed the popularity of his lectures, because they were out of his natural line of work. Although he made several very clever after-dinner speeches, he always assured me that it was accidental, — thot he had no talent whatever for thinking on his feet, " Even when I am reading my lectures," he said, **I often think to myself, *What a humbug you are,' and I wonder the people don't find it out I" When in New York, he confessed to me that he should like immensely to find some town where the people imagined that all Englishmen transposed their As, and give one of his lectures in that style. He was very fond of relating an incident which occurred during his. visit to St. Louis. He was dining one day in the hotel, when he overheard one Irish waiter say to another:— 150 ESSAYS AND NOTES. " Do you know who that, is ! " "Ko,**wa8 the answer. "That,'* said the first; <*ifl the celebrated Thacker!*' <* What's he done?" «D--d if I knowl" Of Thackeray's private relations I would speak with a cautious reverence* An author's heart is a sanctuary into which, except so far as he voluntarily reveals it, the public has no right to enter. The shadow of a domestic affliction, which darkened all his life, seemed only to have increased his paternal care and tenderness. To his fond solicitude for his daughters we owe a part of the writings wherewith he has enriched our literature. While in America, he often said to me that his chief desire was to secure a certain sum for them, and I shall never forget the joyous satisfaction with which he afterwards informed me, in London, that the work was done. "Now," ho said, "the dear girls are provided for. The great anxiety is taken from my life, and I can breathe freely for the little time that is left me to be with them." I ktiew that he had denied himself many "luxuries'* (as he called them) to accom- plish this object. For six years, after he had redeemed the losses of a reckless youthful expenditure, he was allowed to live and to employ an income, princely for an author, in the gratification of tastes which had been so long repressed. He thereupon commenced building a new house, WILLIAAf MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 151 after his own designs. It was of red brick, in tiie style of Queen Anne's time, but the internal arrangement was rather American than English. It was so much ad- mired that, although the cost much exceeded his esti- mate, he could have sold it for an advance' of a thou- sand pounds. To me the most interesting feature was the library, which occupied the northern end of the first floor, with a triple window opening toward the street, and another upon a warm little garden-plot shut in by high walls. "Hero," he said to me, ivhen I saw him for the last time, " here I am going to write my greatest work, —a History of the Reign of Queen Anne, There are my materials," — pointing to a collection of volumes in various bindings which occupied a separate place on the shelves, "When shall you begin it?" I asked, " Probably as soon I am done with * Philip,' " was his answer ; " but I am not sure. I may have to write another novel first. But the History will mature all the better for the delay, I want to absorb the auihoii- ties gradually, so that, when I come to write, I shall be filled with the subject, and can sit down to a con- tinuous narrative, without jumping up every moment to consult somebody. The History has been a pet idea of mine for years past, I am slowly working up to the level of it, and know that when I once begin I shall do it well." I ( I 1 I _ . 162 ESSAYS AND NOTES. What this history might havo been we can only re- gretfully conjecture: it has perished with the uncom- pleted novel, and all the other dreams of that principle of the creative intellect which the world calls Ambi- tion, but which the artist recognizes as Conscience. That hour of the sunny May-day returns to memory as I write. The quiet of the library, a little with- drawn from the ceaseless roar of London; the soft grass of the bit of garden, moist from a recent shower, seen through the open window; the smoke-strained sunshine, stealing gently along the wall ; and before mo the square, maRsivo head, the prematurely gray hair, the large, clear, sad eyes, the frank, winning mouth, with its smile of boyish sweetness, of the nian whom I honor as a master, while he gave me the right to love him as a friend. I was to leave the next day for a tempomry home on the Continent, and he was planning how ho could visit me with his daughters. The proper season, the time, and the expense were carefully calculated: he described the visit in advance, with a gay, excursive fancy; and his last words, as ho gave me the warm, strong hand I was never again to press, wei*e, "J.t(/ Wiedersehen I '* What little I have Ventured to relate gives but a fragmentary image of the man whom I knew. I can- not describe him as the faithful son, the tender father, the true friend, the man of large humanity and lofty honesty that ho really was, without stepping too far WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 153 within the Bacred circle of his domcBtic life. To mo there w«a8 no inconsistency in his nature. Where the careless reader may see only the cynic and the relentless satirist, I recognize liis unquenchable scorn of human meanness and duplicity, — the impatient wratli of a soul too frequently disappointed in its search for good. I have heard him lash the faults of others with an indig- nant sorrow wliich brought the tears to his eyes. For this reason ho could not bear that ignorant homage should be given to men really unwortliy of it. lie said to me, once, speaking of a critic who blamed the scarcity of noblo and lovable character in his novels: — " Other men can do that. I know what I can do best ; and if I do good, it must be in my own way." The fate wliich took him from us was one which he had anticipated. lie often said that his time was short, that he could not certainly reckon on many more years of life, and that his end would probably bo sudden. He once spoke of Irving's death as fortunate in its character. The subject was evidently familiar to his thoughts, and his voice had always a tone of sol- emn resignation which told that he had conquered its bitterness. lie was ready at any moment to answer the call: and when, at last, it was given and answered,— » when the dawn of the first Christmas holiday lighted his pale, moveless features, and the large heart throb- bed no more forever in its grand scorn and still gran- der tenderness, — \i\& released spirit could have chosen 154 £shvs AND NOTES. no fitter worda of farewell than the gentle benediction his own lips have breathed: "I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health and love and mirths As fits the solemn Chrlstmas-tidei As fits the holy Christmas burth. Be this good friends, our carol Btill|-* Be peace on earth, be peace on earthy To men of gentle will!** Maroh, 1864. AUTIMN DAYS IN WEIMAE. WEIMAR is one of those places whicli the ordi- nary tourist never really sees. Probably nine- tenths of our rapid countrymen, who travel the direct railway line from Frankfort to Berlin, reach the ond of their journey with a confused impression of broad belts of farm-land, ranges of wooded mountains, half a dozen gray towers, stately stone stations with the inevitable telegraphic bell and conductor's whistle, and flying glimpses of cities which they afterwards vainly en- deavor to disentangle and label with their separate names, Eisenach, Gotha, Erfurt, Weimar and Naum- burgh lie strung along the line, in the northern skirt of that old Ilercynian Forest which once stretched un- broken from the Rhine to the Elbe, and each is the en-, trance to its own near region of landscape and legend., But their best charms are not manifest at a distance, ort caught in hurrying past. The Ettersberg is the tamest possible hill) and Weimar a dull little town in a hol- low among bare, windy uplands, to the traveler with a through ticket 156 ESSAYS AND NOTES, JEven one who spares a day from his itinerary— who reverently inspects Schiller's room, looks at the outside of Goethe's house, walks the length of the park, and gives an hour each to the library, castle and museum- will bo apt to wonder what attraction drew so many of Germany's greatest minds to a place so sober, quiet and contracted in all its ways and circumstances. If ho bo familiar with the history of the illustrious period, the remembrance of the primitive diversions of Duchess Anna Amalia and young Karl August will suggest a livelier life than ho now finds in the streets of Wei- mar, He will scent, perforce, an atmosphere of pro- saic conventionalism, where the ancient magic is as thorouglily gone as the scent of roses when summer is over. AVith a dreary sinking of the imagination, he will recall the decadence that succeeds a glorious age, and something of the sadness of a cemetery will cling to his recollections of the placoi But Weimar, among other German cities, is like a Btill-tongued, inconspicuous, yet very genuine person in a gay and talkative company,— not to be known too easily, itnd loved forever when once truly known. Four different times, with intervals of years between, I went tliither for a day, took the same walks, saw the same sights, and left with the same vague sense of dis- appointment and regret. I can thus estimate the char- acter of the superficial impression which many others, AUTUMN DAYS IN IVEIMAR. 157 doubtless, take liome with them. During the summer and autumn months, when the court is absent, there are hours wlien scarcely even a peasant is encountered in the shady walks along the Ilm; when the market- women knit, in the lack of customers, on the square before the llathhaus, and when the memorial statues seem to sleep in bronze, since no one spares a part of his own life to awaken them. Moreover, there is nearly as much local pride and jealousy among the capitals of the small mid-Gennan principalities, (is among our nascent Western cities. The intercourse of their citizens is singularly limited; and, inasmuch as each has its special traditions of ven- erable age, its peculiarities of social life and public habits, a narrow criticism is often applied where the diversity might be heartily enjoyed. All Germany still remembers the old caricatures in the Fliegende Blatter of Munich, where Beiselo sits on the aristocratic side of the theatre at Weimar, while Eisele is placed opposite, among the burghers; and both are afterwards imprisoned for addressing a young lady as "Friiulein" instead of "Mademoiselle." The former illustration was a just satire at the time; but the rule it ridicules was abolished more than twenty years ago. The lat- ter, of course, was a grotesque exaggeration, illustrating the fact that the freest and most enlightened German capital for more than fifty years had somehow come to be regarded as the home of all obsolete social etiquette. 158 £SSsiyS AND NOTES, I imagine that this was mainly a remnant of the jeal- ousy engendered by Weimar's glory, and that it had been kept alive by rival court-circles and the classes which they influence, rather than by the people at large. The latter are not always so narrow in their likings as those above them. I camd back to TVeiriiar for a longer stay, on a cold, dull October morning. My room in the hotel looked across a sort of boulevard, marking the site of a moat outside the ancient wall of the town, over the front of the building belonging to the Erholung (Rec- reation) — the one club of the place— to the spire of the Stadtkirche where Herder preached. For a background I had the wooded hill and massive military barracks beyond the Ilm. The lovely park, the creation of Karl August and Goethe, lay unseen in the hollow between; south and west of me, I knew, there were only high, bare fields; and I wondered whether the famous authors who once dwelt within my range of vision ever seemed to themselves as lonely and forsaken as their monuments— or myself— on such a day. I took a spir- itless M'alk through the streets, and came back without delivering one of my three notes of introduction. There was the Schiller house, with its merchandise of plaster-casts and photographs in the window beside the door; there was the Goethe house, inhabited at last (for curtains were visible behind the window-panes), but still looking gloomy and forlorn; the library, with AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 159 no sign of life around it; and at a restaurant near tlio theatre, kept by Wertlier^ one individual was drinking his solitary beer! The waiter presently summoned mo to tho iMe ePhdte^ placing me between half a dozen transient guests and a company of as many gentlemen whoso wine bot^ ties and napkin-rings marked them as habitues. The latter immediately excited my interest and attracted me towards them. The chairman's place was occupied by a bale, ruddy gentleman, who proved to bo Dr, K-; — , Director of the Museum, to whom I was com- mended by a mutual friend. An English scholar and an English artist sat near him, and he used their lan- guage with as much fluency as his own. There was also a young Swiss artist, handsome as the Antinous; Baron von Salis, Adjutant of tho Hereditary Grand Duke, and beside him, as if still illustrating tho friend- ship between the poet Salis and Schiller, sat tho grand- son of the latter, Baron von Gleichen-Russwurm. There could have been no more refined and genial company; the most of its members added the lustre of tradition to their own accomplishments, and the tem- porary additions to it, from time to time, were drawn from the same circle. In the evening, after the early closing of the theatre, the ^^ Iniendant^'* Baron von Loen, a relative of Goethe on the Textor side, came frequently; Baron von Stein sometimes drove over from bis estate of Kochberg, famous in the annals of hi» 160 ESSAYS AND NOTES. grandmother, Frau von Stein; the families of Herder, Wieland and Kncbel were included in the common acquaintance, and many an old story, familiar elsewhere to the scholar only, here belonged, to the presumed knowledge of all. The kindly courtesy with which room was made for me in this little society was no false promise of tlie enjoyment which I drew from it. Many a light which I had fancied extinguished, soon began to scud its rays out of Weimar's past; many an old interest proclaimed its stubborn life; until, in this new atmospliere, the heroic forms ceased to be mere shadows, drew nearer and nearer, and finally recovere^d OS much reality of being as knowledge, • memory and fancy can bestow upon the dead. I arose from my first dimier with only an instinct of the coming good fortune ; for my acquaintance with the company began, quite frankly and unconventionally, in the evening. But the desire to know somebody was aroused at last. I selected a letter to the Prlvy-Coun- oilor, Scholl) whoso name will bo familiar to all Goethe students as that of a rarely accomplished editor and critic. His residence is in the Schillcr-strasso, next to that of Schillers ghost, but I found him in his official quarters In the library. There was something in his high brew, brown bright eyes and masculine nose which suggested a milder and livelier Goethe; nor was I disappointed* The days that followed revealed to me much of the same mixture of wisdom and humor, AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 161 of receptive, combative and sympathetic intellect, mel- lowed by warm social qualities, which characterize all the local traditions of the great master's intercoureo with others. Ilerr SchuU introduced mo to the librarian, Dr. Koliler, a man in whom scholarly fame is exceptionally linked with great modesty. The two were about to take their daily walk through the park to the village of Ober-Weimar, nearly two miles distant. I asked per- mission to be the third. The mist was already less dank, the first touches of autumn on the park trees less melancholy; a few single saunterers or pairs were abroad in tho paths, and some market women, with empty baskets on their shoulders, descended tho stops, passed the artificial grottoes at tho base of the hill, and took their way across the first meadow towards Goethe's garden-house. Below us, under tho wooded bluff, lay the lonely pathway of shade beside the Ilm, which was Schiller's favorite walk: the crest, which we followed, with its freer outlook between the gaps in the foliage, its larger spaces of light and air, was preferred by Goethe. The whole park, in fact, was created by Goethe and Karl August. It was a successful effort to base landscape-gardening upon nature, at a time when all Germany was painfully imitating the formalism of Yer- sailles. Count Eumford's similar achievement at Mu- nich was some years later. The grottoes and an arti- I 162 SSSAVS AND NOTES. ficial min are the only incongrnons features in the plan, and they are now so hidden or modified by the action of vegetable growth that they scarcely interfere with the first impression of an exquisite natural valley, gradually melting into pasture-meadows and cultivated fields. There is nothing forced or studied in the group- ing of the trees or the disposition of the shrubbery ; the turf harbors all the tribes of wild-flowers in their turn, and the paths add the one touch of luxury, of subdued and civilized nature, which we should bo willing to find in the most waste and desolate places* A soft, sweet air of i*epose hangs over the valley; people lin- ger rather than hurry when they enter it; the town is not noisy enough to disturb the solitude; even the highway to Belvedere, which skirts one side of the park, is half concealed by its avenue of broad-armed trees, and what little human labor is visible upon the remoter hills becomes a picture, and no more. Ober-Weimar, also, claims its share of the literary traditions. Schiller once took refuge there, to get on more rapidly with his work by escaping company, but was sorely disturbed by the festal noises of a rural wed- ding. When we had taken seats in the dingy guest- room of a tavern, with cups of inspiring coffee before us, my new friend pointed to the stone bridge over the Hm, and said: "The Duchess Anna Amalia took that for one of her artistic studies.'* Some days afterwards, I turned over a portfolio of her sketches, in the mu* AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 163 eeum, and could easily imagine what Bort of a study she made of it. The mannered drawing of that day finds its climax in Oeser, who gave Goethe his first les- sons. Its crispy, woolly foliage, wooden rocks and blurred foregrounds, dotted here and there with bits of rigid detail, are verily astonishing to behold. Even Meyer, who was so often sound in theory, never freed himself, in practice, from the cramped artificial re- straints of the school. Goethe's own drawings are a curious illustration of a correct instinct struggling with a false system, which he had not technical skill enough to break through. Hie most rapid sketches are always his best. The out- lines are free and bold; light and shade, in masses, are often well disposed; and if he had possessed a fine sense of color he might have developed, under other in- fluences, into a tolerable artist. But when he comes to detail, ho never releases himself from Oeser's method, and all the freedom of his first outlines disappears in the process. I have seen his original drawing of the cloven tower of Heidelberg Castle, a crude but by no means a bad performance; then Oeser's copy of it, changed, stiffened, hardly to be recognized as the same thing; and, finally, Goethe's laborious copy of Oeser, emphasizing all the faults of the latter. The few draw- ings he made in Kome— especially a very clean and careful sketch of the Capitol, in India ink — give the best evidence of Goethe's amateur talent. 164 £SSyAS AkD NOTES. "We took the meadow-path back to the town, pass- ing .the clafifiic garden-house, where the poet plucked his earliest violets and raised his asparagus for Frau von Stein; where he was sometimes obliged to borrow a plate of corned beef, when the duke and duchess came unexpectedly to tea; where he taught Christiane Vulpius something of the metamorphosis of plants; and where, later, Thackeray took coffee under the trees planted in those early daysi I looked over the gate, and could well believe that the same larkspurs and pot- marigolds had been blossoming under the windows for a century past. But there wei-e dead leaves on all the paths, and the steep hill-side immediately in the rear looked moldy with shade and moisture. It is an invit- ing spot, with its sheltered, sunny site; although hardly ten minutes' walk from the town, its front looks only upon meadows, trees and the dark, gliding, silent Ilm. The rock-work on the opposite side of the stream is rather clumsily done. Goethe was so enthusiastic a geologist that he could hardly have had his o^vn way in its arrangement; but he partly relieved the stiff masses by stone stairways, landings and tablets with in- Bcriptions. Beside one of the paths of shade which lead to the top of the bluff he placed a rude piece of sculp- ture, representing a serpent coiled around an altar and devouring an offering cake laid upon it. The common people, unable to understand the symbol, soon invented a legend of their own to interpret it; the present gen- AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 165 eration of peasants firmly believes that a huge ser- pent infested the banks of the Ilm, in ancient times, and was poisoned by some unknown knight or saint. There was also a little bark hut, too new to bo quite the same, in all its parts, which Karl August erected. Its very plainness seems to bo suggestive of mystery to certain minds, and the stranger may carry away some singular statements and conjectures, unless ho knows how to weigh his authority. One of my first visits was to Preller, tho Iloraerio painter, whoso frescoes illustrating the Odyssey are Buch a superb adornment of the long corridor in tho museum. Nearly as old as the century, having been developed under Goethe's encouragement and Karl August's generous patronage, he was to me, as Tegnor says of Thorsten Yikingsson, <*a living legend." I found him in his studio, with three young ladies work- ing so zealously under his direction that only one of them looked up, — ^but she was just finishing an admira- ble crayon drawing of the Famese Torso. Preller was painting a scene near Olevano, in the Sabine Moun- tains, with an Arcadian group in tho foreground, I accepted an invitation to call at his house, and with- drew before he had time to lay down his brush. . The next evening I found that he had only changed his locality, not his surroundings. The ladies— one of them a great grand-daughter of Herder— had a portfolio . of original drawings by famous German artists before 1C6 SSSAYS ASD NOTES. tlieni) and. were enjoying these and PrelWs InstmctiTe comments at the same time. They made room for me at the table, opposite the painter's strong head and full, gray beard; on one side there was a cast of Trippel's bust of Goethe, the Apollo head, modeled in Eome in 1787. The original is in the Weimar library* It is one of those heads whose dignity and beauty are all the more striking because it just falls short of the Vxnct Greek synimctry. Though suggesting a demi- god, it is still a poHHiblo mati. Take the finest known heads, — Antoninus Pius, the young Augustus, Napoleon, Byron, — and tliis of Goethe at thirty-eight will seem the noblest and completest. No cast had been made from Trippel's bust un- til several years ago, when the sculptor Arnold was ulluwod to make a certain number of copies. I was fortunate enough to obtain one, and I now said to Preller: "I see the same head of Goethe here, and in the same position, as in my own room at home; only, opposite, I have placed the Venus of Milo. He, as man, should stand beside her, as woman.'