tion of literary men. We are in possession only of the Halle and Jena journals up to January, and from them we shall furnish up the present article. The Germans are certainly improving in taste. A musical tragic-comic quodlibet has been written, for the purpose of laughing at the celebrated Ahnfrau, or Ancestress, of Mr Grillparzer, and, as the reviewer calls them, the rest of the "unholy tragedies of fatalism." Unfortunately, he does not enable us to judge of the piece; he merely says it is rich in both humour and wit, and a thousand times more valuable than the tragedies it ridicules. Mr Cloven foot, Gaspar Ironteeth, a four-footed Spanish devil, and a modern German poetess, can, we are persuaded, from their names and characters, be fit vehicles only for very common jokes. This is neither the first nor the only work which has suc cessfully ridiculed the love in German poets and German audiences for melodramatic horrors. A drama, unfit, however, for representation, called "The Stocking of Fate," † has been read, laughed over, and admired by almost all Germany. Potier, in his adinirable representation of the unhappy Werter, did not more excite the mirth of the Parisians than the Mr Fatals + have made the Germans laugh at the Ancestress and at the Guilt of Müll ner. We are sorry to observe the waste of genius and eloquence with which these productions of the German muse, of which every sensible German is ashamed, have lately been brought forward as worthy of the notice and admiration of the British public. Indeed, we may remark in general, that most of the writers who have translated works from the German have, in some measure, done that language and people discredit in the mind of the English reader, by choosing what may be called the wild shoots of German literature for the objects of their labours. The Robbers of Schiller was the production of his boiling youth, which he regarded in his after life as unworthy of his reputation The Sorrows of Werter was the very first of Goethe's works which excited.

• Jenaishe Allgemeine Literature Zeitung. Sept. 1819.

Das Schicksals Strümpf.

This work remains anonymous, but the authors styled themselves the "Gebrüder Fatales."

much notice. It was the result also of a momentary illness and melancholy, Neither of these illustrious authors, in the maturity of their ge nius, ever wrote any thing resembling these; yet, of all their numerous productions, these alone have become popular in our country. Already Mr Müllner, the most celebrated living dramatic author, in his own remarks on Guilt, has shown he is half discontented with this production; and he disliked his "Twenty-ninth of February" so much, as to censure it himself in his Almanack for the Theatre, and as to give it quite a different and a happier termination. Already, too, has Mr Grillparzer left the wild horrors of the melo-drama for the monotonous regularity of French tragedy. Since the Ahnfrau, he has written a dull play called Sappho; and we have no doubt, should he ever attain celebrity as an author, he will equally, with Schiller and Müllner, condemn the first flight of his frantic muse.

Whether it is that foreigners are generally incapable of seizing the finer shades of thought and the tenderer emotions which are found in the domestic literature of every cultivated people, or whether it is that our own taste is already too much perverted to scenes of cruelty, we will not decide; but it is certain that we have translated only the most horrific parts of German literature, and have neglected its more gentle and kindlier productions. Thus the greater part of the animated and truly glorious poems of Schiller, his beautifully poetical histories of the thirty years' war, and of the separation of the Netherlands from Spain,

his William Tell,-and his Maria Stuart,are almost unknown to the English reader. Thus also the horrid story of the Erl König of Goethe, and the still more horrid Leonore of Bürger, have both found a translator in one of the most eminent of our poets. But the little poem of the former author in one of our late Numbers is one of a very few attempts which have been made to render into our language any of his very tender and beautiful smaller pieces; and we believe it is only, too, in our pages that any one has ever thought of giving specimens of the broad and characteristic humour of Bürger. The produc

See Numbers for October and November 1818.

tions of Goethe of a soft and tender nature are so numerous and so excellent, that we hardly know which of them to select to illustrate our opinion. Perhaps "Der Gott und die Bahadere" is as pleasing and tender a poem for a short fiction as can be found in the compass of our own lite rature. And we have no hesitation in saying, that "Der Abt und der Käiser" of Bürger is as good a specimen of broad humour as is to be found in any language. We are persuaded, if the illustrious poet who, in his youth, translated the Erl König and Leonore, were now to translate from the German, that he would not select these monstrous fictions; and we trust the ingenious translator of Mülner will yet light upon productions more worthy of his fine powers of expression. Indeed we believe, by such ugly-headed monsters" having been so often selected by youthful authors, a more unfavourable opinion of German literature than it merits has been formed by the British public.

