WE remember a conversation at Dresden, many years ago, when an English poet of some eminence, who was not then thoroughly master of the German language, declared his disappointment on reading this drama. "Verse, however sonorous," said he, "will not constitute poetry. How can you account for the great man admitting passages so low-toned and commonplace as these?" "Ach, mein Gott!" exclaimed a German professor, rather nettled at the imputation, "ganz gewiss wurde es mit Fleiss gethan;" that is to say, "no doubt it was done intentionally."

In this accidental remark, as applied to Goethe, we think there is much good criticism; for if passages low-toned and prosaic do occur in any of his writings, certainly this could not have happened from want of sufficient power to raise them. Besides, multifarious and diversified as were his labours (works of science not excepted), we believe that on every occasion, even in the composition of the most trifling fragment, he acted (like Wordsworth) on some peculiar principle or system, of which he would have considered it quite beneath his dignity to afford any collateral explanation.

Touching the said qualification of dignity, surely no one ever knew better how to retain it in his conduct and demeanour than Goethe; or, we should rather say, it was an inherent attribute of his character. Those, therefore, who imagined that they could obtain his favour by flattery, or disturb his apparent quietism by acrimonious attacks, were alike completely baffled. Of this we remember a trifling example, during our first interview with him at Weimar. We had not the remotest intention to flatter, which would have been absurd and out of place; but on our alluding incidentally to the use that had been freely made by others of ideas and conceptions, which originated solely with the author of Faust," Mein lieber freund," said he, in a tone of the most perfect indifference, "I know all this well enough already: let us talk rather of your own literary pursuits, for I am tired of hearing about mine." It seem an odd comparison, but Goethe

may

John Kemble. By those who were acquainted with both persons, the remark indeed will not appear odd or irrelevant; for Kemble, independently of his literary acquirements, possessed great originality and decision of character, which, had he not obtained eminence as an actor, would assuredly have raised him to high rank in some other sphere.

We recollect, as well as if it had occurred yesterday, the effect produced by the first appearance of Goethe's tall, gaunt form, attired in a long, wide, blue surtout, as he slowly emerged from the interior of his drawing-room. It was not an appearance, but an apparition. Johnson has remarked of Burke, that even an illiterate observer, if led into accidental conversation with him, by stopping to avoid a shower of rain, would say, "This is an extraordinary man.' One look at Goethe's features, without a word being spoken, was enough to convey the impression of his intellectual supremacy, of the long labours which he had undergone, of his perfect equanimity and selfpossession, and of an energy which even old age could not repress nor

overcome.

"

In the mind of a great author there may certainly exist a thorough consciousness of his own powers, without the slightest alloy of vanity. A good poet, like a good painter, whatever he may have achieved, will still admit that perfection lies beyond his reach, and at a far distance; and, the more he has accomplished, will be the more acutely sensible how much remains to be done. In regard to critics in general, those especially whose sole occupation consists in cutting up the works of others, without being able to produce one readable volume of their own invention, Goethe entertained the most sovereign contempt. And this reminds us, en passant, of one of his numberless epigrams, written in the homely but forcible style of Swift. We can recall the substance, though we have not seen the verses for twenty years. We translate, therefore, entirely from memory:

"You make a feast; you spread the board With all your larder can affordTELEE and Hash: then comes 8 want

Tears up and backs your savoury roasts,
And of his gluttonous prowess boasts.
Thereafter through the town he goes,
Resolved your folly to expose,
In throwing pearls before a swine.
'Your soup was thin; austere your wine;
Your venison was not larded well;
You had nor truffle nor morelle
For sauce to capons tough, that looked
As if with soot and cinders cooked.
In short, 'tis true, as he's a sinner,
You know not how to give a dinner.'
So croaks the cormorant, and repeats
His obloquy to all he meets.

Who could such insolence endure?
Go hang the dog!-HE'S A REVIEWER!"

Among compositions written on some particular principle or system, by far the most unmanageable are the concluding parts or continuation of Faust ; respecting which, notwithstanding their obvious irony, one might almost say that they were "intentionally" got up, with no better purpose than that of downright mystification, and with a perfect conviction that no mortal could rightly understand them. Not so is it with regard to this dramatic poem of Tasso, written on a particular plan, no doubt, but wherein the design is clear and the execution beautiful. It presents Goethe's conception of a single day spent at " Belriguardo," the country-house of Alphonso, duke of Ferrara, with no other dramatis_persona but the said duke, Torquato Tasso, a state-secretary named Antonio, and two young ladies, namely, Leonora d'Este, the duke's sister, and her friend, the Countess Leonora Sanvitale. Technically speaking, there is little or no dramatic action. The interest chiefly hinges on, we cannot say the adventures, but the psychological phenomena arising, within a space of about twelve hours, in the irritable mind of Tasso; who, placed amid the most amiable, kind, and accomplished society, yet contrives to render himself miserable, and to torment or disappoint all those by whom he is surrounded, more especially the amiable, sensitive, learned, and romantic princess, Leonora, who has been led to take the greatest interest in his behalf, and to whom he is fervently though insanely attached. It is, in short, an illustration of the poetical character, as Goethe supposed it to exist in this justly celebrated author, yet most capricious and unhappy of beings.