* He got up from the sofa, without saying a word, came to where I was sitting, and seized me by the arm. Following the hint of his action, I rose ; he turned me a little to one side, and pointed silently at a bust of the Venus of lililo, which 1 had not noticed on enter- ing the room. "There she is!" he exclaimed, at last; " I see her every day of my life, but I never pass her AUTUMN DAYS W WEIMAR, 167 without saying to myself: *My God, how beautiful she is!'" This lucky coincidence of taste was more efficient than hours of talk in opening the old paintei'^s heart, I spent many other evenings in his genial family circle, until he grew accustomed to unlock the store-house of his memory and bring forth many an illustrative anec- dote of the man and men wliom I wished to know. The clear intellectual perception, which always belongs to an artist whose genius lies in the harmonies of form no less than those of color, gave a special point and value to his narrations. No feature in them wus of trivial import; ho saw the personages again as ho do- scribed them ; he heard their voices, and his own, as he repeated their words, became an unconscious imitation. If all biographical studies could be made in this way, how delightful would be the author's task I Preller set before me a much more distinct picture of Goethe's son, August, than I had been able to obtain from any published sources. He seems to have inher- ited his mother's cheerful and amiable temperament, together with its sad physical failing, and much of his father's personal beauty, with hardly a tithe of his men- tal capacity. He was tall and finely-formed; a badly- painted head, still in existence, has the ruddy color, full lips, and large, soft eyes of a very sensuous na- ture; but Preller asserts that ho was also intelligent, sympathetic, capable, and every way attractive when in 168 £isAyS AND NOTES. his right mind. The former was in Home when he ar- rived there^ and related to me the circnmstances attend- ing his death* Inasmlioh as a brief outline of the story has recently been published,* I feel at liberty to repeat it, in the artist's own words: — "Shortly after young Goethe reached Rome, Kest- ner" (the Prussian Secretary of Legation, and son of tlie Charlotte whom Goethe made famous in "Wcrther) "proposed a trip to Albano and Nemi, and invited me to join in it. During our donkey-ride to the lake, after leaving Albano, Goetlie complained of being very ill. He could scarcely keep his seat in the saddle, but, be- tween us. We got him as far as Frascati, where we waited three hours to let him rest, before returning in the carriage to Rome. He was in a raging fever when wo arrived; I put him to bed, watched with liim all night, and left him a little better in the morning. The next night I asked Rudolf Meyer, of Dresden, to shait) the watch with mo. I sat up until midnight, then went into the next room and stretched myself out on some chairs. It seemed but a moment before Meyer came into the room and said to me: * Goethe is evi- dently very ill/ I rose instantly and went to him; but I had hardly entered the door when Goethe made one leap from the bed, rushed towards me, threw his arms around my neck, and strained me to his breast with * By Dr. Eit&er, in a note attached to bis translation of a part of Uenry Crabb Robinson's journals. AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 169 STich violenco tliat I tliought I Bliould havo died on the Bpot. As Boon as I was able, I loosened his anna and pushed him softly backwards towards the bed. Ho Bank down passively, and his head dropped upon the pil- low, I waited; ho did not move a muscle. Then I saw that he did not breathe. Leaving Meyer, I ran to tho house of tho physician, who came at once, but found that death had instantly followed the paroxysm, Kestncr was thunderstruck when ho heard tho news, "Tho disbcction showed that liis brain was healthy, —only a littlo spot betrayed small-pox, which had not como out. This was tho causo of his death, I at* tended his funeral and helped carry tho corpse, but felt all the whilo as if in a strango dream, hardly conscious of what I saw and heard. Somewhero on tho way homo my senses entirely left me, and for many days there was a blank in my life. When I came to myself, I was almost lifeless, and covered with pustules; it was many months before I recovered my usual Btrength." The day afterwards, it happened, my friend SchoU related to me how Otfried Muller died in his arms, at Athens. Singularly enough a Greek gentleman joined us in our walk to Ober-Weimar, — ^for this soon became also my "custom of an afternoon," — and we talked of the Hill of Colonos until bunches of asphodel seemed to dot the meadows of the Bm. Another day, while I was waiting in one of the rooms of the library and idly poring over a map, a stranger who had entered sud- 170 Ji^SA rs AND NOTES. denly pointed to the Himalajafl of Nepatd, and Bald: <* There is where I am at home.'' But it is not the ostentatioufl tourifita who thua quietly converge to Wei- mar from all quarters of the world. The School of Art, catabliahed by the present grand* duke, was convulsed by a semi-revolution during the whole of my stay. The prime cause thereof appeared to be a conflict of authority between the director, Count Kalkreuth, himself an excellent landscape artist, and the Belgian painter, Verlat, who enjoyed the favor of the court. There was one time during the crisis when the students sharply took sides, and an emigration, almost en masae^ wai* threatened. I was able to follow the movement, from day to day, through the confidential communications of some of the young artists concerned in it, but the story is scarcely important enough to be retold. Behind it, in the distance, — perhaps not at all evident to the most of the actors, — loomed the conflict of artistic theories, of the sensuous and the imaginative elements, of technical skill and the expression of ideas. The same struggle is going on all over the world. It is France, in league with Chinese silks and Japanese screens, against the extreme which is best illustrated by Ivaulbach's attempt to represent the Eeformation on a single cartoon. The mid-lying truth, as is always the case, is felt rather than consciously perceived by the honest, single-minded artiste who work, and leave the battle to others* AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMARs 171 In tho Btudio of Baron von Gloicben-R\iB8wurm, however, I found a refuge from the passing storm. He kept for himself the serene atmosphere of art, while the trouble lasted; and his pictures, wherein a strong realistic tnith was always steeped in the purest poetic sentiment, entirely satisfied boih forms of the artistic sense. If I am not mistaken, he is the only child of Schiller's daughter, Emilie, who most resem- bled the poet. In him the personal resemblance is weakened, but the genius is inherited and embodied in a new activity. His choice and treatment of subjects constantly reminded me of McEntee, whom, neverthe- less, ho but slightly suggests in technical quality. Like McEntee, he feels the infinite sweetness and sadness of late autumn; of dim skies and lowering masses of clouds; of dead leaves, lonely woodland brooks, brown marshes and gray hillsides. Moreover, each has the same intense pei*6onal faith in his art, the same devo- tion to it for its own sake, and the same disregard of the transient popular tastes to which sonw) artists sub- mit, and foolishly imagine that they have found fame. If the remembrance of my friend at home so fre- quently was present while I sat watching Schiller's grandson paint in Weimar, and beguiled me into a freedom hardly justified by so brief an acquaintance, xt was delightful to find that the response came as frankly and heartily as if he had indeed been the older friend. 173 £SSA YS AND UOTMS, There are fewer traditions of Schiller in Weimar ' than of Goethe, for Schiller's ill health during the five years of his residence there obliged him to limit the a circle of his familiar associates. Like Goethe, his ordi- nary manner towards strangers was cold, reserved and seemingly proud — because a finer nature instinctively guards itself against a possible intrusion; but this char- actenstic was never remembered against him, and ever- more spitefully repeated, as in the case of his great friend. In Eckennaun's Conversations, Goethe is re- ported as liaving called Schiller "an aristocratic nature," which he certainly was; but Goethe was only more democratic tlirough the wider range of his intellectual \ interests. It is remarkable what strong hannonies held \ the two together, and what equally strong antagonisms were powerless to drive them apart. -\ I had a special interest in ascertaining the physical characteristics of both. One would suppose this to be \ an easy matter, but it was by no means so. In regard to height, weight, complexion, color of hair and eyes, there was a variety of memories J even those who had known the poets living seemed to color their knowledge \ by some reflected popular impression. Rietschel's group, ' in the square before the theatre, is a direct violation ( of the truth. The two figures are colossal, being nine feet high ; and Schiller, who is standing erect, with his . \ head thrown back, as he never carried it during the last years of his life, is about two inches taller than \ J AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 173 Gocthp. ' Now, Goetlie's stature was certainly not more than five feet ten inches, and probably a little less; his very erect carriage and wonderfully imposing presence made him seem taller. Schiller, on the contrary, was said to bo during his life the tallest man in the Grand- Duchy; his height was six feet three inches. But his gait was loose and awkward; he generally walked with stooped shoulders and bent head, and only his keen, intense, aspiring face, liis broad brow, and largo, gentle eyes, of a color varying between blue, gray, and pale-brown, made him personally majestio and im- pressive. Goethe had dark-brown hair and cyos, the latter largo and almost pretematurally luminous, His com- plexion, also, was more olive than fair; the nose nearly Roman, but with t. Greek breadth at the base, and sen- sitive, dilating nostrils; the mouth and chin on' the sculptor's line, ample, but so entirely beautiful that they seemed smaller than their actual proportions. His face was always more or less tanned; he rarely lost the brand of the sun. In his later years it became ruddy, and a slight increase of fullness effaced many of the wrinkles of age. Stieler's portrait (now in the Goethe mansion) painted when the poet was eighty, expresses an astonishing vital power. Preller once said to me: "There never was such life in so old a man! If a can-, non-baU had suddenly grazed my head, I could not hav^ boon more startled than when I heard of his death. I 174 £SSAyS AND NOTES. felt sure that he would live to be a hundred and fifty years old!" If Goethe illustrates as scarcely any other poet (yet we imagine both Homer and Shakespeare to have pos- sessed the same) the perfect accord of intellectual and physical forces, Schiller is equally remarkable as an ex- ample of a mind triumphing over incessant bodily weak- nesses and torments. During fourteen years, he never knew a day of complete, unshaken health. He was fair and freckled, with so delicate a skin that the slightest excitement of his blood blushed through it. His thin, aggravated, aquiline nose was so conspicuous that he often laughingly referred to it as the triumphant result of constant pinching and pulling during his school days* His chin was almost equally prominent, giving him what his sister Christophine called a "defiant and spite ful under lip." His shock of hair, not parting into half- curls like Goethe's, but straight and long, was of a yel- low-brown hue, "shimmering into red," as Caroline von Wolzogen poetically says. The picture of him touches our sympathies, as his bust or statue always does,— 4)er- haps because he represents suffering and struggle so pal- pably. Beside him, Goethe seems to stand crowned by effortless achievement. But what a pair they are ! Rietschel's great success in his statues lies in his subtle expression of their noble friendship. Goethe's hand on Schiller's shoulder, and the one laurel wreath which the hands of both touch in such wise that you cannot AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 175 be sure wliicli gives or which takes, eymbolizo a reality far too rare in the annals of literature. The theatre is built upon the ashes of the old one, which was burned down about the year 1825, It is small, but charmingly bright, agreeable and convenient. Here, as in other small German capitals, families take their tickets for the season, ladies go alone when they have no company, and good manners on the part of the public are as certain as in any private society. In fact the tenor and the soprano, or the tragic hero and the heroine, are quite likely to be a part of the society of the place. They are government servants, appointed by the ruler, rewarded by frequent leaves-of-absence v/hen faithful, and pensioned when old or invalided. The or- ganization of the theatre as an institution of the state has its disadvantages, and such as, in our country, would perhaps be insufferable: but it certainly elevates dramatic art, purifies it, and establishes it in its tnie place among the agents of civilization. A few days after my arrival in Weimar, Schiller's "Wallenstein — the entire trilogy — was given. Knowing that the theatre was still faithful to its old tradi- tions, and perhaps a little more strictly bo under the Intendancy of Baron von Loen, I went there at an early hour, expecting to get my former place in the front of the parquet, among a company of most in- telligent ladies, every one of whom came unattended. But I found only a single seat vacant, in one of 176 £SSAyS AND NOTES. the rear boxes: the building waa crammed to the very summit of the gallery. And there was hardly a person present but had seen the play a score of times 1 I never saw anything else so perfectly put upon the stage as "TVallenstein's Camp/* the first part of the trilogy. A dialogue in verse, though never bo pictu- resque and animated, with the merest thread of action, I had fancied, might be endured upon boards which had witnessed the Antigone of Sophocles revived, but must be sufficiently tedious to one accustomed to the hectic melodrama of our day* But a broad, evernshift* ing background of by-play, upon which I had not reck- oned, was here created. Just as the two poets had planned the representation of the piece, so it was given now. AVhile Tertzky's carabineers, Ilolker's Jager, or Butler's Dragoons were speaking, there was all the bus- tle of a great camp of motley mercenaries behind them. The soldiers played dice, the vivandiere was busy with her canteen, officers stalked past, guards presented arms, trumpets were blo\vn in the distance, and the situation discussed by the speakers was made real in the costumes and actions of the groups which constantly formed and dissolved. Goethe despotically insisted on the smallest part being as carefully played as the greatest: an actor who surrounded himself with inferior players, to create a more conspicuous foil to his own performance, was never tolerated upon the "Weimar stage. I suspect that AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR. 177 bad playing in the most indifferent rdle would not bo tolerated tliere now. The fierce and stirring soldiers' song, at the close, roused the audience as if they now heard it for the first time. Every actor sang his appropriate stanza, and the orchestra grandly supported them. Then the curtain rose upon "The Piccolomini," with its crowd of martial characters. Their perfonnanco was unequal, but they were at least very clearly and carefully individualized. I was so deeply interested in hearing iambic blank verso correctly read, for the firet time in my life, that I paid but slight attention to the representation of char- acter, I had listened so long and vainly, in other thea- tres, that I had ceased to expect what I now heard; but surprise was soon lost in a delight which was renewed with every speaker. Herein they were all satisfactory. This, also, we owe to Goethe. His programme of instructions to the players under his authority is less concise than Hamlet'Sj but it is equally clear and much more minute and practical. I have seen few actors on the English boards who could not yet learn something from it. His direction for the reading of blank verse is the single correct method; he insists that the meas- ured lines shall be made recognizable to the hearer, not by a mechanical cadence, which would soon become intolerable, but by delicate infiections and rests, not so marked as the pauses of punctuation, but just enough to prevent the verse from lapsing into prose. 178 ksSAVS AND NOTES. Our English actors and elocutionists, on the con- trary, are not satisfied unless they make blank Terse en- tirely prosaic in its pauses. They read, not by the me- trical feet, but wholly by the punctuation; and many of them, where the phrase overruns the line, actually hasten the movement in order to avoid even the sus- picion of a pause. Take, as an instance, Bryant's Thanatopsis, and we shall at onco see how they read the opening lines:— **To him, who, in the love o! Kature, Holds communion with her visible forms, She si)cnks a various language. For his gayer hours she has a voice of gladness, And she glides into his darker musings with a mild and gen« tie sympathy, That steals away their sharpness ere he is aware.** How Utterly the grave, majestic march of the origi- nal is lost, through this false method of reading 1 To the ear, the measured lines no longer exist, and the metrical spirit which informs them, endeavoring to as- sert itself in spite of the reader's will, prevents the movement from being wholly that of prose. There are passages in Shakespeare so inherently rhythmical that the actor cannot escape giving them a partial music, and just these passages delight the hearer, though he may never have scanned a line in his life. AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 179 In listening to "The Piccolomini," I followed the lines at first, but rather as an experiment, to be quite sure that they were distinctly indicated. Soon, however, I forgot to do it, yet still continued to hear thera. That is to say, without the least approach to monotonous sing-song, — with as great a variety of pauses and cad- ences as in prose, only far more delicately adjusted — the rhythmical character of the language constantly as* sorted itself. The passionate and poetical scenes of the play gained immeasurably thoreby ; for passion, in real life, is seldom without a nid^, broken rhythm of its own. The pause at the end of a lino could hardly be called a pause ; it was the lightest lingering of tone, and the observance of it gave a certain dignity to char- acters which might have seemed vulgar, could they have hurled out rapid, unmeasured sentences, as upon our stage. I was fortunate in chancing upon an unusually mild and benignant October, After the first dull days, a long period of mellow sunshine descended iipon the outer world, while the social life of "Weimar, with its fine and ripe culture, gradually opened to the stranger. The statues lost their look of loneliness and became the familiar, protecting Lares of the place: many a crooked old alley gave me glimpses of private garden- nooks where the roses still budded in the sun; houses, unnoticeable at first, came to be inhabited by interest- ing phantoms or breathing, welcome acquaintances; and I 180 JBfSVAS AND NOTES. —best of all — ^the interest which chiefly drew me to "Weimar was not dead or indifferent to its inhabitants. One sunny afternoon, the two scholars gave up their nsual walk and rode with me to the Ettersburg, the grand-ducal country-seat, of which we hear so much during the days of Anna Amalia. The Ettersberg, both from the "Weimar and the Erfurt sides, is such an un- promising blank of field and straight-edged forest, that I could not well imagine how it could hide such a seat of summer "pleasaunce" as the Burg must have been. The greater part of the road thither, a distance of four or five miles, shows but the tamest scenery. The woodland along the summit of the ridge, planted in a poor, sandy soil, contains few stately trees, and when it falls away northward, on the farther side, the first glimpse of the tawny Saxon lowlands is not at all cheering. The Ettersberg, however, proved to be indented by a deep, winding valley, upon the sheltered sides of which there grew majestic groves, interrupted by the vivid green of meadows. "We passed a forester's lodge, which the present grand-duke copied from an English model: it was undeniably handsomer than the old Ger- man cottage, yet it seemed a little out of place. In the little village straggling along the opposite slope, his Hoyal Highness has also endeavored to give a more cheerful aspect to the dwellings, by inserting bow-win- dows in their fronts, at his own expense. About one AUTUMN DAYS /A" WEIMAR, 181 fourtli of the householders, I noticed, had accepted the change, and their windows were already bright with geraniums, pinks and rosemary. The castle stands on a terrace, partly cut out of the hill-side. Shelves of garden descend to the meadow, and noble woods of maple, oak and beech rise beyond. The ornamental grounds are very simply laid out, and soon lose themselves among the natural features of the landscape. The old ducal residence, a square stnicture, with no architectural character, stands in front of a small quadrangle containing guests' and servants' rooms, armory, theatre and other apartments. The cr.stodian pointed out the room which Schiller inhabited when he came hither to write the last act of Marie Stuart, and then admitted us into the chief building. Except the pretty portraits of Karl August and his brother, Pnnce Constantino, as small boys, and a few tolerable pictures, the rooms contain little of interest. Princely furniture, nowadays, has lost its particular pomp; anybody may have a Japanese cabinet or a Persian rug which was a rarity in the last century. The Duchess Anna Amalia is the special ghost who haunts the Ettersburg. In a portrait of her from life, hanging in one of the chambers, I first clearly saw her likeness to her uncle, Frederick the Great, The eyes, of which the old Court-Marshal von Spiegel used to say that few persons could endure their full, level glance without an uneasy Bensation that their secret souls were 182 ESSAYS AND NOTES, boing inipoctodi aro Btrikinglj similar to his— large, clear, gra^r, and qnostionlng in tliolr oxproHsion. Many of the early pranks of Goethe were played here, with the duchess's encouragement; though I believe {t was at Ticf^urt whore she sometimes rode out with her fnends in a hay wagon, and whore she once put on Wiuland^s coat when it rained. It is a little unjust that Goethe alone should bear the blame of what was then considered "nature" by one party, and scandalous lawlessness by another. There were few courts at that day where dinsipation took so innocent a fonn. Wo Htrayed into the woods and found tlie trunk of un old beech-tree, whereupon the members of the illus- trious Ettersburg company long ago carved their names. Bo many of the unknown and foolish crowd have fol- lowed them that most of the original runes have dlnap- pimred in a labyrinthine pattern of scars. ])ertuch*B was the only name of which we could bo at all certain. The bark is now protected by a wire netting, which worries the vandals without entirely keeping them of!. 1 believe it was under this tree that Goethe kindled his funeral pyre of sentimental works, his own "Werther among them, and pronounced an oration, the mere rumor of which provoked fiercer fires among his sensi* tive contemporaries. It was years before Jacobi could forgive the burning of his "Woldemar, a book which is now read only by curious scholars. Tieffurt, which is farther down the Hm, a little AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 183 inorci than two miles from "Weimar, is almost as lonely a residence as the Ettersburg, but lies more cozily nestled in the river vale. The dramatic entenain- ments, partly extemporized, which were here acted in the open air, the river, its banks, trees, bushes, arbors, and a few painted castles or cottages representing stage and scenery, were diversions of the most charming character. They are features of an ideal literary life which existed hero, for a brief while, but never else- where than hero. It is a real loss that our accounts of them are so slight and so devoid of detail. Tradition keeps knowledge of the spot where the spectators sat, where the players appeared, where the