The Press. — London, England, 1856-04-12 00:00:00

Nittraturt. Heinrich Heim'. Book of Songs. A Trans lation by John E. Wallis. London : Chap man and Hall. FOR some time past there have been symptoms of a reaction against the extreme attention paid a few years ago to the study of German literature. The consen ativo love of our mother tongue, and our national antipathy to foreign modes, along with the influence of German infidelity, have tended to damp the ardour with which many looked to Germany for philosophy and science. At one period there was imminent danger of the literary mind of England becoming Germanised, but that danger has passed away. We have found out that some of the vaunted thinkers of Germany are more potent to shake than to establish, that they are " architects of ruin," and, even when they are truly original, that their reflections are dashed with so much of the abstruse and the whimsical, as to make them unsafe guides. In the country Which cradled the Reformation there has been a lamentable degeneracy on religion, and the gravity of the Teutonic nature has reeled under the intoxicating influence of Pan theism. Good sense, anti a genius for the prac tical, distinguish our English society; and we should have to revolutionise our whole code upon literature and morals, if we were to prostrate ourselves before the wor• ship of Germanism. In England politics and manners blend into each other ; and we must receive with distrust forms of thought or practice adapted for a country where bureau cracy is enthroned. But though in life and in philosophical speculation we are opposed to Germanism and its Carlylian missionaries, we can give the heartiest appre ciation to German genius in poetry, in music, and in some special departments of the fine arts. Idolatrous admiration of German fashions and mannerisms is one thing—judi cious recognition of German genius is quite another. We are glad, therefore, to have this trans lation of Heine'a songs. The translator dis arms his critics by his unaffectedly diffident estimate of his own labours. Mr. Wallis, in his preface, states that most of the poems were rendered so far back as I S4O, when he was a student ata German university. " Time " has increased his own sense of the difficulty " of the task, and the numberless faults and " shortcomings of the execution " ; but, in order to meet the present demand for publica tions about Heine, Mr. Wallis was induced to present them to the public, and he adds that he was not compelled to do so " by hunger or " the request of friends." The fault of the performance is the youthful crudeness dis cernible in several places, especially in the ballads, and the want of metrical resonance in the language. A translator of verse requires as perfect a command of the inflections of speech and the niceties of rhythm as an original poet Yet we are glad to have this " Book of Songs," and Mr. Wallis deserves the thanks of Heine's friends and admirers; and we hope that the present will not be the only production of Mr. Wallis upon German literature, as its exposition to an English pub lic ought fo be rescued from the hands of a dogmatic clique. Heine had great force, limited by splenetic influences resulting, perhaps, from physical disease. His nature had much in it that was gnarled and curiously twisted, but its knotty strength was gracefully festooned by some charming flowers of poetic fancy. His bitter ness was more of the lip than the heart; his sense of the falsity of some systems of thought was sentimental rather than logical ; and a critic's perceptions were blent with a poet's emotions in his nature. The thinking of the scholar is discernible even in his sentimental ell'usions, but %hen he attempts to be strong, broad, and practical, Heine at once reveals how much of a literary idealist was in his composition. There are some diameters in whom the man is everything, and his accidental calling almost nothing. In neine the soul of THE PRESS. a literary man was visible in all his elusions. He could never be the poet for a large hu manity. To strike the harp like Beranger or Burns was beyond his faculty. A philoso phical cynic with poetical illusions can, at best, only half win our sympathies. The philosophical parts of Heine's poetry aro best rendered by Mr. Wallis. In the three following sonnets addressed to " Chris tian S." the soul of Heine is revealed in its puro subjectivity:— Give me