The story of the twelve hours may be compressed into few words, while

the moral lessons contained in the dialogue might serve as texts for long dissertations. Tasso is residing at the country-house of his patron, the reigning Duke of Ferrara, who admires his writings, treats him as a confidential friend, and wishes to retain him in his suite, also allowing the poet a liberal salary. He is, moreover, represented as young and handsome, and as having at this period ended, though he has not, in his own opinion, finished his great work, the Gierusalemme; of which, after long delays and hesitation, he presents a manuscript copy to the duke, who receives it with the most flattering expressions of encouragement and gratitude, which are outdone in eloquent praise by his female friends, one of whom takes a wreath, which she had before placed on the bust of Virgil, and crowns him with laurel. It might be expected, therefore, that Tasso would be the most prosperous, as, according to Goethe's conception, he is the most favoured of authors; but the fatal discrepancies of character between the man of the world and the poet render this impossible. His mind is in a state of perpetual vacillation betwixt deep gloom and brilliant sunshine, betwixt corroding suspicion and unbounded confidence, betwixt utter despondency and extravagant hopes. The two ladies, Princess Leonora d'Este, and her friend, the Countess Sanvitale, are not only accomplished "blues," but young and beautiful. He writes sonnets addressed to both, but at last conceives an attachment, amounting to idolatrous frenzy, for the princess, which she unwittingly encourages by treating him as a friend; while the countess, though a married lady, cherishes a considerable Platonic partiality for the poet. In fact, the two Leonoras appear as rivals.

The kind attentions shewn him, and the crowning with laurel, entirely overset whatever principles of common sense were left; and he becomes as extravagantly vain as he had before been retiring and modest. The princess had reproved him for these very habits of retirement, and for not cultivating the society of friends whose advice might be useful; and, acting on her suggestion, he seeks an interview (after his coronation) with Antonio, the state secretary, a wise and prudent man of the world, who treats his vagaries with great coldness and contempt

T

a downright quarrel. Tasso, reckless of all consequences, draws his sword, and challenges his adversary to mortal combat on the spot. This being contrary, not only to rules of etiquette in the palace, but to the laws of the principality, Tasso's conduct has rendered him liable to imprisonment, or exile; but the duke, though under the necessity of inflicting some punishment, is contented with ordering the delinquent to retire to his own apartments, and remain there on parole of honour.

The

Like all other events, this is viewed by him in a light the most erroneous; and, with the bitterest expressions of humiliation and wounded pride, he tears off his laurel crown, and lays down his sword. To his morbid mind any sentence, however lenient, implying disapprobation of his conduct, whilst he firmly believes that he is in the right, appears to be a punishment the most severe and arbitrary. sudden change from the height of prosperity and favour to even the semblance of degradation and restraint becomes as intolerable as the deepest and darkest dungeon, with a stinted portion of bread and water. He raves and desponds accordingly. All this, however, might have been got over; but not so his passionate admiration of the princess, on whose unalterable favour and affection he had been induced to rely, by an overstrained application of some confidential expressions, in a dialogue which occurs at the beginning of the second act. During his so-styled captivity, it is proposed that he should remove for a short time from Belriguardo to Rome, or Florence; but previous to his departure he obtains another interview with the princess, in the course of which, to her utter astonishment, he is led into a vehement declaration, which, of course, is instantly followed by a repulse, and this decides his fate. Finding that his poetic visions cannot be realised in this world, he is reduced to abject despondency, and, like the storm-beat mariner, clings to the rock on which his vessel split,or, in plain language, to the wise and prudent Antonio, against whom he had vowed implacable vengeance, and whom he had accused of being his worst enemy.

Nothing can be more tiresome than the prose analysis of a poem; and

that

aware.

But, as we have said, it is not on events that the interest of this production depends; it must rather be considered a a mere poetic reverie, a dream-like exemplification of the insuperable differences that exist between an imaginative temperament and that which is suited to the ordinary business of life. The two ladies are made to speak alternately like poets or philosophers. They wander through the beautiful grounds of Belriguardo, twining garlands of May-flowers or crowns of laurel, and reading Tasso's sonnets in their praise, which he affixes to the trees. Even the duke's discourse is tinged with poetry and romance; but into the enchanted circle of this Utopian society comes the state-secretary from Rome, loaded with portfolios, and prepared to look on such "goings on" with the eye of a calm, intelligent, and unsparing censor. Antonio (to use the language of German criticism) represents the Spirit of the real and working World as opposed to that very different Geist or Spirit which actuates a romantic poet, living, we do not say, in a world less real, yet so modified by the peculiar powers and propensities of his own mind that he may be looked on almost as an inhabitant of another sphere. Hence Antonio is regarded by Tasso nearly as an impersonisation of the evil principle, making his appearance only to sow dissensions, to change harmony into discord, to annihilate hopes, to mar every beautiful creation of more refined intellect,—and in effect it is so; but instead of ascribing all this to mere difference of character, habits, and pursuits, Tasso believes it to be the direct consequence of deeply-cherished envy, malignity, aud hatred, conceiving himself the marked and doomed object who has been selected for persecution and destruction.

Instead of calling this drama a poetic reverie (which refers to the persons and story), we might better have characterised it as a psychological disquisition cast in the form of dialogue, illustrating, moreover, all those peculiarities which have too often accompanied Genius. That such eccentricities are inevitable, surely no one in his senses would affirm. In phrenological phrase, a man may have the “organ of destructiveness," yet retain sufficient self-control to avoid committing mureccentricity is a very

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