lamps or torches were placed; but the performances themselves belong to the earliest years of the famous period, and there is no one living who remembers even having heard more of them than has already been written. All the roads branching out of the little capital, in fact, have their associations, more or less remote. These may not come swiftly upon the visitor, for a multitude of them hide only in the privacy of individ- ual knowledge. Through acquaintance with the society of the place, they arrive like pleasant accidents ; some new fragment drops into every intimate conversation upon the old themes, and little by little a purple at- mosphere of memories settles down over the hilk which once seemed so bare. No; there had been nothing of that decadence which includes reaction; the I . - \ 184 I^SSAYS ^ND NOTES.. finer culture wUcli once made "Weimar so illastrioos pervades its present life. There is more than a con- ventional reverence ior the great departed. Their in* Btinct of development, their tastes, their reaching to- wards eternal truth and eternal beauty have been trans- mitted to the descendants of those among whom and with whom they wrought. If achievement has ceased, the recognition which stimulates it remains. "We can ask no more than this: would that we found it in greater cities I n. Thb cordial, trustful hospitality with which I was received by the old families of Weimar seems to justify an acknowledgment of it, yet makes the task a delicate one. The more the sanctity of private life is disre* garded by that passion for personal gossip which, orig- inating in France, has taken such vigorous root in Amer ica, the more it becomes an author's duty to defend it; but the line of separation between this abuse and the legitimate description of general social characteristics is sometimes a little difficult to trace. I prefer, at least, to omit the mention of many pleasant minor incidents, which might the more satisfactorily justify my impres- sions to the reader's mind, and ask him simply to be- . lieve in their honesty. The prevalent opinion throughout the rest of Ger- AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 3.85 many seems to be that the society of Weimar retains, to an unusual degree, the rigid and cumbersome eti- quette of a past generation. Forgetting that, a hundred years ago, the court was the freest in Germany, and that here, almost for the first time in history, culture "waa absolutely forced upon rank by the eminence of men who were not of patrician birth, the Prussian or Saxon or Bavarian repeats a few stories current thirty or forty years ago, and comfortably thrusts Weimar into its proper place in his ready-mado theory of Gonnan society. Such a procedure may save trouble, but it is far from being just, Unfortunately, there is no intel- lectual chemistry which will cast the lines of education, prejudice and inherited tastes upon an infallible spec- trum, and enable us to estimate their value. When I say that I found a freer, less conventional social spirit in Weimar than in the other small German capitals with which I have some acquaintance, I am quite prepared to hear the statement denied. The for-- eigner receives a more kindly consideration in Germany than in any other country in the world, and nowhere more so than in Weimar, where for so many years all forms of foreign culture were so heartily welcomed. Apart from this, however, the hospitality of the old families is so simple, frank and cordial as to be wor- thy of notice in these showy and luxurious days. At informal evening receptions, one rarely sees other than morning costumes; the supper, served towards nine 186 J^SSAVS AND NOTES. o'clock, is the ordinary family meal, consiBting cWefly of too, boer, cold meats and salads: there is no eti* quette beyond or confiicting with that of refined society all over the world ; but, on the contrary, a graceful ease and freedom of intercourse which I have sometimes sorely missed in circles which consider themselves far more eminent. I admit, to the fullest extent, the intel- lectual egotism of the German race, for I have often enough been brought into conflict with it; yet there is an exceedingly fine and delicate manifestation of social culture which I have nowhere found so carefully ob- served as in "Weimar. I allude to that consideration for the stranger which turns the topics of conversa- tion in the direction of his knowledge or his interests. How often liavo I seen, both in America and in Eng« land, a foreigner introduced to a small circle, in which the discussion of personal matters, whereof he could have had no knowledge, was quietly continued until the company dispersed! There is a negative as' well as an aftirmative (or active) egotism, and the reserve which our race seems to value so much often includes it. The thorough and liberal culture of "Weimar society was also a great delight to me. More than once it happened, in an evening company of twenty or thirty, young as well as old, that a French or an English quot- ation suddenly — and quite naturally — changed the lan- guage used by all. On one occasion, I remember, I was asked to recite passages of an English poem which had AUTUMN DAYS IN IVEIMAR. 187 been the subject of conversation. "But I do not know any German translation of it," I remarked. "Ob, in English, of course 1" was the immediate reply; and for fifteen or twenty minutes afterwards the whole com* pany conversed in English with the greatest fluency and correctness. Many of the young ladies, I soon discov- ered, were excellent artists as well as musicians; yet, when I called upon a distinguished family rather early one day, a daughter of the house excused herself very gracefully from remaining in the salon^ on account of her duties in the kitchen. This union of a very high culture with an honest acceptance of the simplest household needs may seem almost ideal to some of my readers; yet they may take heart, for wo have a few noble examples of it at homo. For more than a month after my arrival there was no court. The Grand-Duke was in Berlin, the Grand- Duchess and the two princesses were upon an estate in Silesia, and the newly-married heir of Saxe- Weimar- Eisenach seemed inclined to prolong, as was natural, tlie freedom of his honeymoon. But one morning it was announced that their Hereditary Boyal Highnesses were quietly installed in their wing of the castle. As one of my neighbors at the dinner-table, Baron von Salis, was the young Grand-Duke's adjutant, the formalities of an application for presentation were soon arranged, and the same evening I received an appointment for the follow-* ing morning. I had met tho prince at the Wartbnrg 188 ESSAYS AND NOTES, a year previous; but in the mean time lie liad yieited Egypt and Palestine, tasted the delights of Nile travel, dined with my old friend Boker at Constantinople, and acquired many more of those experiences which, when mutual, almost constitute an acquaintance. The only etiquette prescribed is full evening dress. I might have walked to the castle, as many of the "VVei- marese do, but there is something absurdly embarrassing in being seen in the streets, of a morning, in such guise, and I was fain to hide myself in the hotel-coach. The prince's marshal. Baron von "Wardenburg, received me in the anteroom, where I found the distinguished Afri- can traveler, Gerhard Eohlfs, come to say good-by before starting for the Libyan Desert. Eohlfs is a remarkable specimen of manly strength and beauty, tall, blonde- haired, large-limbed, with an Achillean air of courage and command. Tlie chain-full of orders on his coat seemed quite unnecessary, and the white cravat, I thought, weakened rather than emphasized his natural distinction. Baron von Salis summoned me into the reception room, and there was time, before the prince entered, to examine its exquisite furniture, a copy of a set de- signed by Holbein, made entirely by Weimar mechan- ics, and presented by the princesses as a wedding gift. Only drawings could represent its rich simplicity and quaint elegance. The carpets, curtains and chair-covers were rigidly subordinated to the furniture in color and AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR. 189 design, 'so tliat the room produced a single, grateful im- pression, like that of a musical chord. The prince is short in stature, like his great-grandfather, the illustri- ous Karl August, and quite frank and unaffected in his bearing. After a talk of half an hour, he got rid of me very gracefully by rising to look at one of the pieces of furniture. Tliis is always the most difficult part of an official reception, for the guest must neither seem to hasten it nor fail to catch the proper intima- tion. Descending to the rooms of the Ilcreditary Grand- Duchess, I was received by a handsome demoiselle (Thonneur and conducted to a charming boudoir, all blue satin and amber tints, where sat her Eoyal High- ness. She is the daughter of Prince Hermann of Saxe- Weimar, a branch of the family residing in Stuttgart, With her fair hair, clear blue eyes, rosy complexion, and slender form, she seemed to me English rather than German, and the slight differences of accent as she spoke English were those peculiar to Scotland, Al- though nearly a stranger to Weimar at the time of her marriage, . she became instantly and warmly popular. The modesty with which she wore her new rank, the air of frankness and honesty which surrounded her presence, impressed even the common people, as in the case of Alexandra of Denmark* She rose to receive me, pointed to a seat as she resumed her own, and the interview was no more ceremonious than when a re* 190 ESSAYS AND NOTES. fined ladj) in any land^ accepts the visit of a gentle- man. Two or three weeks afterwards, the prince and prin- cess gave "a musical evening," at which, if ever, the restraints of the "Weimar court should have been mani- fested; but I must confess that I entirely failed to dis- cover them. There may have been considerations ap- parent only to the native guests,— Kiegrees of preced- ence, grades of salutation, warmth or coldness measured by a fine social thermometer, — of wliich I was ignorant. I only know that in such refinements a hospitable char- ity is always extended to the stranger. I may have interchanged the addresses "Gracious Lady" and "Ex- cellency," used "Sir Baron" instead of "Sir Court- Chamberlain," or have lingered ten seconds too long in greeting this official, to the detriment of that other en- titled to an equal respect: these are matters with which only the native habit m is expected to be familiar. The effort of court ettiquette is, naturally, to conceal itself, 60 that, while all the manifold proprieties are observed, there shall be a general air of ease and freedom. There were some charming songs by the tenor of the opera, some excellent piano performances, much conversation, and finally a supper in the large hall. I am hardly capable of appreciating the technical excel- lence of music, since I take more joy in a single mel- ody of Mozart than in a whole score of "Wagner, and one with such tastes soon finds himself upon delicate AUTUMN DAYS IN IVEIAfAR. 191 ground in "Weimar. There was something played— ^ I scarcely know what to call it — which seemed to consist of a few wild, wandering notes, with an accom- paniment which (to my ear) repeated the German word pfefferhuchen^ pfefferkuchen ! (gingerbread) without change, until it grew almost distracting, I turned to a lady sitting near and indiscreetly asked, "le it to be pfefferkuchen forever?" She looked at mo with wide, incredulous eyes, too much astonished to be absolutely shocked, and answered, "That is by Liszt." Of course I became dumb. Liszt, I must declare, is one of the most incompre- hensible fashions in Weimar, Ilis arrogant whims and willful affectations are endured, so far as I can learn, without a protest. As ho was absent during the whole of my stay, my impressions of the man are derived solely from his admirers, his power over whom I can only explain by referring it to some weird personal magnetism. At the festival given at the Wartburg in honor of the Hereditary Grand-Duke, there was • a lyrical drama written by Victor Scheffel, the popular author (some of whose poems have been translated by Leland), introducing the various historical per- sonages and scenes, the memories whereof belong to that storied castle. Liszt composed the music for Scheffel's poetry, and directed the orchestra until Lu- ther came upon the stage : then he solemnly laid down his MJUyn, and walked away, leaving his place \.o be 192 ESSAYS AND NOTES. filled by another. The incident was related to me by an eye-witness. The combined rudeness and bad taste of such a demonstration seems to have given no serious offence to the court. Liszt's oratorio of Christus was performed while I Was in Weimar, and it was rather amusing to notice the determined elTorts to like the work, among a por- tion of the society of the place. I confess, after I was informed that a keen, ear-piercing sostenuto on the pic- colo-flute, represented tlio shining of the star of Bethle- hem, I was not in a mood to do justice to the remain- der of tlie porfortnunco. MuHic has its dUtinct limits, and all schoolrt arc false which » endeavor to overstup them. If sound can be made so minutely descriptive as is claimed, we shall finally have the ingredients of our soup represented to us by the band, as wo sit down to a fentival dinner! However, I meant only to refer to the singular lordship which Liszt appears to ex- ercise over a society, the members of which are so un- like him in race, creed and habits. That there should bo a crowd of young ladies, chiefly foreigners, waiting for opportunitloH to play before him and liear him play in turn, is natural enough, "NVoro Goethe living, he would doubtless find in the master a new illustra- tion of what ho calls the "daimonic" element in hu- man nature. At the supper, we were seated at detached round tables, five or six persons at each. One of my neigh- AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIAfAR, 193 bore was the Privy-Councilor Marshall, a Scotch gentle- man of the best and purest eesthetio blood, to know whom was one of the fortunes of my visit. The secre- tary of the Grand-Duchess, the tutor of the princesses in English literature, a friend of Carlyle, an admirable translator of English poetry into German, as well as a poet in his own right, ho would have brightened the gloomiest capital, and even here he kept his own dis- tinct illumination. My friend SchoU took mo one evening to a meeting of the Society of Forty, of which Mr. Marshall is also an old member, Dr. Kohler read a delightful essay on a department of folk-lore, including some fine translations of Servian ballads; and then followed the hearty supper of boiled carp with horee-radish, and venison with salad, which belongs specially to Germany. To my surprise, there was quite as much table oratory as in America or England. All the principal membere were called up, and in place of grave dissertations,—* which popular impression connects with such occa- sions in Germany, — there were brief, pithy and humor- ous speeches. The society has been in existence, I was informed, for more than forty yeare; some of the origi- nal membere are venerable, gray-haired men, yet there is no flagging in their furtherance of literary and scientific interests. Toward the end of November the court returned, and its hospitalities were added to the social attractions 194 ^^ ys AND NOTES. of the place. My Becond meeting with the Grand* Duke and his family took place under such exceptional circumstances that I cannot describe it without relating other matters which may seem unnecessarily personal. The ladies of the Gustav-Adolf Verein — a society founded for the support of Protestant pastors and the maintenance of churches in those parts of Germany where Protestants are few and poor — invited me to give one of a course of lectures which they had ar- ranged in the hope of increasing their funds. Since I had done the same thing, a year before, for a branch of the same society in Gotha, it was not possible to decline. I selected American Literature as a subject with which I was most, and the audience least, familiar, and also as affording me the best chance of dealing a few blows at the prevailing German belief in the all- absorbing materialism of American life. The Lyceum system does not exist in Germany, as yet) but a few individuals have achieved some success as lecturers. Carl Yogt and Biichner, the naturalists, Jordan, the rhapsodist, and Frita Reuter, as a reader of his Low-German stories, have made the profession popular and remunerative. This is due, however, to a special interest in themselves and their subjects, as well as to a more picturesque and animated delivery than the people have been accustomed to hear. Lec- tures have not yet become a necessary form of popular culture, and one reason is the utter indifference of the AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR. 195 average German lecturer to the audience "which he ad- dresses. Given his subject, he treats it first in the manner of a college thesis, discarding all illustrations or applications which might be adapted to the hearer's habits of thought; then, standing behind a high desk and two lamps, he fastens his eyes upon the manuscript and keeps them there to the end, while he reads in a mechanical, monotonous tone, with little inflection and less emphasis, I doubt whether an Athenian audience would have tolerated such a manner of delivery; our American audiences certainly will not, I therefore detennined to counteract the disadvan- tage of speaking in a foreign tongue by committing my lecture to memory, coming out from behind the desk, and addressing the audience face to face. In addition to illustrative quotations in English (which four out of five hearers were sure to understand), I selected a few of Strodtmann's admirable translations, especially thait of Poe's Eaven. Thus prepared, I betook myself to the hall, and it seemed like a good omen that the first lady-directress of the society whom I met was the granddaughter of Wie* land. Kindly greetings from the grandsons of Schiller and Herder followed, and presently a stir in the outer hall announced the arrival of the grandson of Karl Au- gust — the present Grand-Duke, Karl Alexander — and his family, A row of crimson plush arm-chairs, in front of the 'audience, was reserved for them. All present 196 ESSAVS AND NOTES. arose as they entered and remained standing until thej wore seated, after which, without any introduction to take ofiE the awkwardness of the beginning, I entered upon my task. I will only say of the lecture that the passages I re- cited from Bryant, Emerson, Whittier, Longfellow, and other poets,, seemed to be thoroughly appreciated by the audience. The Grand-Duchess frankly exclaimed, "How beautiful!" at the end of Whittier's Song of the Slaves in the Desert. There was also an evident interest created in the younger authors whom I men- tloiiod, and dunng tlio Huccecillng days I was iiskod many (^ueHtloiis concerning Stedtniin, Btoddiird, Aldrich and Bret Ilarte. If the assertions I made in regard to our culture seemed a little aggressive (since they wore directed against an existing misconception), they wore none the less received in the most hospitable manner, llinl I been H\iro of i\^ many and as friendly hearers in otber German cities, I should have been tempted to un- dertake a missionary tour in the interest of our litera- ture. The Grand-Duko is a talb handsome man, of about fifty-five, with a slight resemblance to his cousin, Alex- ander II. of Russia. He cherishes the literary tradi- tions of "Weimar, yet, apart from these, keeps himself acquainted with all contemporary literature and art. At his table, the next day, he began immediately to speak of Poo, whoso poem of the Raven he had never before AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR. 197 heard, "The conception is terrible," he said, **0f course the Raven can only symbolize Despair, and ho makes it perch upon the bust of Pallas, as if Despair even broods over Wisdom." It was a subtle remark; the thought had never occurred to me before, and I doubt whether it has been expressed in any criticism upon the poem, • The Grand-Duke spoke in enthusiafctio terms of Hawthorne's works, and seemed also to bo greatly pleased with Mr, Calvert's recent volume on Goethe. "I still distinctly remember Goethe," he said, "I can never forget his grand presence, especially his magnificent, luminous eyes." During a later visit to Weimar, when I took tea at the Belvedere, a summer castle about three miles from the town, the Grand-Duke remarked, " We have just been reading Goethe's Pandora, for the first time; now I suppose you have read it, long ago." "Yes," I an- swered, "but I should like to hear, first, what impres- sion it makes upon you." "It is wonderful!" he ex- claimed; "why is such a poem not better known and appreciated?" Why, indeed? Why is Milton's Para- dise Regained snubbed by most readers and critics? Why is not Landor popular? Why is the statuesque element in poetry, the glory of proportion and repose, the creation of a serene world, over which hangs "an ampler ether, a diviner air," so strange and foreign to the tastes of our day? It is enough to ask the question; we need not vex ourselves in the search for an answer. 198* £SSAVS AND NOTES. . The two princesses, Marie Alexandrine and Eliza- beth, are young ladies of such clear and distinct indi- Yiduality as is rarely found within the guarded limits of court life. They have had all possible advantages of education, and are unusually accomplished in lan- guages and music, but each has none the less devel- oped her own independent views of art and life. The Princess Marie surprised me one day by saying, " I have just read De Tocqueville's Democracy in Amer- ica ; is it a correct account of your institutions ? '' I re- plied that it was the best representation of our political system ever made by a foreign writer. "But," she continued, "I am told by Americans that it is quite false; that everything has in reality changed and de- generated.'* "Were they native-bom Americans, or German- Americans, who told you this?'