a mask, I mean to wear the face Of a low rascal, lest the rabble rout, Who in their borrow'd plumage strut about, Should think that they and I are of one race. Give me coarse language, give me manners base; I mean to act the co:ninon ruffian's part, And hide all higher gifts of mind or heart That these poor coxcombs copy and disgrace. So will I join the great world's hal masque, Jostled by Monk and King, by Turk and Jew, Greeted by Harlequin, and known by few; Swinging their swords of lath they charge their prey; And that's the joke—for if my mask should fall, 'Twould strike the rogues dumbfounded, one and all. 1 laugh at all the foolish foppish pack, Who with their goatish faces a• me stare; T laugh at the sly foxes' pious air, Who mischievctisly snuffle on my track. I laugh at each thrice•learned monkey's claim, Who puffs himself up with a critic's pride ; I laugh at the base miscreants, who have tried Their poisoned weapons on my honest name. For when fair Fortune's gifts are from us reft, And broken by the hand of destiny ; And when the fragments at our feet are flung ; And when the heart within our breast is wrung, Wrung, rent, and wounded irrecoverably— A bitter laugh is all that we have left. There is Heine epitomised in print by himself. He reminds us often of such a hybrid as might be formed between a secondary sort of Shelley and a sublime kind of Mr. Roebuck : he empties his best bottle of Burgundy into a pail of vinegar, and his flue inspiration exhales in acrimony. Yet there are some sweet stanzas occa sionally from the heart of the soured minstrel. In the following sonnet there is weakness in the translation of the last lines, yet it is plaintive and intellectual, and reminds one of some of Hood's sadder verses : A wondrous tale is running in my head ; And in the tale a wondrous ballad comes ; ' And in the ballad lives and breathes and blooms A wondrous, beautiful, and graceful maid. And in the maiden is a little heart, But in her heart no love will ye behold ; For, in that loveless character so cold, Nothing hut pride ani haughtiness have part. Hear'st thou, how in my head the story sings ? And how the plaintive ballad sadly rings? And how the heartless maiden titters low? My only fear is lest my head they crack ; For it would be a most distressing blow, Should my wits wander from the beaten track. The following is still better, and the picture is finely realised. It is weird, and thoroughly German : In the still, melancholy, evening hour, The long-forgotten strains around me ring, And tears unwonted from their deep founts spring, And streams of blood from my old heart-wounds pour. And, as upon a magic mirror's ground, I see the image of a lovely dame ; In her red bodice at the embroidery frame She sits, and loving silence dwells around. But suddenly she rises from her chair, Cuts from her lovely head a lovely lock. And gives it me; I thrill with rapture's shock ! Mephisto turns that rapture to despair; Those lovely hairs into a rope he twists, And ever after drags me where he lists. We must also commend this sonnet to A. W. Von Schlegel. The repetition of the two " buts " at the seventh and ninth lines is a blemish which the translator could easily have avoided In hoop and train, with flowers superbly graced, With beauty-spots upon her painted face, With high-heel'd shoes, and all behung with lace, With tower-high head•iress. and with wasp-like waist: Thus was the mock Muse deck'd in wretched taste, And came to woo thee to her fond embrace. Bnt thou didst shun her, and with rapid pace Midst wander lonely o'er the desert waste. But in the desert stood a castle fair, And like a marble statue resting there A lovely maid in magic sleep did lie. At thy approach the magic slumber broke, The real German Muse with smiles awoke, And sank neon thy hreas; in ecstasy. The highly remarkable poem called " Rate cliff" is, w•e think, the best translated in the volume, and it is a most favorable specimen ( f 1:101$5 distinctive genius. None but a real SATURDAY, 111 poet could have idealised reality so well as in the following piece. It is a hierophant's revelation of the hollowness of life, and of the tortures of disappointed hopes. The depth of German genius is seen in this strange por traiture of the femme incomprise who so often meets us in France : The god of dreams once brought me to a country Where weeping willows in sad welcome waved, With long green pendent