We have in the same review, however, a sufficient proof that German authors are not yet fully cured. Mr Ochlenschläger, we are informed, has published his drama, entitled " Ludfam's Höhle," which is said to resemble the Ahnfrau. And if it had not nearly equal success, it was not owing to any deficiency in horror. We are pleased to learn that this piece failed, though much was done for it by the dresses of the Highlanders. The scene is laid in Scotland; and the German misses have since taken pains to ascertain if the garments which delighted them so much are in daily use. We shall not be surprised if they should become enthusiastic tourists, and cross the sea to visit our mountains and their brave inhabitants. And we shall be very much surprised, after this exhibition on all the theatres of Germany, if some of the Princes do not change a regiment of Croats or Uhlans into Highlanders.

Bad customs circulate with rapidity. In the same review, a romance in verse is mentioned, entitled "The Inward Voice," in which the principal

Adelheid von Bergau, oder innere Stimmung, Eine Roman, von G. Fereyherr von Seckendorf, Dr. und Prof. am Collegio Carolina, zu Braunschweig. Jenaische All Literature Zeitung for September 1819.

hero has his skull clove down to the very neck, and he afterwards rises from the dead. As the author seems, in general, anxious to account for every appearance, we have no doubt he explains, in a satisfactory manner, the reunion of the two parts of the head. The reviewer, however, has unfortunately left us in the dark on this subject, or we should have gratefully imported the knowledge for the benefit of our own writers. The German author is a professor, and a man of learning, and he appears to have adopted this agreeable form of writing as a vehicle for his philological and etymological knowledge. He has appended in long notes his learning to his wit, and has scarcely used any extraordinary word without explaining to his readers its origin and accurate meaning. We have recently acquired, by the assistance of our poets, no despicable acquaintance with the manners of the East, and of our own ancestors. This gentleman teaches his readers philology in a tale. We have been taught politics in novels, and geology in poems, and we have no doubt that we shall soon learn mathematics in some agreeable fiction. The bards will be restored to all their ancient honours, and will not merely amuse, but, as heretofore, instruct mankind. And when we have exchanged hoary professors for youthful poets, there can be no question that the acquisition of knowledge will be, at least to one sex, no longer a toil, but a pleasure.

From knowing it to be Goethe's fantastical opinion, that, after a man arrives at the age of thirty, he can never acquire a new idea, and that all the after period of his life must be employed in working up the materials he had before acquired, we really did not expect to meet this veteran in a new corner of the field of literature. Our readers have, perhaps, no accurate knowledge of what Goethe has performed; and, before saying any thing of his new work, therefore, we shall embrace this opportunity of informing them, as far as our memory serves us. We believe there is neither living nor dead an example, except Voltaire, of an author attempting so many subjects as Goethe has attempted, and, at the same time, attaining so large a share of popularity for some of his performances. He has enrich

of ministers at Constantinople, or a well stuffed sopha, but also a collection of songs. The professed object of the work is to make eastern literature, by an appropriate dress, known to the western world, and the execution seems quite worthy of the genius of Goethe. We find it impossible to make any extract, but the very great knowledge which Goethe displays has astonished the reviewer, and made him speak of the work as well calculated to convey accurate notions both of the past and present literature of the Orientals. The work is to be continued.

Goethe has found time to compose all these various works without neglecting the world. He has long lived at the court of Weimar, been the companion of its sovereign, and had the direction, with the character of minister, of every thing which relates to the fine arts. Celebrated actors, whom he is said to have instructed, are to be met with in Weimar and many other parts of Germany. He began writing as a young man, and his muse is not yet tired, now that he is in his seventy-first year. "Nothing (says Madame de Stael) disturbs the strength of his mind, and even the defects of his character, ill-humour, embarrassment, constraint pass like clouds round the foot of that mountain, on the summit of which his genius is placed." In the equanimity of his temper, and in the vigour of his imagination, as well as in the similarity of age, he seems to resemble Fontenelle. He is all fancy, imagination, and knowledge, and can turn his well-stored mind with a most extraordinary lightness and felicity to every subject, and always executes something above mediocrity, but there is no particular one to which he can be said to be attached. He seems to regard life as intended for enjoyment, and without participating in its passions, turns it on every side to gather all its flowers. His acquaintance with human nature is more from study than from feeling, and he describes it well, because he has accurately observed and dissected it in others. No strong passions ever run away with him, and he never forgets the poet in the man. In all this he is essentially different from his great rival in popular favour, Schiller, whose boiling and impetuous spirit early destroyed his ha