* I asked. As I suspected, they belonged to the latter class. It was easy to explain that a temporary corruption In political practices does not affect the principles upon which a government is founded* The class of German- Americans to which I referred is one which has done tts positive harm in Europe. It may not be numerous, but it is loud and active because such expressions are always welcome in reactionary circles, and thus seem to give a social prestige to the utterers. There are, un- fortunately, too many external circumstances which may be given as confirmation; and an American who keeps unshaken faith in his republic and the integrity of its • AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR. 109 people cannot easily make the grounds of that faith in- telligible to strangers. One of my most interesting and valued acquain- tances was a lady, who, nearly as old as the cen- tury, still retained all the freshness of intellect and sen- sibility of heart which have made her life beautiful. Related as she is to one whom Goethe selected as the type of one of his noted characters, the most prominent figure in her memory is the poet's. As a child, she re- garded him as her stately fairy, coming with gifts and kindly words; as a girl, she loved him as the paternal friend to whom no unfavorable representations could make her disloyal; and as a woman, she saw and en- joyed the serenity of his closing years. Iler conversa- tion abounded with pictures of the past, so simple, yet of such assured outline that they were almost palpably visible to my own eyes, and many a light, accidental touch helped to make clearer the one central form. Out of many incidents, each unimportant in itself, a quality of character may became gradually manifest, and to this end my studies were directed. Through the memories of those who had intimately known Goethe, I caught a multitude of reflected gleams of his own nature; but I cannot repeat them as detached fragments without going too far beyond the scope of this article. Both the grandsons of the poet were absent during the greater part of my first stay in "Weimar. Late m the autumn, the younger—Baron Wolfgang von Goethe 200 ESSAYS AND NOTES. —returned, and took up his residence in the old man- sion on the present Goethe-Platz formerly called the Frauenplan. I met him there, one dark November evening. For the first time I entered the door, upon the outside of which I had gazed so longingly, at inter- vals of time, during twenty years. A hall, paved with stone, turns to the right as you enter, leading to the foot of the long, gently-sloping stair-case, which Goethe ordered built after his return from Italy. At the foot of the steps, on a pedestal running across the end of the hall, are copies of antique statues, including a faun and a hound; at the top there is a good cast of the beautiful group of San Ildefonso, Death and Immortal- ity. Here the word, " Salve," painted on the floor, in- dicates the entrance to the rooms where Goethe re- ceived visitors; now, with all their relics and treasures, inaccessible to the public. The whole of the first story, in fact, is at present unused, except for the purpose of preservation; the family occupies only the upper floor, under the roof. The old servant conducted me along a narrow pas- sage at the rear of the house, to the foot of a spiral staircase. I now saw that there was a rear building, invisble from the street, and separated from the front by a small court-yard. At the time it was built, the house must have been unusually spacious. The stair- case led to the upper floor, the rooms on which are small and not very conveniently disposed: during AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 201 Goetlie's life tliey were appropriated to the many guests who enjoyed his hospitality, Wolfgang von Goethe met me in the ante-room and led the way to his own apartment, looking upon the square. As he sat opposite to me, with the lamp-light ♦ falling strongly upon his face, I could not help turning ♦ from him to Stieler's portrait of Goethe (painted in 1828) which hung upon the wall. Except the chin and lower lip, which have a different character in the grandson, I found a striking and very unexpected re- semblance. There were the same large, clear, lambent eyes, the same high arched forehead, and strong, slightly aquiline nose. The younger Wolfgang is also a poet, whose talents would have received better recognition had he borne any other name. His poem of Erlinde is fantastically imaginative, it may be said; yet it contains passages of genuine creative power and beauty. It never could become popular, for it is a poem for poets: the author writes with an utter forgetfulness of the au- dience of his day. He was bom, and grew up, in an atmosphere which isolated him from the rapid changes in taste and thought and speculation that have come upon the world since his grandfather's death; and now, he and his elder brother are constantly censured, in Germany, simply because they are not other than they naturally and inevitably are. The possession of an il« lustrioufl name is certainly a great glory, but it may also become an almost intolerable burden. 203 ESSAYS AND NOTES. The room wa« filled with son venire or miggestions of Goethe. There were Bome of his drawings; pictures by his friends, Haekert and Tischbein ; a portrait of his son, August, and another of the beloved daughter-in-law, Ottilie, who died only a year before my visit. She and her sons were brought nearer by their kindness, in former years, to the one nearest to me; and this blend- ing of half-personal relations with the task I bore in my mind, and the flashing revelations of the master's face and voice in the face and voice I saw and heard, made my visit an overpowering mixture of reality and illusion, which I can hardly yet separate in memory. The conversation was long and, to me, intensely inter- esting. Many circumstances, which I need not now particularize, made my object appear diflScult of attain- ment; but I was met with a frankness which I can best acknowledge by silence. Some days afterwards, I called on a sunny morning, and Ilerr von Goethe accompanied me through the court-yard and a passage under the rear building into the old garden, which was Goethe's favorite resort in fine weather. A high wall divides it from the narrow street beyond, and later houses shut out the view of the park which it once commanded. But the garden- ground is spacious, secluded, and apparently unchanged in all its principal features. Two main alleys, edged with box, cross in the centre ; there is an old summer- house in one of the farther comers; ivy and rose-trees AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR. 203 grow at their own wild will, here and there, and the broad beds, open to the sun, show a curious mixture of weeds, vegetables, and flowering plants. Directly over^ looking the garden are the windows of Goethe's library and study, and there is the little door of the private staircase by which ho descended to take tlie air and watch the metamorphoses of plants, The shutters were closed: the whole aspect of the building was forlorn and dilapidated, in keeping with the lawless growths of the garden, A cold light, an imagined rather than real warmth, fell from the low Northern sun, and the frost was hoar upon leaves in shady comers. We walked up and down the central alley for a long time, but I cannot remember that much was said by either. My last visit to Weimar found the elder grandson, Walter von Goethe, at home, and the younger absent. The brothers never act, even in the slightest matters, without consultation, and my hope of seeing the closed halls and chambers in the Goethe-house depended on the consent of both. Fortunately, the question had been discussed between them in the mean time, and I was most kindly and cordially received by Walter von Goethe. His inheritance of genius manifests itself in a passion for musical studies, and- those who know him intimately assert that a sufficient necessity might have made him a successful composer. He is. a short, slen- der, graceful man of fifty-five, with dark hair and eyes, and a strong likeness to his mother and her family. In 204 £ssAys and notes. a day or two my ireqnest was granted, and a time fixed for its fulfillment, as the keys of the rooms are kept by a daughter of Schuchart, Goethe's last secretary. It had been a long time, my friends in "Weimar informed ine, since any strangers had been allowed access to the rooms. On a bright June morning 1 once more ascended the broad staircase and was met at the word Salve by my host, who opened the door beyond it. The apartments consist of an anteroom and a large ioton^ occupying the greater part of the first story. It was really a museum of art which I entered, crowded with cabinets, cases, busts, and pictures. Many of the objects have their own separate histories, and, as illustrations of phases of Goethe's life or passages from his works, cannot be spared. There is still, for instance, the picture which he bought in Frankfort, as a boy, the selection being allowed to him by his father, as a test of his natural taste J there are illustrations of his Italian journey by his companions, Tischbein and Kniep; Meyer's copy of the Aldobrandini marriage fresco, and many other ob- jects well known to all students of his works. "What- ever interest attracted Goethe, though only temporarily, was made the subject of illustration: he collected speci- mens from far and near, in order to possess himself of all its features, and thus fix its place in the realms of art or knowledge. In the large room there is a small but superb col- AUTUMN DAYS W WEIMAR, 205 lection, of Majolica ware, another of antique gemSj an* other of drawings by the old masters, and another of coins and medals. A careful examination of these treas- ures would require many hours, and I was obliged to be content with a rapid general inspection, leaving scores of drawers unopened, although my host kindly offered to gratify any special curiosity. But on all things the stamp of the large tastes, the universal inter- ests of the master remained ; as a creative man, no form of the crcative faculty in man was indifferent, or even trivial, to him. Ilis grand personality lingered in the rich, untenanted rooms; and when Walter von Goethe^ turning to some refreshments which had been placed in the anteroom, took a glass of wine and bade me wel- come in his grandfather's name, I could not help say- ing, "Pardon me if I seem to be Aw guest, even more than yours!" In the right wing, connecting the front with the rear portion of the house, Goethe's collection of min- eralogical and geological specimens is preserved. A noted geologist, who examined it during his life-time, informed me that it contained only the rarest and choicest articles; but from lack of scientific knowledge I had no desire to open the venerable cases. Beyond this wing, we first enter the library, a narrow room, crowded with books. There are probably from three to five thousand volumes, nearly every one of which appears to have been well used. All the rooms in the I 206 £SSAys AND NOTES. rear building overlook the garden; though small and low, they are full of Bun, and few noisea of the town reach them. To enter Goethe's study was almost like an intm- Bion upon some undying privacy which he has left be- hind him. Nothing in it has been changed' since he went forth. The windows were open; there was a vase of spring flowers on the secretary's table; one side of the room was clear of furniture, so that the poet might walk up and down, as he dictated; his coffee-cup and spoon stood upon a little stand; a wicker-basket held his handkerchief, and the high desk beside the window, where ho frequently wrote standing, waited with his inkstand, pen, and some sheets of the large, coarse fool« Bcap ho preferred. On this desk I also recognized a lit- tle statuette of Napoleon, in bluish glass, which Ecker- mann brought from Switzerland, and which Goethe prized as an illustration of his own Farbenlehre. The chairs and tables are of the plain, substantial character of tho last century; there is neither carpet nor rug on the floor, neither picture nor ornament to bo seen; a Bohemian's garret could hardly bo so bare and simple. A door on the eastern side of the study stood half open. I looked inquiringly at my host; he nodded si- lently, and I entered. It was a cell, rather than a room, lighted by one little window, and barely wide enough for the narrowest of German box-beds. The fadod counterpane was spread over the pillow, and be- AUTUMN DAYS IN WEIMAR, 207 side the head of the bed stood an old arm-chair with a hard footstool before it Sitting there, in the same spot, with the counterpane over his knees, the March daylight grew faint to Goethe's eyes, and with the words, "More light I" this world passed away from him« August, 1875. WEmAR IN JUNE. JUNE IB late in reaching Northern Germany, but all the fairer for its delay. The region is a field where two climates meet and contend, so that, while snow-drops often come M'ith Febrwary and violets with Hurch, as in England, the air kcc])8 its raw chillncss into May, and frost is a i)08sibility until after the three dreaded days of Pancratius, Ser\'atius, and Bonifaclus. Then the sun gains suddenly in |)ower, and the long, lingering twilights seem to come all at once. Gardens that have been wearily budding for a month, make a glorluurt hIiow of lilac, white and red thorn, and labur- num blo88oinri ; the hard, green globes of the peony burst into heavy ro^cs, that lean on the gleaming sward ; but not until the first bud on the rose tree u])cns is it really June. There are also two varieties of climate in TliUrtngia, depending on the elevation of the .'K>il. A diilcrenco of four or five hundred feet is equivalent to several de- grees of latitude. The river Saale and its tributaries possess the deepest valleys, and there the chestnut and WEIMAR IN JUNE, 209 walnut thrive almost as luxuriantly as in Baden, the vine is cultivated, and the harvest begins three weeks earlier than on the windy upland region. The wine country of the Saale, beginning near Rudolstadt, extends even to the famous Golden Mead, at the foot of the Ilartz. About Naumburg and Eossbach, where the Hussites were conquered by the children, and Freder- ick the Great scattered the French army like chaff with the wind of his charge, you see nothing but vine- yards. It is rather an acrid juice which they yield, and the rest of Germany delights in ridiculing its claim to the noble name of wine. This is one of the places where three men are required to drink a glass, — one to swallow the beverage, and two to hold him during the act I Claudius, in his Rhino wine song, says, — "Thiiringia'8 land, for sad example, bringcth A stuff that looks like wine, But is not I he who drinkcth never singeth, Nor gives one cheerful sign," It would be wrong, however, to infer a correspond- ing sourness in the temper of the inhabitants. They manage to extract, through that fine human distillation, which no chemistry can quite fathom, the same genial and kindly mellowness of nature from those "berries crude" as the Markgnifler or the vintager of the Pala- tinate from his warmer growths. To be sure, there is here a sober Saxon exterior, and some aspects of life 210 JSSSAVS AND NOTES. are facod with apparent Bovority; but frankness, fidel« ity, and a warm good-fellowsliip are the prevailing characteristics.' At Nebra, in the valley of the TJnstrat, I once stopped at a tavern called "The Inn of Care," the sign whereof was a man with a most lugubrious face, leaning his head upon his hand. Perhaps it was meant to symbolize the condition of the outside world ; for certainly there was no care, nor sign of the like, within the walls of the cheerful and home-like hostel. In speaking of the population of the Grand-Duchy of Saxe-Weimar, I use the name of Saxon in its mod- em geographical sense. The ancient tribe, the Thiir- ingians, were a decidedly more genial and impressible people than their tough and Saxon neighbors on the north, The best modem representatives of the latter are the Scotch, who also retain much of their physical character. During the early Middle Ages, the Sorbs (or Servians) pressed into Thiiringia as far as the Saale, but the traces of their Slavic blood are now found principally in the mountain districts. Even in the kingdom of Saxony a great part of the so-called " Saxon " population is strongly mixed with the Slavic element ; yet as the mixture usually reaches beyond all traditions of ancestry, it shows itself only in features Oi' temperament, not in general character and habits. The Saxons, then, are a strong, toiling, patient race: capable of warm and constant attachments; naturally intelligent, social, and with a tolerable sense of humor; WEIMAR IN JUNE. 211 given to enthusiasms and equally liable to prejudices, yet neither so stubborn nor so egotistic as t)xo North- Germans ; and only delayed somewhat in their further development by their adherence to an easy, conventional habit of life. When I returned to "Weimar in June, the great sweep of upland around the city seemed quite as mo- notonous in its silver-gray mantle of rye-fields as under the brown stubble of October; only the gardens and the park beside the Hm showed the bloom and delight of summer. It was a now pleasure to go back to my old quarters at the Eussischo Hof, to find the old cir- cle of friends at the reserved end of the dining-table, and to hear art and literature taken up and discussed as if at the point where I had withdrawn from the conversation six months before. The streets, now, woro full of old acquaintance ; odors of linden-blossoms floated into the library through open windows, and when, in company with Scholl and Kohler, I walked to Ober-TITeimar for the afternoon coffee, the park meadows were literally mats of wild flowers. Yet there was less of the past in the air than dur- ing those fading autumn days. Ghosts seem to like the smell of dead leaves better than that of opening roses: the overpowering life of nature which filled the beautiful valley banished every shadowy foot from its paths, and the lives of the great poets receded far away from ours. One melody, only, floated every* 818 SSSAYS AND NOTES. where: It waa the perfect voice of the time, and every ■word wa« §o steeped in the only musical tones which could convey its spirit to the ear, that neither could pospibly be remembered alone. Goethe gave one, Beet- hoven the other; and whoever knows both knows them for life:—- "Wte herrlich leuchtet Mir die Natur ! Wie gl^zt die Sonne, Wie lacht die Flur! Es dringcn BlUthen Au8 jedem Zwelg, tJnd tausend Stimmen Aus dem Gcstrduch) Und Freud' und Wonne Aus jeder Brust \ £rd\ Sonne, QlUck, Lust ! ** I am forced to quote the original, because no one can translate Goethe and Beethoven at the same time. Is it not singular how few poets have sung of the opening summer? I think there is scarcely a quotable verse tn English before LowelPs Day in June — which wa* published twenty years before it trickled through the widening layers of appreciation and reached the universal public. How many accomplished musical scholars have 1 not found who were quite ignorant of this perfect idyl of Beethoven I-— perfect, because it ex* iVEIMAR IN JUNE, 213 actly repeats Goethe's words in the inarticulate speech of a kindred art. Thus we come back again to Goethe, as we always must in Weimar. Tliere may be some persons in the little capital who now and then pass an entire day of their lives without thinking of Goethe or hearing his name uttered, but I imagine they are very few. The stranger, of course, does not seek to escape him. I could not get out of my bed in the morning and takei the first eastward look from the window without find- ing Herder, Musacus, and Bertuch in the spire of the Siadtkirche and the trees of the Erholung ; nor walk through the streets without noticing one that led into the Schillerstrasse or the Goethe-Platz ; nor look off into the country without seeing a road that made for the Ettersburg, or Tieffurt, or Berka ; nor pick up a news- paper, read a programme, or meet a friend, without the suggestion of one or all of the names. During this last visit I saw a great deal of one of the most estimable of women, whom I never supposed I was seeing for the last time. Although old— I be- lieve just as old as the century— and somewhat infirm, there was so much freshness of feeling in her speech, such eager human interest in all true and good things, that her spiritual life seemed competent to bear up the failing body for many years longer. When, six or seven months ago, Alwine Frommann died, one of the most intimate remaining links between Goethe and our k 2U ESSAYS AND ^fOTES. generation waa lost. Danghter of tlie fonner, and sister of the present Friedrich Frommann, the publishers in Jena, she knew the poet almost as a member of her family* He waa the welcome friend who brought her toys when she was a little girl, the teacher and kindly counselor of her years of early maidenliood, and tho honored and beloved old man whose memory was a blessing, as it was a pride to her whole life. Minna Ilerzlieb, the "Ottilie*' of Goethe's " Wahherwandtschaf" Uiiy^ was her f oster-sister ; and I heard the same simple, tnithful, and easily intelligible story of Goethe's rela- tions to Minna, from her o^vn lips, as Mr. Andrew Hamilton (through whom I made the acquaintance of Alwine Frommann) has since published in The Con- temporary Review. Ko author has ever been so persistently misjudged in regard to his relations with women as Goethe. The world forgets that during the greater part of his life he was the object of the intenscst literary jealousy and hostility, and that the most of the stories now current had their origin therein. The scandal occasioned in "Weimar by his marriage to Christiane Vulpius — another part of his life which has never yet been correctly re- lated — is an additional source of misconception. The impression thus produced, combined with a false appre- hension of Goethe's true character as a man, have kept alive to this day the most unfounded slanders. Schil- ler's life contains exactly the same number of love-pas- WEIMAR IN JUNE, 215 sages, but they ceased to be remembered against him after he had married a refined and noble-natured patric- ian lady. Goethe offended the sentiment of tho circle in which he moved less by his non-marriage tlian by his final marriage with the plebeian Christiane, the much-maligned woman whoso memory still waits for justice. Old prejudices and slanders have a tremendous local vitality. It is rather a sorry business to pry into the intimacies of an individual life, even for the sake of explanation or defense; but one who undertakes tho study of Goethe has no alternative. When tho beauti- ful eyes of Minna Ilerzlieb looked at me from tho wall, as I listened to Alwino Frommann's story of days now nearly seventy years gone by, and I saw many a simple relic of a man's guarded tenderness for a girl's transient enthusiasm, which made the relation clear in its innocence, I could but lament anew the reluctance of tho world to give up its belief in evil, A "Weimar friend, one day, gave me an amusing il- lustration of the blunders which even the most careful writer may make. "When Mr. Lewes was in Weimar, collecting materials for his biography of Goethe, my friend, who had made his personal acquaintance^ told him a story illustrative of the sentimental admiration which women, in Lavater's day, lavished upon him. The Marchesa Branconi, mistress of the Duke of Bruns- wick, famous alike for her beauty and her wit (Goethe and Karl August visited her in Switzerland), sent her 216 £SSAVS AND NOTES. garters to Lavater, as the most marked sign of homage which she could render. "When the biography was pub- lished, my friend was amazed to find that the lines from the marchesa's letter wore attributed to Lavater, who was thus made guilty of sending both garters and "gush** to her! Assuredly, no man ever gained a wider reputation by means of a softer head, than Lava- ter; but he was hardly idiotic enough for an act like this. Alwine Frommann was a charming specimen of the old "Weimar society. She had that low, clear, gentle voice which Invites confidences, and she received them frankly because she was always ready to return them. "Whenever she said to a man, "I feel that 1 can trust you,*' I cannot imagine that the trust was ever be- trayed. Her eyes were still youthfully soft, and her smile exquisitly sweet. In her dark silk dress, cap, and the lace which was lior only ornament, leaning forward in her earnestness as she spoke and making slight ges- tures with hei* delicate hands, she brought something of the storied " "Wednesday Circle," nearly all the mem- bers of which she had known, vividly into my imagin- ation. For many years she was companion and reader to the present Empress Augusta, and the Empress's nieces, the Princesses of Saxe-Weimar, were her most devoted friends. When 1 last called upon her, she exclaimed, "If you had only been ten minutes sooner! The dear princesses have just left." WEIMAR m yuNE, 217 Soon, however, Bhe returned to the one topic about which she was never weary of talking or I of listen- ing. "It was simply impossible to know Goethe with- out loving him," she said. "When I grew up to girl- hood, and began to hear and undei-stand the old scan- dals, supposing them to be true, I said to myself, *I cannot have such a man for a friend; I will not see him when ho comes again 1 ' "Well, ho came ; so frank, BO kindly, so fatherly and considerate to mo in every word and thought, that I could neither remember my resolution nor believe the stories." "Do you think this was the usual impression ho made?" I asked. "Always, — that is, where he felt free and uncon- strained. Our servants were devoted to him, because, with all his personal dignity, he was so kind and hu- man in his treatment of them. I remember we had once a cook, a young woman from the country, who took great pains to observe what dishes he particularly relished. When he visited Jena he usually lived in our garden-house, and his meals were carried to him there. So, the next time he came over from Weimar, the cook prepared the dinner she thought ho woul4 like. Goethe was tired and hungry, and was 8<> touched by this at- tention to his tastes that he said to her, *Thou art a good child ! ' took her head between his two hands, and kissed