arms ; where silent flowers, With modest sister glances, watch'd my steps; Where the birds warbled in familiar notes, And e'en the barking of the dogs seem'd known; And many forms and voices hail'd me as A well-known friend; yet all and everything Was strange to me, so wonderfully strange. I stood before a pleasant rural house : My heart beat wildly, but impassive calm Ileign'd in my soul. Composedly I shook The dust and gravel from my way-worn dress. The bell rang shrilly, and the dour unclosed. And there were men and women—many a face Well known of old. On all lay silent grief, And secret, shy alarm. With troubled mien They eyed me—almost with a pitying glance; So that I shudder'd in my inmost heart With a presentiment of unknown ill. The old nurse Margaret I recognised, And eyed inquiringly ; but no, she spoke not. "Where is Maria?" then I ask'd. She spoke not, But gently seized my hand, and led me swift Through many a long and brilliant room of state, Where pomp and pride and deathlike silence reigned, Until she brought me to a darken'd room, And sadly pointed, with averted face, Towards the form that on the sofa sat. "Are you Maria?' Inwardly 1 shook At the unnatural composedness With which I spoke; and lo! a voice replied, Hollow and choked, " The people call me so." A cutting anguish froze through every limb, For ah t yon cold and hollow voice was still Maria's own, that used to be so sweet. Yes; and that woman in the faded gown, In slovenly attire, with hanging breasts, With glassy staring eyes, with fallen cheeks— Alas ! that woman once had been the fair, The blooming, gentle, idolised Maria! " You have been ,ravelling long," she loudly cried, With cold repulsively familiar voice ; " You look no more so languishing, my friend; Your health is better, and your portly calves Bespeak a steady life." A sickly smile Now quiver'd round the pallid yellow mouth. In my confused distress the words escaped, '' They tell me you are married." " Yes," she cried Aloud, with cold indifference, and laugh'd. " I've got a wooden stick, that's neatly bound With leather, call'd a husband ; but it's wood, It's only woo d: I" and gratingly she laugh'd, So that chill terror froze me to the core; And doubtingly I thought are these her lips, Maria's lips, as chaste as morning flowers ? But she arose, snatch'd hastily her shawl, Flung it around her neck, then took my arm, And led me onwards, through the open door, Forth from the house, through meadows, plains, and groves. The continuation is not equal to the preceding passage ; but we shall give the poem entire, as it displays the pathos and acute mental per ception that distinguished Heine The glowing sun's red disc already shed Declining beams, and east a purple shade Upon the woods and flow'rets, and the stream That flow'd afar majestically calm. " See you the great gold eye that yonder swims In the blue water?" hastily she cried. "Be still, thou hapless being;" and I saw In the dim twilight an unearthly motion; And misty phantoms rose above the fields, And clasp'd each other with white tender arms. The violets softly sigh'd, the lily cups Bent longingly together; flames of love Glow'd bright round every rose, so that the plants And herbs around grew fiery from their breath; All flow'rets revelled in voluptuous scents, All wept together silent tears of bliss, And all in concert spoke of love, of love! The butterflies came fluttering, and the bright Gold fireflies humm'd their charming fairy tales, The winds of evening sigh'd, the oak-tree shook, And meltingly the nightingale sang down ; And mid the whispering, rustling, singing sounds, With eold, unmusical, and leaden tone, Prated the wither'd woman on my arm : " I know your nightly exploits in the fort. The long thin shadow is a good old boy; He nods and winks whatever you may do. Tne blue coat is an angel. He in red, With naked sword, detests you in his soul." And yet more strange fantastical remit ks Uninterruptedly she spoke ; at length, Wearied, she sat beside me on the bench That stands, mostecover'd, 'neath the hoary oak. Aryl there we sat together, sad and silent, And eyed each other, and grew sadder still. The oak- , ree mosn'd like sighs of dying men, The ni„, z hti ti esle sang notes of agony ; Then t trough the branches fiery fleshes broke, And, b .aming on Maria's pallid face, Calla light once wore into her glassy eye, Till with her old melodious voice she spoke ■