rassed body. He died before attaining his fortieth year. His poetry seems to be the voice of his own heart, and when not deformed by passion, as in some of his early pieces, it finds a corresponding voice in every human breast. This is particularly the character of his smaller pieces. In them he is entirely the man, and he uses poetry only because it is the most convenient medium for expressing what he feels. Goethe, in general, gives delight only to refined and cultivated minds, to those acquainted with all the nice metaphysical distinctions of passion, and he is not always understood nor relished by uneducated people. If ever his language is impassioned, the design is evident, and he never describes his own feeling, but always those of some other person. His own portrait is never found in any of his works. Schiller, on the contrary, let him describe what he will, invests it with the deep colours of his own mind. his history of the thirty years' war, an extract from which will be found in a former part of this Volume, he has changed the cold phlegmatic calcu lating sovereigns of that period into animated and generous heroes, or he has given them all the wickedness of devils. In short, we should say, and it is the chief distinction between these poets, that all the works of Goethe proceeded from a remarkably well informed head; those of Schiller are more the effusions of a burning and feeling heart.

In

We intended to confine our remarks wholly to reviews of German books, and we break through our rule in one instance, to mention a review of a French work, but which seems to us, from the peculiar situation of the author, and the nature of the subject, of very general interest. The title of the work is "Tresor des Origines et Dictionnaire Grammatical Raisonnée de la Langue Française, par Charles Pougens de l'Institute." What is published is only a specimen of the Tresor des Origines, amounting to fifty words of the whole, which, it is expected, will fill six folio volumes. It is to be followed, should the author meet with sufficient encouragement, by the "Dictionnaire Grainmatical," which will extend to

• Page 415.

four folios. The whole is ready for publication. More than 4200 books are referred to in it. In some of the specimens published, twenty-five languages are quoted, either to show the origin of the word, or its present form and signification in some affiliated languages. The work could not have been brought together without prodigious labour and learning, and it is said to be a treasure of etymology for all the nations of Europe. Every word is traced to what the author supposes its source, and in this arduous task he has employed fortythree years of unceasing toil, fortyone of which he has been blind. We are acquainted with no similar instance of perseverance. During the whole of this period the author has necessarily been labouring, and looking only at the end of his labours. For our parts, we have long thought, that, under the dictates of fashion, the French are the most patient people of the globe, and without any other feeling for Mr Pougens but admiration, we think he is as extraordinary an instance of this quality as we have ever heard of. We would conclude our notice by wishing that his labours might be rewarded, but we know not what greater reward they could give him at the age of sixty-five, than they have already bestowed in amusing him through a long life. God tempers, it is most true, the wind to the shorn lamb.

Books that are new to the reviewers seem old to the public. We thought we should have the pleasure of announcing a perfectly new tragedy of the first order, but on inspecting the heading of the article, we observed that "The Death of Mahomet" was published in 1815. As we have never heard that it was represented, we conclude it wants the usual attractions of horror and absurdity. In fact, it seems to fail in interest. Mahomet is painted as a weak enthusiast, dividing his attention between women and religion. Hapsa, the daughter of Omar, the heiress of the prophet's mission, is an inspired maiden, with all the resignation, tenderness, and sublimity of a soft and mild being, who believes herself selected by the Deity to testify and to suffer. The early

Mahomet

veins,

me.

The storm, why thundering down
It lames the knotty oak of giant growth?
Has't never seen the sea lift its wild waves,
And foaming, dash upon the narrow shore?
Thou see'st wonders, and doubtest still my

Of novels and romances we find an abundance reviewed, but no one with so much praise as to make it worthy a place in our pages. The thirty-ninth volume of the novels of Schilling has been published. This author is as prolific as La Fontaine. Both bring forth two or three volumes every year. There is a vast deal of mannerism in the writings of both, particularly of Schilling. We give him the preference, however, as being more graphic, more original, and more humorous than La Fontaine. Our literary