her on the forehead. She rushed back to the house, breathless, her hands clasped, and her eyes shin- 2i8 JSSSA^S' ANl> NOTES. ing B8 I never saw them before, and said to ns, ^0\ he kissed me on the forehead I ' And for days after- ward she moved about the house with such a quiet, serene, solemn air, that one could only believe that she felt the kiss as a consecration. Yes, and for me, too» his friendship is a consecration." There was a touch of sadness and absence in her tone as she said this, and the vision of the eye went back with the memory in a pause which I did not dare to disturb, except to say farewelL As she sits there, facing the portrait of Minna Ilerzlieb, with her thin hands clasped under her lace shawl, and the bouquet of red roses which the Princess Elizabeth had brought from Belvedere on the table, I still see her. From another lady, intimate with the Goethe family from childhood, I heard many picturesque anecdotes of "VVeimar life; but she was too young to have known more than the close of the great era. One of the dis* tinctest figures in her memory was that of Frau von Pogwisch, the mother of Ottilie, Goethe's daughter-in- law, a tall, determined, masculine lady, with a passion, occompatiied by a talent (the two are not always found together!) for playing upon the bugle. What free and clear individualities the women of that day show! How they strove to keep pace with the men in all cur- rent knowledge, reading history and philosophy, study- ing languages and arts, criticising and corresponding! Yet I cannot discover that any one was the less at- WEIMAR IN JUNE, ?,19 tractively feminine, or made herself unhappy by the longing for a prohibited political destiny. Furthermore, they seem to have been good house- keepers. Even the enemies of Christiane Yulpius were compelled to allow her that virtue, Schiller's Lotto kept good count of her groschen when she took table- borders in Jena, and I dare say she would have made both ends meet evenly but for her husband's rather thoughtless hospitality. It was hardly fair to bring in' six guests for a late supper, when there was only a' small bit of roast veal and a big dish of lettuce in the house, Frau von Stein, at her estate of Koch- berg, was once surprised by a message that the duke would arrive in an hour or so, to dine with her. There was small time for preparation, and very little in the house. A good, savory soup, to be sure; no German household can fail there; some potatoes, and a single haunch of venison, the latter a lucky gift, just received. Orders were given, house and hostess put on their best appearance, the duke arrived, and dinner was announced. All went well until the venison came, when— oh, woel — the attendant footman awk- wardly tilted the dish in carrying it to the table, and the haunch fell upon the floor, Frau von Stein, "with death in her heart" (as the French novelists say), smiled and serenely said, "Take it away, and bring the other I" The haunch was taken out, regamished, and brought JSSSA ys AND NOTES. back again. The hostess took her carving-knife and fork, flliced the most tempting portion, and offered it to Karl August, with the words, "Will your royal highness have a piece of thiaf^^ " Thank you," he answered, " if you please, I will take a piece of the firsV^ He waB too shrewd not to perceive the artifice, and too plain in his habits to care for the accident. I made the acquaintance, in "Weimar, of Count York von 'Wartenl)erg, son of Field-Marshal York of the Napoleonic wars, a gentleman of fine taste and cul- ture; and Baron "Wendelin von Maltzahn, whose scholar- eliip needs no other illustration than his edition of Les- sing's works. In fact, there is scarcely any province of the society of the place without a few distinguished members; but the culture of the aristocratic class seems most prominent because it is so unusual elsewhere. The house of the State Councilor Stichling, the grand- son of Herder, is the centre of the most agreeable cir- cle; and those old friends, Chief-Librarian SchOU and the artist Preller, know how to make the evenings speed with anecdote and friendly repartee. My summer visit waa all too brief. I could only verify a few points, and perform the pleasant social duties required by the hospitality I had enjoyed, when the time came for me to say farewell. The Grand-Duke and his family were then staying at the Belvedere, a sunmier castle on an airy hill, about three miles from WEIMAR IN yUNE, - . 221 Weimar, and I Bpcnt a part of two days very delight- fully there. Nothing could have been more frank, genial, and unrestrained than the spirit which prevailed at that summer court, The view southward from the hill overlooks the valley of the Ilm, and ranges over scattered forests to the uplands dividing it from the Saale, a landscape such as one often sees in the English county of Kent, To the north over Weimar, the Et- tersberg rises in a dark, level line. Although so near to the city, the place has an unexpected air of privacy and seclusion, Since the days of the Duchess Anna Amalia, It has boon a favorite rosidonco of the roigning family. One road yet remained to be trodden,— the old high- way crossing the uplands from Weimar to Jena, There is now a roundabout connection by rail between tho two places, scarcely a saving of time and certainly no increase of comfort, in fine weather; but the German people, like the Americans, imagine that it is both. The old road, which, even a hundred years ago, brought Weimar and Jena as near as the opposite suburbs of a great capital, will soon be deserted except by country carts and an occasional pilgrim from abroad. Fortunate in having so accomplished a scholar as Mr. Andrew Hamilton for a companion, a gentleman whose studies during his ten years' residence in Weimar ' made him the best possible guide and commentator, I Bet out one bright morning in an open post-chaise. After climbing the hill beyond the Urn, we passed the I .222 JSSSJyS AND NOTES. Wsbiclit, a local name for a grove lying between \Vei* mar and Tieffurt. It ia a natnral wood, with under* growth of thi<5ket8 and scattered planting of wild-flow* ers, Buch as we see everywhere in this country. I first knew it in its late autumn garb, with the accessories of falling leaves and wheeling ravens, from the lovely picture of Baron von Gleichen-Busswurm, Schiller's grandson. As we turned to the southeast across the high, roll- ing country, Weimar soon dropped behind us into the valley of the Ilm, and became invisible; the Belvedere rose a little above the horizon line, but in all other directions the landscape was as lonely and monotonous as Central Russia. It was that season when grass is not quite ripe for the scythe, wheat and rye are just com- ing into head, beets and potatoes have been hoed, and the farmere have a few idle days; consequently the broad miles of cultivated land on either side were almost deserted. Yet it was a region where a poetio brain would involuntarily begin, or go on with its work, — just enough suggestion in the open expanse of sky, in occasional low, distant gleams of blue, and in the two or three dells that deepen to the northward, disclosing sheltered meadows and groves. There are three or four little villages on or near the road. I remember the names of Umpferstedt and Hohl- Btedt, and the brown old buildings of the latter, cluster- ing about a big Lutheran church, as dark and heavy in WEIMAR IX yUNE. 223 appearance aa the square bastion of a fortress. Tliere were always lilacs, peonies, and snow-balls — the unfailing flowers of the Teutonic and the Anglo-Saxon peoples — in the garden; there was linen bleaching on the grass-plots beside the pool ; there were two women to be seen gos- siping in the shade, and possibly two men behind their beer in the tavern; the toll-man lifting his bar from the highway, and glad of a chance to exchange a few wise remarks with our postilion; and lastly, the goose- girl, with her bare feet, her long stick, and her quack- ing flocks. These features seem sufficiently picturesque, when you set them together for the reader of another land; yet, divested of its rich associations, the road from Weimar to Jena is about as uninteresting as any twelve miles in the world. The upland drains to the northward, and its highest crest forms the rim of the Saale valley. Thus Napo- leon, by climbing it from Jena, under cover of an aiv tumn fog, secured at once the advantage of position. The battle was fought mostly to the eastward of the highway, over a continuance of the undulating plain. Here Rossbach was avenged, even as Sedan has avenged Jena, The people do not make a show of the battle- ground, for an obvious reason, as they do at Leipzig and Waterloo. Yet the battle here was a wholesome, if an exceedingly bitter lesson: here the feudal spirit really fell, with the sword in its heart, although it maintained a galvanio semblance of life until 1848, 224 £s!^Ays and notes. The higheBt part of the field, now overgrown with pines, is called the Napoleonsberg. We descend into the Miihlthal (mill valley), at pres- ent, hy a new and admirable piece of road-engineering. Mr, Hamilton, pointing it out to me, said, " The Boten- frau never went this way; she took yonder path, which you can see rising straight tlirough the woods." Ah, the Botenfrau! I had almost forgotten that classic per- sonage. Many of her sisters still travel, in shine or rain, the mountain-roads of Thuringia; nay, have not I, myself, entrusted her with messages, and money for purchases, and has she not always faithfully rendered account? The " messenger- woman " is an ancient insti- tution in the land. She has her stated days, when she makes her appearance with a deep, square basket, slung knapsack-wise to her shoulders, with her ever-reliable memory and her unchallenged honesty, to take your commission for a volume of poetry or a leg of mutton, to borrow for you of a friend or pay an importunate enemy. On the second day, punctually to the hour, you will see her again, — all your business promptly at- tended to for a very trifling charge, and a budget of gossip thrown in, which you cannot be cruel enough to refuse hearing, I wonder what Schiller and Goethe would have done without their messenger-woman. She undoubt- edly took five hours for the walk between Jena and "Weimar, for she gossiped and had her beer at Hohl- WEIMAR IN yUNE, 225 stedt and Umpferstedt ; but tlie manuscript Bceno of Waliehstein which Schiller sent in the morning was in Goethe's hands in the afternoon, and the latter could frequently return his criticism by ducal estafctte before the author had gone to bed. Not only manuscripts passed between the two. The messenger-woman very often carried Teltow beets to Goethe, and fresh pike or perch to Schiller. (I cannot understand how either should be much of a delicacy; Teltow beets are dark roots, like stunted parsnips, with a flavor half bitter and half medicinal; and the Elbe pike is as coarse a fish as ever tempted an inland palate.) Sometimes the messen- ger carried birthday presents, sometimes money, often proof-sheets; and it is startling to think what hostilities of the Schlegels, and Burger, and Kotzebue, may havo been stowed away in the same basket! If we had any tears to spare, we would drop one to thy memory, good messenger-woman! We know thou wert tanned and leathery of visage, stouter of leg than the Graces, and as garrulous as any Muse; yet thou wert the go-be- tween of the Olympians, a peasant-Iris, and shalt not wholly lack the honor thou couldst not comprehend! Descending into the Miihlthal, we soon emerged into the broad, warm, luxuriant valley of the Saale. Here the bluffs and forelands of the upper region have almost the dignity of mountains, as they stand apart to leave ample space for the town and its garden suburbs, and the spacious river-meads. Here, below, there was 226 £ssy^s AND NOTES. no broosoy and tlio Jnno lun had iU volnptuons will; ovory tnatiBion and cottago was ola^pod in a ring of blossoming roBo-trooB> And euch rosea! richly-fod and tondorly-tcnded reinantanteSf opening great circles of white, pink, crimson, maroon, or salmon-colored petals, such as Persia or Cashmere never dreamed of* The rose, indeed, is but a gypsy in the Orient! hero she is princess of an ancient lino, and the commonest gardener loves her better than Hafiz did. How could one echo, looking on this peerless perfection of bloom, and inhal* ing tlio breath that turns sense into soul, the mournful afterthought uf Oinar KhayytVui? •*Ycs, but where leaves the rose of yesterday !♦* As wo drove into the city, my friend pointed out tho old Frommann house, whore Alwino^s childhood was passed. There is still a little garden attached to it, and also a garden-house, but tho latter is surely too new to have been Goethe's residence from sixty to seventy years ago. We stopped at "The Black Bear," the same hotel wherein Luther spent one night, wearing a trooper's armor and calling himself "Squire George,** on his secret journey from the VVartburg to Witten- berg. There was quite a crowd in the little university town, by reason of Bach's "Passion'* being given in the church; and thus the Frommann family was not at home when we first called there. Through Mr. Hamilton's kind offices, however^ 1 IVEIMAR IN JUNE, 227 made tlie acquaintance of a lady who was- familiar with the court of Duke Karl August, and had known Goethe in the still fresh and vigorous beginning of his age. As a young girl, she was one of the principal performers in a masque which he wrote, on the occa- sion of the Empress of Russia's visit to "Weimar; and her account of the kindly patience with which he drilled her and other maidens in their tasks was very vivid and delightful. They all went to his house to rehearse, and in such a state of fright that the most of them were on the point of running away. The impos- ing presence of the poet, his deep, powerful voice, and the supreme place in German literature which waa then, at least, universally conceded to him, affected both the sense and the imagination. But the lady who told the story concealed her trepidation and stood her ground. Goethe, she soon saw, was pleased with her apparent self-possession, even as he seemed to be an- noyed by the shyness of her companions. He praised while he corrected her delivery of his verses, declaimed them for her, and instructed her so gently, yet so wisely, that her performance was a famous success. She represented a Genius, with wings, gauze, and span- gles; her part was to address the empress, face to face. "I felt Goethe's eye on me," she said to us; "and I thought only of him, while I spoke. I forgot all about the empress, and everybody was astonished at the cool- ness with which I looked at her." 228 JSSSA yS AND NOTES. I There is no great Bignificance in thiB anecdote, by itself. But it is one of hundreds which I heard, and which produce the same impression of a grand, noble, and simply humane personality. I cannot go further, now, into any presentation of Goethe as a character, for this is a part of the larger task which led me to "Wei- mar; yet I cannot help now and then dropping such illustrative details, as entered into my experience in making acquaintance with those who knew the poet and the circumstances and associations of his life. From a long study of his works and the special litera- ture they have called forth, I went to the place-^aa was, in fact, inevitable — with a tolerably complete men- tal outline of the man; and it was my greatest cheer and satisfaction, when I left Weimar to return home, to find that I waa only obliged to add the necessary light and shade, with scarcely the need of a variation' in the drawing. After dinner, Bach's "Passion'* being ended, we found Friedrich Frommann, and were received like old friends. The quaint old house, with its long and wind- ing passages leading to chambers looking upon little ver- durous courts, where there was no sound of the streets, quite fascinated me. The dark wooden floors, the simple yet comfortable furniture, the few^ choice pictures and busts, the absence of mere show, of every sign of strug- gle and emulation, and the not-to-be-described atmosphere of art and taste and thought which they who know never WEIMAR IN JUNE. 229 fail to detect with their first eniff of the air, — all these were blissfully welcome. Herr Frommann and his daugh- ter bestowed upon us the hospitality of the house in full unreserve. His sister, Alwine, had given me no letter of introduction; she simply said, "My brother will ex- pect to see you, when you go to Jena," and the intro- duction was thereby already made. We drove back to Weimar towards sunset, when every long swell of the upland, or crest of a distant wood was outlined by a keen, golden edge of light. The valley of the Ilm opens suddenly, like that of the Saale, only half as deep and broad, but made very pic- turesque by the old mill and bridge, the high-towered castle and the park. The old paths of the poets, visi- ble through the gaps in the heavy foliage, were doubly cool and secluded in the evening shadow. Families sat at tables in their gardens and took their tea in the open air. Beyond, on the avenue stretch- ing away to Belvedere, gleams of fresh color moved to and fro; and we met no face which had not cast away its anxious look of labor, in a glad surrender to the influences of the hour. The scene recalled Goethe's line: **Here ii the people^s propor heaven.** Another day of farewells, and I left Weimar, There is no Fountain of Trevi there, the drinking of whose 230 £SSA YS AND NOTES. N. -> Castor the fearless horseman, and the skilled In boxing, Pollux, — twins ; one mother bore Both at one birth with me. Did they not come From pleasant Lacedoemon to the war f Or, having crossed the deep in their good shipi^ Shun they to fight among the valiant ones Of Greece, because of my reproach and shame V She spake ; but they already lay in earth In Laccdffimon, their dear native land.'* Here each translator has his special merits. l£r. 'Bryant fa plain, compact, and gives the words of Helen a practical directness which scarcely hints at emotion. Dr. Hawtrey's lines, on the other hand, somewhat am- plify the text, yet exhale a sentiment of regret and ten- derness. Perhaps no better specimens of the two meas- ures could be selected. To our thinking, they justify WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 271 botli Mr. Bryant's choice of blank verse for his version, and the prospect that at some future day — fifty years, a century, two centuries hence, — the ears of English- reading people will be trained to a proper delight in one of the richest and stateliest of meters — the dactylic hexameter. As we turn over the clear, deliciously-printed pages, we find ourselves constantly arrested by passages which tempt quotation for their rhetoric, rhythm, or move- ment; but the finish of all parts is so equal and admi- rable that we are forced to select those portions which are best known through recent discussion. We find no sign of languor or indifference in any part of the volume. The labor of translation is most effectually concealed, and the reader is carried forward as on a broad, swift stream, brimming full to its banks, and unruffled because of its depth and volume. "We quote (because we suspect the reader will look for it) the famous description of the watch-fires, at the end of the Eighth Book. First, Lord Derby: "Full of proud hopes, upon the pass of war, All night they camped ; and frequent blazed their firei. As when in Heaven, around the glittering moon, The Btars shino bright amid the breathless air ; And ev'ry crag and ev^ry jutting peak Stands boldly forth, and ev^ry forest glade ; Ev^n to the gates of Heaven is opened wide The boundless sky ; shines each particular star 273 ^SSA VS AND NOTES. Distinct ; Joy flUs the gazing shepherd*! heart Bo bright, so thickly scattered o*er the plain, Before the walls of Troy, between the ships And Xanthus* stream, the Trojan watch-fires blai'd^ A thousand fires burnt brightly ; and round each Bat fifty warriors in the ruddy glare ; Champing the provender before them laid, Barley and rye, the tethered horses stood Beside the cars, and waited for the mom.** *We add, for the sake of further compariBOii) Mr* Tennyson's translation of this same passage: **And these all night upon the ridge of war Bat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed ) As when in heaven the stars about the moon Look beautiful, when all the winds are hiid And every hight e&met out and jutting peak And valley^ and the immeaturdtle lieavent liredk open to their highest^ and all the stan Bhine and the shepherd gladdens in his heart | Bo many a fire between the ships and stream Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, A thousand on the plain ; and close by each, Bat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; And champing golden grain, the horses stood Close by their chariots, waiting for the dawn«** This is Mr. Bryant's Version: ** Bo, high in hope, they sat the whole night through In warlike lines, and many watch-fires blazed. As when in heaven the stars look brightly forth WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 273 Hound the clear-shining moon, while not a breeze Stirs in the depths of air, and all the stars Are seen, and gladness fills the shepherd's heart, So many fires in sight of Ilium blazed, Lit by the sons of Troy, between the ships And eddying Xanthus : on the plain there shone A thousand ; fifty warriors by each fire Sat in its light. Their steeds beside the cars- Champing their oats and their white barley — stood, And waited for the golden mom to rise." Mr, Bryant omits the lines we have italicised in Mr, Tennyson's translation, for the reason (stated in his pre^ face) that they are regarded by the best critics as not properly belonging to the text, but as transferred to it by some interpolator from another simile in tho Six- teenth Book. "With this exception, we find tho two lat- ter versions equally picturesque and elevated in tone : their merits are so fairly balanced that we should find it difticult to choose between them. Both, however, are indisputably closer, stronger, and more symmetri- cally constructed than Lord Derby's. So far as regards an intelligent comprehension of the text of Homer, we suspect there is no very marked difference among his translators. But, since so many words are represented by numerous synonyms — since there are always two possible modes of translation, one barely prosaic, divested of any poetic atmosphere, and the other in accordance with the poetic truth of the theme— we find, unfortunately, that the original poet 274 £SSAyS AND NOTES. takes mncli of the tone and character of the medixun through which he ia transferred to another knguage. We reckon it as one of the great excellences of Mr. Bryant's version, that it suggests nothing of the individ- ual manner of the translator, except, indeed, those pure artistic qualities which are above all individual charac- teristics of genius. AVe need not refer to the transla- tions of Hobbs, Sotheby, Wright, and others, all of which have passed into oblivion; but those of Chap- man, Pope, and Cowper betray, in almost any passage that may be selected, the individual cliaracter of the translator's style. Lord Derby is free from this defect, because he is no poet and therefore has no special po- etic style wherewith to clothe his author. The same may be said of Mr. Newman. We find thus in Mr. Bryant (as also in Mr. Longfellow, in translating the Divina Commedia) a poet satisfied to suppress every manifestation of himself— >to abnegate his own poetio personality, except in so far as it may assist in the conscientious reproduction of the foreign poet in his own language. We have made a closer comparison with Lord Derby's Iliad, because of its resemblance, in form and literal fidelity, to Mr. Bryant's. Both versions will probably have their advocates; but those who appre- ciate purity of diction, the balance and the harmony of rhythm, variety of movement, and that native poetic instinct which combines the simple and the picturesque, IVILLIAM CVLLEN BRYANT, 275 the bare prosaic fact and its dignified expression, will prefer that of Mr. Bryant. Februabt, 1870. IL Poems, This last absolutely complete edition of Mr. Bryant's poems, is the most welcome gift of the season. It con- tains everything he has written, including a few poems not given in any previous collection, from "Thana- topsis," which appeared sixty years ago, to " The Flood of Years," which came with this centenary year. His "Christmas in 1875" (now properly inscribed "Supposed to be written by a Spaniard," — for the de- vice of its being a translation deceived none who ap- preciate the poet's purity of diction and meter) is hardly less fresh and melodious than the poems of his prime. He is an illustrious example of the youth of that highest poetic art, which does not spring from youthful ferment of the blood, or the motions of a keen, enthusiastic sentiment which is dulled by time, but which is inwoven into the whole moral and intel- lectual being of the poet, is bom with liim and cannot be lost while he lives. Mr. Bryant's genius never has been exercised save in agreement with his literary coa- scienoe. This single Tolume embraces the poetical labor of an nnnsually long and earnest life; and, although it 276 £SSAyS AND NOTES. presents varieties of achievement, there is little if any* thing in it which, the sternest literary critic would be willing to spare. Indeed, the relative value of the poems depends upon that of their themes, rather than the execution. In the slightest, we feel the presence of the same pure and lofty taste, the same chastened imagination and temperate use of the abundant richness of language which we know to be at the author's com- mand. Mr. Bryant has never been a popular poet, in the ordinary acceptation of the word : neither is "Words- worth, to whom he has the nearest intellectual kinship. But he has ever been conspicuous, elevated beyond all temporary popularities, and venerated by the great mass of readers who are unfamiliar with his best poems. "We have always considered his "Antiquity of Freedom" and "Hymn to Death," as stronger and loftier strains than " Thanatopsis," the charm of which lies chiefly in its grave, majestic music. Many of his brief lyrics are also compact with what might be called condensed imagination, and sparkle with new sugges- tiveness at each perusal This new and beautiful edi- tion fitly embalms the life's work of one of the chief founders of our Literature. KOYEMBER, 1870. KICHAED HENEY DANA, NovEMBEB 14Tn, 1877., TO-DAY, the eecond bom of tbo first generation of American authors — Eichard Henry Dana-— com- pleted his ninetieth year. Ilia only predecessor waa Washington Irving, who, bom on the third of April, 1783, waa his senior by four years and seven months. He was just beginning to walk and talk when George Washington waa inaugurated first President of the United States; he waa advanced from petticoats to trowsers when tho French Eovolution broke out; ho waa in his eighteenth year when Schiller died; and ho might have been known as an author when Byron, his junior, published Childe Harold. A life prolonged to such a date, even when memory fails, intellect grows cloudy, and the body slowly loses its functions, is sufllciently rare; bat a life still clear, serenely intel- ligent, responsive to all its old interesta and enjoy- ments, is almost a phenomenon. It goes far to prove that the only longevity which la desirable depends more upon intellectual activity than bodily vigor. Saadi, the Peraian poet, lived to the age of one 278 MSSAYS AkD NOTES. hnndred and seven; Count "Waldeck, artist and arch* ceologist, was one hundred and nine, and Titian died in his hundredth year. But we cannot now recall any dis- tinguished authors of Europe, except Eogers and Lo'.-d Brougham, who passed their ninth decade, and the former of these was almost dead to the living world, for several years before his end. The life of Richard Henry Dana has a special interest for all Amerieans, from the circumstance that it includes the entire lite- rary history of the nation, not excepting Barlow's "Vision of Columbus," which appeared about the time of his birth. He has seen the whole achieve- ment, of which he is an honored part. His own con- tribution to it is none the less important, because so unobtrusively made. He has never been one of those who attach thoniBulvos to the structure as a flying but- tress, or seek to shoot aloft as an ornate and conspicu ous pinnacle; but when we examine the foundations, we shall find his chisel-mark on many of the niost en- during blocks. His editorship of the "North American lloviow," in the days when Brj^ant first began to write, his grave and refluod essays, his jjooms, far above tho fashion of the times, and his lectures on Shakespeare, were agencies of pure taste and profounder culture, the operation of which must have been much wider than wo can now measure. His influence has been conserva- tive, but in the best sense. He was perhaps the very first American author to recognize the genius of RldTARD HENRY DANA, 279 "Wordsworth at its true value, and in advance of most of the English critics. He had no sympathy with the schools of simulated passion or sentiment which fol- lowed Byron or Mrs. Ilemans, and was content to be ignored while they were triumphant. But the day has come, at last, when every one who studies the history of our intellectual development, must of necessity rec- ognize the services he rendered. Mr. Dana comes of a distinguished line, and is the literary link between a father famed in jurisprudence and a son who has already won an honored name in the same field. The son of Chief Justice Dana, of Massachusetts; the grandson of AVilliam Ellery, the rela- tive of Dr. Channing and Washington Allston^ his life has been passed in an atmospliere of high thinking and upright action. He has, perhaps, been less originally creative as an author than would have been the case under other circumstances, for the reason that much of the expression which his intellect craved already ex- isted around him. But it has been a happy life, inspir- ing esteem from others at the start, and now blessed by the love and reverence of his family and friends. He still rides out and draws refreshment from the stir of the Boston streets, still retains his interest in all that is going on. In Summer, at his home on the coast near Manchester, he passes much of his time in the open air» and his sight is keen to detect sails so distant on the ocean's rim that they escape younger eyes. It must 580 JSiSA YS AND NOTES, have been with a prophetic instinct of Dana*8 present life that Bryant wrote, forty or fifty years ago, of '*a good old Age, released from carO) Journeying, in long serenitj, away. • • • *mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind Toices ever nigh. GEORGE SAND. Junk 8th, 1876. Whex Madame de Stael, the greatest woman-brain France had np to that time given to the world, died in Paris, in 1817, a yonng girl of thirteen was jnst entering a conventual school in the same city, sent thither partly to be educated and partly to escape the coarse wrangling of a grandmother who was the left- handed descendant of kings, and a mother who had risen from the dregs of society. For three or four ' years this yonng girl found peace and a limited diet of knowledge in her seclusion, and the impassioned dreams born of her awakened religious feeling never allowed her to imagine that a crown, richer and more resplend- ent than that of the great woman who had passed away, was waiting for her own browi Now, as she lies dead, there will be few to deny GEORGE SAND, 281 that in George Sand France has lost a greater than Madame de Stael. The works of the two women are as dissimilar as their fortunes ; in character and temper- ament we find few points wherein they coincide. The latter not only possessed, but cultivated, a masculine tone in all she said and wrote : the former is distinctly femi- nine, even in her highest intellectual expression. That is, she illustrates the completeness of the form to wliich genius may rise when it works through a woman's brain. Madame de Stael was an observer, a critic, a diplomatist : George Sand was a creative artist. In her conscience, her devotion to a lofty literary ideal, her untiring acqui- sitions in every department of knowledge, she was only equaled by Balzac ; but out of feeling and passion and imagination she distilled a style as pure and nobly sus- tained as he achieved by colder study and labor. Even when she deals with such subjects as the monastic life, communism, or social problems springing from the re- lations of the sexes, and is compelled to express her ideas chiefly through male characters, the reader never fo»*get8 that it is a large-natured, clear-brained, great woman who speaks, — the original equal, not the copy, of a great man. If the whole truth could be known, and weighed in a juster than the ordinary human balance, we suspect that George Sand's life would not entirely lack the grandeur of the victory of character over circumstances. She certainly achieved, before her death, the full right 283 JSiSSA YS AND NOTES. to obllviou of her confused, etrnggling and wandering years. If, on the one hand, manj faults may be charged against her, on the other she faced and outlived much cruel calumny and malice. When we consider what blood ran in her veins — ^that of King Augustus the Strong of Poland, who, as Carlyle says, "lived in this world regardless of expense,'* of the fair and frail Aurora von Konigsmark, of Marshal Saxe, and. of the vulgar woman who was made her father's wife in order to le- gitimate her own birth — we may surmise, not what the world believed of her, but the untold conflicts and the unrecorded victories which it never knew. "We see her, alone and peimiless in Paris, with a single literary friend, painfully bridging over the gulf between vague concep- tion and coherent expression : we see her, once the power acquired, giving forth work after work, each clearer, stronger, endowed with a richer vitality than its prede- cessor : we see her, finally, at the hight of her fame and fortune, when a merely epicurean nature would have been content to enjoy them, relaxing no atom of devo- tion to her task, yielding nothing of her warm human faith, shrinking from no expression of conviction or per- formance of duty to her fellow-men. It is not too much, therefore, to accept George Sand as a type of greatness of character no less than of great- ness of intellect. Her fame is due to no early favor of genius, no fortunate accident : it is the result of untiring labor, of boundless faith in her art. As we trace her GEORGE SAND, 283 achievementB back to their timid and painful beginnings, it is impossible to withhold from her the renown of being one of the four or five greatest feminine brains the race has ever produced. In literature she is perhaps the greatest. Her style is as superior to that of Madame do Stael as beautiful breathing life is to sculptured mar- ble. Heroin she surpasses the only living woman wor- thy to bo placed beside her — George Eliot. Tlie latter also resembles her in lofty aspiration and cheerful obe- dience to the laws of toil. Both are embodied lessons, which ambitious women— and men no less — would do well to study. Genius is but as steam blown from an open vessel, so long as it is not accompanied by intelligent and unremitting effort. George Sand first learned what her work must be; then she learned how to do it, and gave the best of her life to the deed. In spite of po- litical disability she rose to a power to which political rights could have added nothing. In the field of intel- lectual exertion and achievement she did a man's task, and her legacy to the world is all tlie more valuable be* o^TLse she did it in a woman's way. EDMTOrB CLAREKCE STEDMAN. VICTORIAN toirre.— When the eBsay on "Ten- nyson and Theocritus," which forms the sixth chapter of this work, first appeared in print, it was a welcome surprise even to those friends of Mr. Stedman who were most familiar with the fine and symmetrical qualitos of his intellect. That pure poetic insight which is the vital spirit of criticism is often combined with the faculty of song, and even with the patient toil of *the scholar; but the calm, judicial temperament, which restricts the warmth of the one and the tendency of the other to minute and wearisome detail, is a much rarer element in the composition of an author's mind. The tone of the essay, resulting from such a happy conjunction of powers, was no less admirable than its substance j and, since the author who earnestly appre- hends his calling cannot but feel his o\vn success, and be stimulated to extend it, the present volume has grown as naturally as a flower-— or, let us rather say, an oak — from the planted seed. The readers of this magazine are already familiar EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, 285 With the three leading qualities we have mentioned, through the series of papers, commencing with that en- titled "Victorian Poets," and tenninating in our Octo- ber number, which have received such wide perusal and comment. Each essay, fitted into its place as a chapter of the "Victorian Poets," is sufiiciently com- plete in itself; yet it now, for the first time, gains its proper value as a part of one complete and hannonious structure.* The Preface, in which the author, instead of dictatorially announcing formulte of criticism to the reader, frankly reveals the intellectual principles of his own nature, and the habits and interests which, shaped his work ; the first chapter, broadly sketching the liter- ary characteristics of the whole period, with its rela- tions to other well-marked eras in English literature, and to the general development of the race; the clear and logical re-arrangement of the contents, giving tliem re* ciprocal support and elucidation, and lastly, the analyti- cal index which completes the volume, — are all neces- sary portions of the author's plan. Whatever might have seemed abruptly stated, or insufficiently accounted for, in the essays as they appeared separately, now falls into its logical connection with the leading ideas. A repenisal of these essays thus becomes almost a new reading. The chief excellence of Mr, Stedman'g volume might be called— especially with reference to the prev- alent tone of modem criticism— ethical, no less than in- I 286 isSAYS AND NOTES. tellectnal. We allude to that nobility of judgment, at once just and sympathetic, which seeks the true point of vision for every branch of literary art; which abne- gates the author's personal tastes and preferences, even restricting the dear temptation to eloquence and ima- gery, whenever they might mislead ; which regards the substance of poetry no less than its technical qualities; and which, while religiously holding to its faith in the eternal requisites of simplicity and proportion, recognizes the imperfect genius of the writers who violate these requisites, or fail to attain them. This is an excellence which only an author may adequately honor ; for it im- plies both courage and the self-denial of a sound literary conscience. The author impresses us, as we read, like one who drives a mettled stood with a firm hand, check- ing all paces which might display a greater grace or swiftness, and careful lest any slower creature be injured on his way. Even where we partly dissent from his estimates, as in the cases of Buchanan and Morris, the intention of fairness is so evident that, contrasting it with the tone of those critics who seem afraid to praise lest praise should imply some possible inferiority in themselves, we are easily reconciled to his generosity. The feeling of the poet expresses itself only in his ap* preciation of good qualities; for offences, he applies a calm, scientific treatment, which so carries with it its own justification that the subject may feel, but cannot resent or retaliate. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 2S7 Mr. Stedman's stylo, clear, compact and vigorous, is adjusted by a true artistic sense to his large critical method. It is purposely less brilliant, in either a rhetor- ical or an imaginative character, than he might easily have made it. Even so admirable a genius and so ripe a scholar as Mr. Lowell cannot always resist the temp- tation of accepting those fine suggestions which rather sparkle over the surface of a theme than inevitably be- long to it, — channing the reader, indeed, but leading him a little aside from the direct line of thought. That style Bcems to us best which displays the subject in the clear- est possible light, without calling special attention to it- self ; for it conceals the introversion of even the most spontaneous, self-forgetting author, whom yet we remem- ber with double gratitude at the end of his task. In no respect, let us here remark, have many of the present generation of authors made a greater mistake, than in assuming that individuality in style is the result of con- scious effort. The qualities which Mr. Stedman has exhibited in his <* Victorian Poets " ought not to be rare ; but they are so, in our day. For the past twenty years, the bulk of that which has been offered to the public as literary criticism in England and America — with the exception of three or four distinguished names in either country — may readily be classed under these three heads: First, the lofty, patronizing tone, as of those who always assume their own infinite superiority to the authors whom they 288 ESSAYS AND NOTES. \ deign to notice; secondly, the mechanical treatment of *J a class which posseBses culture without vital, creative power, and thus discourages through its lack of genuine sympathy with aspiration; and lastly, the "gushing," impressible souls, to whom everything new and unex- • pected seems equally great. There has probably been no i time, in the whole course of intellectual development of our race, when clear, healthy, liberal canons of judgment j were more needed by the reading public. Mr. Stedman has slightly touched upon this point, in regard to the sin- gular vagaries of English taste, in its estimate of Ameri- \ can authors. It was not within the scope of his work to do more than notice such a phenomenon ; and we sus- pect that his own quiet example will accomplish much more in the way of a return to the true, unchangeable ideals, than any amount of polemical writing. "We have preferred to dwell upon the spirit which ' informs the volume, rather than upon the separate di- visions of its theme, since many of the latter are already i known to the readers of this magazine. But we may add, that the essays upon Tennyson, the Brownings, Arnold, and Swinburne, are surely more complete, im- partial and discriminative, than any English critic of ' our time would be likely to write. The breadth of the Atlantic may not be equivalent to posterity, but it cer- : tainly removes a writer from the atmosphere in which a thouHaud present and personal interests flout, and aro breathed as invisible sporos. The references to Ameri- \ EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, 289 can literature are perhaps as frequent and significant as Mr. Stedman's plan allowed; yet, in view of an action and reaction which are not yet balanced as they ought to be, we should be glad if the contrast which is merely hinted had been further developed, "When Mr. Stedman gays : " After a close examination of the minor poets of Britain, during the last fifteen years, I have formed, most unexpectedly, the belief that an anthology could be culled from the miscellaneous poetry of the United States, equally lasting and attractive with any selected from that of Great Britain;" and adds, shortly after- ward; "I believe that the day is not far distant when the fine and sensitive lyrical feeling of America will swell into floods of creative song," — we are tempted to regret his enforced omission of the links which connect the literary development of the two countries. The leading poets of the Victorian era are treated at satisfactory length, and in spite of the author's semi- apology, with even less of technical criticism than would be justified by the special qualities which separate them from their predecessors. They are not, however, allowed to stand isolated in their time ; they are attached to the past and the probable future, and their art is not re- moved from its place in the total development of the race. This breadth of view is the secret of Mr. Sted^* man's impartiality. In the single instance where we have discovered a bit of exaggeration (page 18): ^vay, as many still are fain, it must be for the tender heart of women or the delight of youth, since the fitter audience of thinkers, the most elevated and eager spirits, no longer find sustenance in such empty magician's food.'* "We tliink, also, that Mr. Stedman somewhat overestimates the power of re- cent scientific development to benumb the activity of the eesthotic element in man* Mr. Huxley's shallow im* pertinence in regard to poetry has not yet, so far as we know, found an echo ; and it is not likely that a taste inherent in the nature of man, and inseparate from his progress, can be even temporarily discouraged. The ex- tent to which imaginative art depends upon, or is mod- ified by, the facts or speculations of science, is still an unsettled question; even Goethe, in whom both ele- ments existed, found it safest to hold them so widely apart — at least, during his productive period — ^that there was rarely an inter-reflection. Meanwhile, we heartily agree with Mr. Stedman that the result, in spite of all transitional struggles, will be "a fresh inspiration, ex- EDMUND CLARENCE SFEDMAN 291 pressing itself in new symbols, new imagery and beauty suggested by the fuller truth." Mr, Stedman'fl views in regard to tho intellectual characteristics of our day, and tho signs of a coming reaction from tho present extreme of technical refine- ment, arc both new and striking, and deserve a careful consideration. Some of these views may have been pre- eented before, but only as scattered hints or specula- tions; no previous writer has given a clear, compact, and intelligent survey of tho whole field. Each single figure is thus projected against tho same broad back- ground, and casts a shadow, more or less distinct, be- yond its present achievement. This feature distin- guishes the "Victorian Poets'* from all other essays in contemporary criticism, and places its author in the foremost rank of writers, beside Mr. Lowell and Mr. Matthew Arnold. If he lacks the humor and dazzling afiiuence of illustration of the former, or the exquis- itely molded style of the latter, he possesses qualities of equal value in the serene, judicial temper of his in- tellect, and the conscientious severity which enables an author to subordinate himself to his theme. Djecembeb, 1875. n. Hawthobne and otheb Poems. — ^Yonng men, who feel that they are bom with some natural gift of song, and henoe glow with ambition- for a literary careeri £SSA ys AND NOTEt may learn a needful lesson from Mr. Stedman^ It is just four years since the collected edition of his poems was published) and this volume, which contains all his rhythmical work during that period, gives us seven- teen original poems and two translations from the Greek. This is not, of course, the measure of his pro- ductiveness, were he free to live for his art and to obey every impulse of his genius; but it illustrates, none the less, his devotion to an ideal which prohibits all hasty or careless performance. It gives evidence that no amount of unliterary drudgery is able to sup- press the true poet, or even materially to hinder his de- velopment; for in these last poems we find the proof of growth in their broader grasp of thought and their fuller music. Mr. Stedman has not yet written a poem so evenly pitched in a lofty key, as his "Hawthorne." It is, properly, an elegy, and suggests comparison with the four other poems of the same character which have their permanent places in English literature. Of these, it stands nearest to Matthew Arnold's "Thyrsis," in form, although the stanza has quite a diiferent bar* monic effect. The twelve lines, in the order of rhyme, are simply the last six of an Italian sonnet, twice given; but the first and tenth lines have but three feet, which greatly lightens the stanza, while the occasional introduction of a feminine rhyme increases its music. The ear is held, yet the measure never drops into mon* otone. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 293 The other poems in the volume are of varying cliar- acter and merit. "Sister Beatrice" has the' grave, sweet, quaint character or Keats's "Isabella," and shows how much the author has gained in ease of movement and freshness of diction since the publication of hia "Blameless Prince" "The Discoverer," "News from Olympia," and "The Skull in the Gold Drift," are all excellent; biH in "The Lord's-Day Gale" we find more of technical skill (of a very admirable character, indeed), than of informing imagination. Our sympathies are less touched when they must be divided among three- score vessels, then if we saw but a single foundering bark, and knew a single person on board. "Clara Mor- ris," a "Song from a Drama," and "The Comedian's Last Night," are below Mr. Stedman's true level IIow gladly should we welcome, in their place, a dozen pages more of his stately and inspiring translation from ^s* chylusl The readers of the "Tribune" will remember the specimen given in his article on Schliemann's dis- coveries at MykensB, nearly a year ago. This, and his fine Homeric hexameters from Book XI of the Odys- sey, will increase the impatience of all cultured readers for the translation of the Idyls of Theocritus, upon which, it is understood, he has been engaged for some time past, lan. JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER MABEL MARTDft A Harveet IdyL— Mr. Whit- tier's Tolume contains ''the stretched metre ** of a poem which appeared several years ago. We have no American ballad-writer— that is, writer of ballads founded on our native history and tradition — who can be compared with him, either in the range or skillful treatment of his material From the day, now more than thirty years ago, when he wrote:— *'For a pale hand waa beckoning The Huguenot on. And in blackness and ashes Behind was St. John.** to his last idyl of New England life^ he has rarely chosen a foreign theme, however seductive, or an an* cient legend, unless it could be made to embody some aspiration of his large and loving humanity. No mat- ter how rude and humble the characters he selects, they never fail to receive at his hands the dignity which is essential to legendary poetry. JOHN GREENLEAP WHITTIER, 295 "Mabel Martin" is the simple narrative of the daughter of a lonely old woman, legally murdered on a charge of witchcraft, and bequeathing to her child a heritage of disgrace and scorn. Driven from the husk- ing-frolic where the girl sits alone and despised, she is followed by Esek Harden, the host of the festival, who brings her back and introduces her to the company as his betrothed bride. That is all ; nor is there the slightest appearance of art in the manner of telling the story. The verse is an iambic triplet with one lino unrliyracd — a form too bare of . music, were the ex- pression less naturally sweet and sincere. But it is a feature of Mr. Whittier's poetic genius that the truth and earnestness of his conception communicate^) itself to the reader. The ethical element is not added in the manner of an ingredient, as in some 2)oets whom wo would name: it is an inherent part of the author^s in- spiration. This poem, therefore, must bo read and judged as a whole; the tone is of equal elevation throughout, and there is scarcely a stanza which may be fairly detached, as a specimen of the execution. In il- lustration of the form, nevertheless, we quote the fol- lowing lines which contain a picture of ""Women Friends" no less admirably ei^ressed than literally true" ''Here, ground-fast in their native fieldi, Untempted by the city^s gain, The quiet farmer folk remain, 896 ESSAYS AND NOTES. ; Who bear the pleasant name of Frienda, And keep their father*! gentle ways And sknple speech of Bible dayt t For whose neat homesteads woman holds With modest ease her equal place. And wears upon her tranquil face The look of one who^ merging not Her self-hood in another^s will. To lovers and duty^s handmaid still ^ BUT, 1876. HENEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. PoBTioAL Works. — Following tho illustrated editton of Bryant's complete poetical works, we have this sumptuous edition of Longfellow* It is an illustrious record of his life's work, thus far; yet we can still less look upon it as the close of the poet's activity than in the case of Bryant. Longfellow, although approaching liis seventieth birthday, is twelve years younger, and retains, in all their life and fullness, the individual characteristics of his genius. He has never written lines more solemnly sweet and serene than his **Mori« turi Salutamus," never strains more instinct with airy imagination than the choruses in his "Masque of Pan- dora." The secret of his youthful devotion to his art does not lie wholly in his intellectual range and rich- HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW, 297 ness5 it eprings also from the universality of his senti- ment—we use the word in its pnre and dignified sense — in a wide, diffused glow, which does not rise to the heat and blaze of passion, and is so much the more permanent. If a great many of his brief poems seem like arrows shot at random into the air, we may be sure that every one of them will somewhere, or at some time, find its time target. He never seems con- sciously to keep in view, yet he never loses sight of, his near relationship to his fellowmen. Hence he has become a melodious voice for others, to a greater ex- tent than any other poet of this generation, not except- ing Tennyson. In this country he is a pervading, puri- fying and exalting influence, the operation of which will hardly be fully recognized before another genera- tion. Yet, while such poems as the "Psahn of Life," "Resignation,*' "Excelsior," and many others, the feel- ing and application whereof are universal, bear their messages to all readers, they do not represent his highest poetic achievement. In the "Occultation of Orion," "Prometheus and Epimetheus," "Palingenesis," and "Chrysaor," he speaks to the finer intelligence, and attains his true imaginative individuality. He has been widely and warmly praised, and now and then petu- lantly assailed, but has scarcely yet received the large and earnest criticism to which his genius and his labors entitle him. Such a criticism must not deal simply with the technical oharactonstics of his poetry, but 298 MSSA ys AND NOTES. mndt conBider its entire scope and tendency. The extent of his popularity indicates that of his moral and intellectual influence, and makes his life an important agency in the advancement of a higher culture among the American people. 1870. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Poetical Works. — The publishers have done an excellent thing in giving to the rapidly-increasing class of Mr. Lowell's readers this compact and complete edi- tion of his poems. With the exception of the Concord and Washington-Elra Odes, and a few bits of satire and epigram which have been anonymously published, it contains the entire poetic records of the author, from the appearance of his first volume, "A Year's Life" (in 1841), to the present time. The characteristic pre- face and burlesque criticisms appended to the "Fable for Critics'* are retained, as well as the correspondence and documents which are not the least important part of the "Biglow Papers." Mr. Lowell, in reaching that stage of publication which (to booksellers and book- buyers, at least) denotes permanence of literary fame, has omitted nothing and apparently changed nothing. He has not endeavored to patch over early crudities or extravagances with the better knowledge of his riper JAMES JiUSSELL LOWELL, 299 years, nor suppressed the utterances of feelings or opin- ions which ho may have long since outgrown. There- fore these collected poems, being presented in chrono- logical order, constitute the frankest possible biogvaphy of his poetic genius. But this will simply increase their value to all who have learned to enjoy the depth and earnestness of his conceptions, the wayward -^olian music of his lines, and the sportive quality of an imag- ination which nearly always seems to be free and exult- ing in its freedom. No one of our poets shows a richer or wider range of thought than Mr, Lowell: no one a greater variety of expression in verso. But what- ever form his Muse may select, it is the individuality of an intellect rather than that of a literary artist which she represents. The reader is never beguiled by studied graces of rhythm; but, on the other hand, he is constantly refreshed and stimulated by sudden glimpses of hights and splendors of thought which seem to bo revealed as much to the poet as to himself. Lowell rises with a swift wing, and can upbear himself, when he pleases, on a steady one ; but his nature Bcems hos- tile to that quality which compels each conception to shape itself into clear symmetry, and which therefore limits the willful exercise of the imagination. He seems to write under a strong stress of natural inspira- tion, then to shrink from the cooler-blooded labor of re- vision and the adjustment of the rhythmical expression to the informing thought Hence he is frequently nn- ' I- 800 ESSAYS AND i^OTMS. equal, not alone in separate poems, bnt also in diffe^ ent portions of the same poem. This is much more evident, however, in his earlier than in his later verse. Such poems as "In the Twilight,'* "The Washers of the Shroud," "To the Muse," and the greater part of the "Commemoration Ode" are alike perfect and noble. In fact, the rcador*8 impatience with the discords, which ho now and then finds in the oxproBBion of pure and oxcoUont ooncoptionB, always takes a sympathotio character. ""Why," he involuntarily asks, "does the author neglect a completeness which were so easy to powers like his?" The line between the conscientious- ncHB of a gonius which rcHpoots its peculiar individual- ity, and tlio Indliruroncu which dismisses the latter without further care, is not easy to draw. "The Co- thedral" is, perhaps, of all Mr. Lowell's poem.i, that which most clearly illustrates his own poetic nature, and in it the guiding conception or "motive" Is ahnost lost under the wealth of imagery and the excursions of an imagination which ranges free of check. If we are startled with the idea of a savage of the "age of flint" gazing at frescoes, wo are touched with exquisite sur* prise, when we And * plies simply to the externals of verse. The title of the volume, and a certain vagueness in the management of its theme, suggest the Vita Nxuyva of Dante ; the dainti- ness and quaintness of the author's fancy, which some- times drops towards the boundaries of conceit, and never quite rises into pure imagination, have an occa- cicnal reflection of Dante Rossetti ; yet we never lose the impression of a distinct and fairly-asserted individu- ality, which belongs to the author himself. Equipped with such excellent technical qualities as he exhibits, he might, indeed, have indulged in a freer and bolder RICHARD WA TSON GILDER. 309 strain; and we are inclined to think that the linking together of detached poems, the connecting phase of feeling or fancy in which is sometimes lost, was injudi- cious on his part. It can hardly be justified except by the use of a tragic, or at least thoroughly dramatic back- ground; few readers are patient to explore the liidden relations of an author's moods, until he is important enough to claim a permanent place in literature. The volume is in four parts, three whereof are intro- duced by "Interludes," careful bits of landscape-paint- ing, which have but a dim relevancy to the succeeding sonnets and lyrics. Part II. opens with two sonnets, " In a Dark Room," which are so far out of keeping with the serene sweetness of the remaining poems, that they come upon us with a disagreeable shock. Our enjoyment of the volume is thus marred by a suspicion of — not precisely affectation, but— over-anxious design, when the simple and lulling tenderness which breathes through it might aa easily have been left undisturbed. We are far from underrating the technical excellence which characterizes the poetry of our day; many in- trinsically good poetic conceptions are made intolerable by its absence; but it is a mistake to limit the sense of proportion to the form alone. Not only the spirit- ual essence — the idea— of the poem must partake of tha same harmony, but the volume itself, where all its parta are presented as a whole, must be sufficiently plastio to accommodate itself folly to the design. 810 £^S4 YS AND NOTES. In this first volume Mr. Gilder shows an nnnsnal capacity to elaborate his idea, without betraying the traces of his labor.' He begins with a faculty in full bloom, which usually buds much later — a literary con- science. He evidently tmderstands the present limita* tions of his talent, and is content to work within them, waiting for what to-morrow may bring forth. It is pleasant to find a new candidate for literary honors who inspires us with this confidence, and compels us to re- verso the customary counsel of the critic; for his sense of art, in its application to form, only leaves us free to suggest a wider liberty, a more unthinking surrender to the calls of the Muse. Mat. 1876. GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. RosK AKD Roof-Teek. — Mr. Lathrop has already appeared as a' poet in our magazines, but this is his first volume of song. There is an attractive modesty in its slight bulk, and the restrained, sober spirit which seems to breathe from its pages. Time was when a poet's first venture throbbed with the warm, impetuous blood of a young inspiration, and was bright with the reflected hues of other and older bards. He appealed to our interest through the very frankness of his faults; we do not complain of Spenser in the young Keats, or GEORGE PARSONS LATffROP, 811 of Kfeats in the young Tennyson. But now-a-days it almost seems as if the young poet were prematurely wise, concerned more for the appearance of maturity than for the keenest and sweetest utterance of his fresh conceptions. Once we pictured him with bright eyes and a flush on his smooth cheek, and we could hear the beating of his eager heart; now he steps be^ fore us with a calm self-possession, and endeavors to conceal whatever of artless spontaneity may linger about his song. In the critical atmosphere of our time the flame of inspiration loses something of its former wayward leap and sparkle; in fact, it often rcHembles a gas-jet, turned on and regulated at the author's will. This air of maturity first strikes us in Mr, La- throp's poetry, "We find no hint of his favorite poets, except perhaps of Emerson, where the resemblance is rather one of matter than of manner. The structure of the verse is careful, and the measures generally slow and grave, for even in his " April Aria " and " Rune of the Eain" there is but little of the dith'yrambio move- ment suggested by their varying metres. In first poetry of this character it is not easy to separate the elements of culture, refined taste, and pure poetic impulse which are apparent in its texture, and to estimate their rela- tive values. The defects of youth, which, no less than its merits, illustrate the quality of the talent are here absent; and we are also perplexed to know whether the talent ia displayed at its utmost or partly repressed by 812 ESSAVS AND NOTES. an anxionB exercise of the critical faculty. We find the chief evidence of youth in occasional conceits which are quaint rather than fanciful, as in these lines, taken from the opening poem which gives the volume its title: •* So» every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher, And scales the roof upon its wings of fire, And pricks the air, In lovely discontent, With thorns that question still of its intent.** The last couplet ends with a repetition instead of a rhyme; and the image is forced. The most satisfactory poem in the volume is "The Silent Tide,'* a story of Kew England life, told in blank verse, which adequately responds to the sombre character of the theme. Mat, 1870. SIDNEY LANIER. Poems. — Mr. Lanier^s dainty little volume contains only ten poems, but they embody as much character and thought as are usually found in the first hundred of a new poet. It is impossible to read them without feeling the presence of a clear individuality in song, — ^ a nature free, opulent, exquisitely impressible to a great range of influences, melodious and daring almost to an arbitrary degi*ee. Although the works of other poets, in passing through his mind, may have given some SIDNEY LANIER. 313 tingo of coloring, we find no distinct trace of any save, possibly, Shakespeare's sonnets. In poetic aim, form and choice of themes, Mr, Lanier has expressed himself 80 positively that he can not be mistaken for any one else. His " Cantata " for the Opening of the Exhibition at Philadelphia, which was written under the hard re- etrictions imposed by music, is omitted; and those who know him only through a work bo widely copied and so generally misconceived should have a new interest in becoming acquainted with his purely poetical work. The volume opens with the poem, entitled " Com," — the first new voice of song which the South has blown to us over the ashes of battle. We find in it the very atmosphere of the first tropi- cal burst of our American Summer. The whole poem, in fact, throbs with sunshine and is musical with the murmurs of growing things. It is racy with the fullest life of the soil, and the verse undulates and ever puts forth fresh sprays, like an overfed vine. In "The Symphony" we find the same qualities, to which, as in the " Psalm of the West,*' a willful, capricious element eeems to have been added. The faults of both are re* dundancy, and an apparent abandon to the starts and bolts, no less than to the speed of Fancy. They are in singular contrast to the author's maturity of ideas, and suggest an over-richness of material, an accumula* tion which has not been relieved by earlier utterances. There is more of the arabesque than the Grecian 314 EfSAYS AND NOTES, frieze in these poems* Portions of them seem like bits of oderiferons jungloi where the reader gets ahnost tangled in perfume and sound. The rhymeS) inevitable as the most of them seem — for they are all involved in the impetuous movement of the verse— are some* timea so frequent as to cloy the ear and make the re- pose of a simple couplet gratefuL There are effects which remind us of the elaborate Arabic meters of Hariri of Bosrah. But just such technical splendors of poetry require the firmest hand, the finest ear, the most delicate sense of Art. It is still too soon to de- cide whether Mr. Lanici'^s true course is to train or carefully prune this luxuriance. Meanwhile we heartily give him welcome, and congratulate his native South on a new poet. 1877. GEORGE D. PRENTICE. Poems.— We are carried back to a past which, al- though in reality near, seems very remote to our con- sciousness, as we turn the pages of this edition of the collected poems of George D. Prentice. It is only six^ years since . the author died ; it is hardly sixteen since his "Closing Year" reappeared in many newspapers on everv thirty-first of December. Yet, as we turn back to half-remembered poems and recall their former ca^ GEORGE />. PRENTICE, 315 rency,— aa we liear accents which are already begin- ning to sound strange to our ears, and scan with a sud- den wonder forms of poetic expression once so welcome and familiar, the great guK between free, self-asserting poetic genius, and poetic taste of even a very lofty and genuine character, is once more suggested. We do not know that Mr. Prentice ever claimed the title of poet; it was rather forced upon him by the many personal friends who heard in his verse the expression of the ardent, sir cere, generous nature they loved. He never seemed to care especially — at least, not with the absorb- ing fondness and jealousy of the poets who feel their consecration — for the lyrics, in which the music of hie emotions, rather than of his intellect or imagination, made itself heard. "We can not judge him, therefore, according to the standard of artistic achievement; we must simply ask what he designed, and how far he has been successful therein. The first literary friend of Mr. Prentice was John G. C. Brainard, a Connecticut poet, who is now remem- bered by two graceful little lyrics, and the fom\er never varied the strain which he learned in his youth. He sprang from the time when the influence of Mrs. Hemans was beginning to supersede that of Byron on the young generation, — when Kirk White's poems and PoUok'a "Course of Time" were considered classic, and Young's "Night Thoughts" was still devoutly read. At such a time, a poem like "The Gosing Year" was 816 J^sii YS AND NOTES. Buro of an enthnsiastio welcome ; nor can we denj to it now, tbo rigor and oloquonco of an exalted mood. It is almoBt free from* the fault of his other blank Terse poems, — a semi-prose construction, with the ccesural pause at the end of a foot, where it is not at the end of the lino. Without originality of idea or expression, the earnest stamp of the author*s nature gave a certain dignity to his verse, especially as he evidently never turned to it as a field of ambition, but simply for the relieving utterance of feelings which must otherwiso have remained unspoken. Take a single stanza from one of the most popular of Mr. Prentice's poems, "At my Mother's Grave": "Oft from life*! withered bower, In itill communion with the Pout, I turn, And mtiMo on thco, iho only flower In Memory's urn.** Here we have the phraseology of a fashion in poo- try which has long since passed away. But one of his poems, written in the same mea-^ure, " Elegiac," on the graves of the Union soldiers buried in Cave Hill Oem* etery, Louisville, is marked by a simplicity and solem* nity which are much more effective: "Yonder, a little way, Where mounds rise thick like surges on the sea. Those whom ye met in fierce array Sleep dreamlessly. GEORGE D, PRENTICE, 817 The same soft breezes sing, The same birds chant their spirit-requiem, The same sad flowers their fragrance fling O'er you and them. And pilgrims oft will grieve Alike o'er Northern and o'er Southern dust. And both to God's great mercy leave In equal trust." The volume is a welcome Bonyenir, not only to the many personal friends of the author, but to the many more who only know him through the work of his life. The interest of his poems does not depend upon the estimate which we may attach to his poetic talent. Mr. Piatt's introductory biography is written in a loving and warmly appreciative spirit, and gives a veiy satis- factory outline of Mr. Prentice's literaxy life. Mat. 1876. THE RIGHT HON. THE MARQUIS OF LORNE. aXJIDO Ain) LiTA. — ^We are confronted, here, with a moet noble neophite, the son-in-law of a Qaeen. But there is no royal or patrician road to success in the democratic realm of Song. The "Right Hon. the Marquis '* must take his place beside the farmer's boy and the young cotton-spinner, and no heraldic shield shall blunt for him the critic's arrows. "Guido and Lita'' is more decidedly a continuance of a past fashion in literature than anything in Mr. Prentice's volume, for we can not say that any lyrical form really becomes obsolete, and there are few of Mr. Prentice's lyrics which do not express a hearty sincerity of feeling. In the Marquis of Lome's poem we find the form of By- ron's "Corsair" without its fiery rhythm, and the slow movement of Crabbe without his fine and delicate paint* ing of details. Neither is the heroic couplet, so fre- quently used for epic narrative, an outworn meter; it is the mode generally, of expressing thought, the character of diction and style in which the past fashion is revived. Take for example, the second stanza of the poem: THE RIGHT HON, THE MARQUIS OF LORHE, 819 "Here every slope, and intervening dale, ^ ♦ Yields a sweet fragrance to the passing gale, , From the thick woods, where dark caronbas twine Their massive verdure with the hardier pine ; And, ^mid the rocks, or hid in hollowed cave, The fern and iris in profusion wave. From countless terraces, where olives rise, . XJnchilled by autumn^s blast, or wintry skies, And round the stems, within the dusky shade, The red anemones their home have made ; From gardens, where its breath forever blows Through myrtle thickets, and their wrcathi of rose/' if these lines had been published a hundred years ago, they might have secured the author a certain amount of poetic fame, Horace Walpole would have admired them, and Dr. Johnson would have accepted them with only a moderate growl. There is no word or descriptive feature in them which is at variance with the taste of that day; and the same level of an- tiquated Te^pectability is maintained throughout the whole poem. It is the work of a man of conventional culture, of refined but rigidly circumscribed tastes, and imbued with a great reverence for old, accepted and therefore proper models in literature. He might as easily have left the poem unwritten ; but having deter« mined to write a poem, it must needs possess the quiet reserve of the society in which he habitually moves. We do not doubt that he has made the best possible use of his natural gifts; and, indeed, there 820 £SlSAyS AJ^D NOTES. seems to be a spark smouldering tinder the coronet, and flickering dimly in such stanzas as these on the theme of "Noble Name8,V where the accepted motto of no* hlesse oblige allows hib thought a little freedom! " *Tis a precious heritage t Next to love of God, a might That should plant thy foot, where stood Of thy race the great and good, All thine age t "Yet remember I His a crown That can hardly be thine own. Till thou win it by some deed That with glory fresh shall feed Their renown t "Pride of lineage, pomp of powcr» Heap dishonor on the drone* Be shall lose his strength, who neTer Uses it for fair endeavor } Brief his hour I »» Par be it from us to deny such "fair endeavor** to the Marquis of Lomet The heir to a dukedom braves some prejudice in his own class when he enters the arena of letters: though not hampered by the usual re- strictions of the poet, he is subject to other and possi* bly severer ones. His ambition, therefore, includes a quality of courage which we must respect. The old Bothschild was in the habit of introducing a relative WILLIAM MORRIS. 821 of his, who was a composer, to his Plutocratic guests with tho words : " He composes music, but, thank God, not from necessity!" We are very sure that the intel- ligent and high-minded Duke of Argyle would be very proud to present the Marquis of Lome as : " My son —the poet I " and we are sincerely sorry that we see no likelihood — ^judging from the indications given in the present volume — ^that he will ever be able to do it. Mat, 1876. WILLIAM MOKRIS. The Story of Sigurd the Yolsuno, and the Fall OF THE NiBLUNos. — ^Whatever qualities Mr, Morris may lack, as a singer, scantness of breath is not one of them. He apparently takes such delight in the sound of his own chanting that he begins with great gladness and is ever more and more reluctant to leave off. Ho is fast becoming as interminable as the Eddas from which he draws his themes. In this story of Sigurd the Volsung we have the whole saga-cycle of the myth- ical Northern hero, fused and recast into an epic of ten thousand lilting alexandrines. It makes its appearance a little more than six months after the same author's translation of , HO WELLS, " 363 tlety in the conception of character, a capacity to give the finest shades of expression in tone and movement, which very few of our actors and actresses are able to render. In those French pieces the characters are real gentlemen and ladies; the plot is usually slight and without violent situations. The entire charm lies in the refined presentation and contrast of feelings, or interests, not so profound as to disturb, but sufficiently pronounced to awaken an easy and agreeable sympathy, The "Parlor-Car" is an admirable acclimatization of this school. One cares nothing for the two personages in it, but one is thoroughly diverted by their pretty mu- tual hypocrisies. It would certainly be successful on the stage, provided the right man and woman could bo found to represent it. In "Out of the Question," Mr, Ho wells seems to be gradually feeling his way toward larger work. "W© have five characters instead of two, and six soeneb in- stead of one. There is something more of plot, but it is still very slight: the loves of Miss Bellingham. of a blue-blooded family, and Mr. Blake, a steamboat engi- neer, constitute the theme, the true interest whereof (since every one knows at the beginning what the end must be) lies in the speech and action of the different personages. Mr, Howells is always more successful with his women than with his men — and especially with the half-womanized girl, whom we meet, with slight varia- tions of temperament and character, in most , of his 864 £SSAYS AND NOTES. rtories. He delights to represent her uncertain emo- tions, her "skittish" ways, her mixtnre of tenderness, petulance, frankness, and feminine duplicity. His style, the perfection of lightsome grace and vivacity, is ad- mirably adapted for such representation; we feel the transient charm of moods which may suggest some deeper base of character but have yet scarcely touched it— the surface-play, not the moving reality, of human passion. By contrast, Mr. Ilowells* men lack substance, for we require, in men, something more than subordi* nate service. Mr. Blake, in "Out of the Question," haa a more pronounced virility, but he is still rather a con- ventional hero. The chief fault of the comedy — from the literary, not the theatrical point of view — is the absence of any but the most superficial conflict of feelings and princi* pies. "Wo have the representatives of gentility — Mrs. Belllngham, weak, foolish and hypocritical; her boDi man enough to fight for the Union, but not enough to refuse to be a snob at his mother's command; and her sister, Mrs. Murray, selfish and vulgar in every fiber of her nature. Should not Blake's unaided manliness pre- vail against these? But not he must get back the daughter's watch from a thieving tramp and have his wrist broken, must turn out also to be the savior of the brother's life, in order that gratitude— not the sim- ple force of character — shall conquer the aristocratic prejudices of the family. This solution of the dramatic WILLIAM A HO WELLS, 865 problem is old enough to be a little threadbare. "We cannot escape the belief that Miss Bellingham herself would give him up, without tragical sorrow, but lor this auxiliary of family gratitude. In spite of her charming, girlish gushes of feeling she is too slight and shallow a nature to be capable of much resistance or sacrifice. Mr, Ilowells has so thoroughly mastered the technique of refined comedy that he now needs only to study the deeper and more permanent forces in the natures of men and women, to produce really important work of the kind. There must be a root to the most delicate and fragrant plant, and even so the lightest and airiest literary performance must hint of some basis in the reality of life. A Counterfeit Presentment: A Comedy. — Mr. Howells appears to be carefully working his way into that field of refined comedy, for which he possesses many appropriate qualities. In "A Counterfeit Pre- sentment " he has at last reached the stage ; for Mr, Lawrence Barrett, who owns the right of representation, has already produced it in Cincinnati. We heartily hope that it may be successful as an acting comedy; it will be a great gain if our theatre-going public can be led to appreciate the superiority of light, graceful, refined 866 £SSJlYS AND NOTES. Kumor, picturesque contrasts of character and the charm of probable incidents, over the extravagant and vulgar forms of farce which are threatening to usurp our stage. "A Counterfeit Presentment" has not the compactness and the brilliant succession of deceitful devices which wo find in Mr. Ilowells* "Parlor Car;" both the in- cidents and the manifestations of character are more improbable,— too much so, indeed, for a story meant only to be read, but not for the sharper perspective wliich the stage ro(iuirc8. The heroine, who is a bundle of hysterical moodH, is less agreeable to tlie imagination than she would be, if personated by a handsome and skilful young actress. Those very points in wliich the author shows the keenest and most delicate perception -•■interpretative glances, gestures and movements, and quick, unexpected changes, whereby he gives a pictur- esque character to ordinary talk— are so many aids to mimetic roprcHontation» The comedy should be read with reference to the author*s purpose. His plan car- ries him, to a certain extent, beyond the strict limits of literary art, and is most fairly judged by applying only the drutnatic ntatidurd. If this were Franco, wliuro the light, chuurftil cuniudy of ordinary life U m well ap- preciated, and so admirably played, the success of "A Counterfeit Presentment" would be a forgone conclu- sion. 1877. ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, 867 - ELIZABETH STUAKT PHELPS, The Story op Avis. — "Tiie Story of Avis" is a curious, we might say a remarkable, production. Few readers, we suspect, will be able either wholly to liko or wholly to dislike it. There is scarcely a page which does not indicate the presence of a decided natural clev emess, overlaid with the signs of an effort, sometimes absolutely painful, to bo much more than clever; the unreality of the characters, always on the point of grow- ing weary, is every now and then redeemed by one of those fresh, quaint touches which made the author's <* Gates Ajar" so popular; and the tenseness of every string that is touched varies its piercing shrillness with the deeper note of a very earnest aspiration. But the strongest characteristic of the story is its unconscious betrayal of the intellectual influences which have been working upon the mind of the author. From this one volume a skilful literary analyst, a century hence, may be able to reconstruct the tastes, faAhions, and habits of thought prevalent in Eastern Massachusetts at this day. He will find George Eliot, in the author's constant com- ment upon and explanation of the words and actions of her characters; Mrs, Spofford, in the laying on of plen- tiful color, in nature, costume, and furniture, and tie over-vitalizing of these accessories by an imagination ronning wild; Emerson^ Hawthorne, and Henry James, 868 £SSAys and notes. *jr., in scattered toucliea of description or pliiloeopliic corameht. In short, the "Story of Avis" impresses us as the result of breathing a certain intellectual stimulus for years, and of a purpose, deliberately formed, to be- come, in turn, one of the stimulants. It is not a work which compelled its own creation; and therefore it would probably have been much more satisfactory if the author's ambition had been content with a simpler stylo, and with characters nearer to ordinary humanity. The key-note is struck upon the very first page, where "she changed the accent of her thoughts as they pur- sued her"— quite an impossible thing to do, if she were not voluntarili/y and thus mechanically, thinking. "We are next told that the scene occurred "before feminine friendship and estrangements were founded on the dis- tinctions between protoplasm and bioplasm"— a fearful suggestion of what the scene might be, were it placed in our day. Three of the ladies present have the names of Coy, Chatty, and Avis; a young man reads Spenser with a voice which "suffused a penetrative sense of pleasure, of unexplained organic joy, like that of Nature in her simpler moods;" and Avis listens to him "with a certain aloofness in her beauty." The^pages are not !nerely sprinkled, they are crowded with such expres- sions as these, also with much better ones, it is true, but sometimes with much worse. Moods or emotions, not specially important in themselves, become "or- ganic," or "mathematical," or "dynamic;" and color, in ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, 869 particular, is treated in an antonishing manner. The author even Bays (we italicise the adjectives): "a Vtaz^ ing brown, a joyous gray, a restlesa green, a reticent red, a soraething never seen before." This phenom- enon is connected with the following additional fea- tures; "There was a rising, but as yet unagitated, wind, which appealed to, but did not stir, the purple heart of the sea morning-glories which sprang from the sand across the wall, The water had the Bupcrktivo and unmated meaning of a September sea. The near waves broke weedless and kindling, clean to the heart's core, like a nature burnt holy with a consecrated paa^ sion." A style like this is too fine for ordinary use; and so are the characters. Avis is an artistic genius, developed from a child whom cooking made miserable^ and sewing afflicted with "creeps," and the sight of her aunt fitting gussets "made frantic," into a woman whose moods and desires reach far above humanity. In spite of all her sacrifices (in which, as there is no spiritual comfort, so there is no love), she remains a sublime egotist. She falls into sometliing that passes for love, chiefly, we cannot help suspecting, because the young Professor with golden beard and dark eyes lookii like a "Norse god;" she bitterly and passionately reeista marriage, because of "its consequences;" and even when her first child is bom, and her husband asks: "Don't you feel any maternal affection for the little thing r she coolly answers: "Not a bit I" This 870 £siAys AJ^D iforES. is not the Btnff of whioh trae artlBts are made: the conception is not only falge, but positively harmfnL We have already a sufficient crop of young women, who turn their wholesome necessity of household duties into a piteous cesthetio Wettschmeray — to say nothing of the young men who feed their own vanity by calling labor degrading, and lamenting over the deterioration of their . souls, whenever they must earn their bread. A creature like Avis is an unfit, misleading ideal of womanhood, and the author's eloquent closing plea for a pure and perfect love between the highest types of the sexes, loses much of its force, in adorning such a tale. Miss Phelps is at her best in such scenes os the rescue of Avis from the reof, which is a piece of vivid and vigorous description. Where she forgets herself, and paints nature simply, she also gives us fresh and agreeable touches. Her humor, to which she too rarely allows expression, has its own individual quality. But she has aimed at doing tod much, and has thus brought down upon herself the vengeance of both human na< ture and literary art. 1877. ^ THREE AMERICAN NOVELS, 871 THEEE AMERICAN NOVELS * A Law unto Herself. By Rebecca Harding Davis. The Story of A Mine. By Bret Harte. Mirage, No Name Series, Mrs, Harding Davis is too thorough and conscien- tious a writer of fiction, to undertake (as certain other women do) to supply the market demand by producing two novels a year. Her literary reputation has been given by a very different class of readers, who have learned to welcome her works because she writes only from a sincere motive and adequate material. There- fore, with all the narrative skill which she has acquired, she never makes upon us the impression of mere mechanical cleverness, but secures our earnest interest simply by being in earnest herself. Her earlier works, with all their unmistakable power and originality, were sometimes marred by inaccuracies of detail, and in nearly all of them there was a prevailing undertone of pain, which now and then rose into a wail and left a depressing effect upon the reader. But she has out- grown both these defects, one associated with the tech- nical and the other with the moral quality of literary art She now presents life to us under juster aspects, * These being the last reviewe written And published b/ th^ au- thor, the editor leares them untouched, and printa them aa they ap» peared on the date noted at the dose. 872 ESSAYS AJ^TD ITOTSS. with proper balancea of joy and woe, and allowB hef characters to illustrate themselves by contrasts and deeds, instead of subjecting* them to continual spiritual dissec* tion, "A Law unto Herself" might have been consid* erably expanded, without doing injustice to the subject. The heroine, Jane, is a finely, clearly drawn character, with whose frankness and firmness we are charmed, be- cause they are so healthy, — and we a^ getting rather tired of morbid women in novels. Her father is no less successfully painted; but the male and female ad- venturers — moral and social tramps, they might be called — are the best illustration of Mrs. Davis's powers. In Miriam Combe, the "materializing'* medium, and Mr. Yan Ness, the professional philanthropist, she has enriched American fiction by two new types of charac- ter, which are familiar to everybody, but have never be- fore been so artistically drawn. Mr. Neckart and Miss Fleming are somewhat less satisfactory; we think too little is made of the latter, who suggests possibilities of an original third type. She is an artist, and a cu- rious contrast to Miss Phelps's " Avis." However, there is not one person gifted with painfully fine nerves in the whole book. Mrs. Davis has the higher instinct of finding motives in the myriad-fold development of the men and women, whom she has seen and known, in- stead of scouring the world for phenomena. — In the "Story of a Mine," Bret Harte goes back toward his early material, certainly to the delight of THREE AMERICAN NOVELS. 373 nine-tenths of his readers. On the first page we meet Conieho and his mule, plodding over the Coast Range, and we breathe at once balsamic Califomian air. The pictures of scenery are like those little landscapes of Jules Duprez, painted without a brush, but where every touch of the palette-knife sets exactly the right amount of color, in exactly the right place. The episode of Concho and the sprained mule is inimitable ; why can not Mr, Harte, if he finds the construction of an elab- orate plot difficult or fatigiiing, substitute a mosaic of Buch sketches, wrouglit into the forms of a simpler story? He is thoroughly master of the Spanish-Califor- nian element, sees with unerring eye what is piquant or picturesque in it, and steeps it in the very atmos- phere of its life; but he does not yet seem well able to combine it with material so heterogeneous as native American speculation and politics. The incidents fol- lowing the discovery of the mine; the forging of Gov- ernor Micheltorena's signature to the grant, and the variations of ownership are all described with great vi- vacity and freshness. When the scene of action is transferred to "Washington, however, the reader becomes confused. The air of vraisemblancf ceases: we can not understand either the exact position of the opposing claimarts, nor, at the end, why the failure of Congress to act npon the bill should have been caused by the fact of a Senator speaking for seven hours. This por- tion of the story becomes sketchy and fragmentary in 874 £ss^yiS Airn notes, character. "We hare a very repulsive description of the Hon* Mr. Gashwiler; a pale water-color of Mrs. Hop- kinson; the study of. a Senator, intended for Charles Bumner; a bitter piece of irony applied to the Civil Service ; and finally, Carmen de Haro in so new a char- acter that we only recognize her by the voice, not by her acts, as the same person. A little additional labor might have fused all this material into a fine, coherent form, and have placed the story among Mr. Harte's very best works. It is certainly better than anything he haB written during the last two or three years. It has touches of his admirable literary ability, and less ob- trusion of those faults which seem to come from impa tience or carelessness. Mr. Harte deserves that we. should measure him by a high standard of perform- ance, because he so often seems needlessly to fall short of it. This last story is fittingly dedicated to Mr. Udo Brachvogol, whose translations of many of Mr. Barters stories have contributed so much to his popu- larity in Germany* —"Mirage" is by the author of "Kismet," so of course, we are spared the trouble of guessing. It may bo set beside the* latter work, as the two best novels of the "No Name Series." Although the general plan is very much the same — being a romance interwoven with an episode of travel — there is an entirely new deal of characters, resulting in a different plot and de- nouement The author is to be commended for resist- THREE AMERICAN NOVELS, 375 > ing the. natural temptation of canying forward the same persons into another story, after the method of Bulwer and others. It would have been easier to do this, but the evidence of her ability as a writer of fiction would have been far less satisfactory. Not much constructive power is developed, as yet ; but we find two very ncccs-i sary qualities freely and delightfully manifested^-sasy, bright, piquant, yet seemingly unforced conversation, and a descriptive style which is brilliant, true, poetic, and all the more effective because held within the proper bounds. Beginning at Ismailia, on the Suez Canal, and closing at Damascus, the story has all Palestine aa its background, yet keeps itself free from an overplus of local associations. The courses of lovo are told in the chances of companionship, in subtle attractions, contrasts, misunderstandings and reticences, rather than by events, and herein the author shows a remarkable grace and delicacy of intellectual texture. Although the end is a half -disappointment, it is sad from past regret rather than from misgiving toward the future. The work, in some essential particulars, shows an advance on ^^ Kis- met." The style is firmer and more assured, and the characters exhibit a better subordination to the author's design. These will not be the last works from the same pen; the author is not mistaken in hor Tocation, Febbuabt 10, 187a PAT FOR BRAIN-WORIL THE question of the rewards of literature in this country naturally BUggests the whole subject of intellectual as contrasted with physical labor, and the many singular phenomena which still arise from it. The world is to some extent governed by long-inherited ideas and habits, and it frequently happens that one form of human activity is already emancipated from the laws of the Past and established upon a truer foun* dation, while a kindred form is still firmly held in the old bonds. The professions of Law and Medicine, for instance, being recognized as tieccssities of organised society, find their claims to remuneration universally ac- cepted, and enforce them without loss of respect; but when a poor author, a few years ago, brought suit in a Philadelphia court to recover some money due him from the publisher of a magazine, his bill, with its particulars of so-much for a sonnet, and so-much for a poem, was made the subject of endless legal ridicule. The distinction between forms of intellectual labor is kept up in many other ways. No man thinks of PAY FOR BRAIN^WORK, Z17 calling upon a lawyer for advice, or a physician fcr ex- amination and treatment, or a merchant for assistance in business, without rendering a full equivalent for the service; but one who devotes himself to Literature, and barely succeeds in subsisting upon its scanty and uncer- tain returns, is expected to give his fullest professional aid, at all times, for the sake of the compliment im- plied by asking itl Nay, more than this: the lawyer who writes a series of literary essays, the physician who produces a tragedy, the retired merchant who pon- ders an epic (such things frequently happen) feel no scruples in claiming two or three days of an author's time and thought, and would probably denounce him as mercenary, and unfitted for his high calling, if he hinted at any payment for the technical improvements suggested. Literary reputation thus brings with it a burden which is rarely balanced by any worldly advan- tage. Tennyson declared, a few years after he had been appointed Poet-Laureate, that the salary of a little less than one hundred pounds which he received from the ofiice did not really pay for the time lost in an- swering letters for aid and advice, and the postage upon them. In this country, distinction in politics brings a sim- ilar burden, although it is generally accompanied by a surer compensation. It was recently brought forward as a serious (if entirely unfounded) accusation against a prominent Senator, that he took pay for his political 878 ESSAYS AND NOTES, services in Ohio, in the Fall of 1875. The inference is that a man who is not wealthy, who has a family to support, and who occupies no political office, must leave his professional and most necessary duties when* ever called upon, and generously refuse all remunera- tion for the most exhausting labor known to men. If he ^1