The Sun.
London, England, 1846-10-27 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

A POETS BAZAAR.

From the Danish of Hans

Christian Andersen, By C. Beckwith. 3 Vas.
The title of this work is calculated to excite curio-
sity, while the name of its author gives promise of
gratification. All who have read " The Improvise-
tore," all who have admired its glowing descriptions,
its enthusiasm, its poetry, will receive with delight
any new work of Andersen's. It is, perhaps, from
having indulged too much in such expectations that
we have been somewhat disappointed in these volumes.
This is partly attributable to the translator who, how-
ever faithfully he may have rendered the ideas or the
words of the original, has certainly done very little
towards enhancing its merits as a literary composi-
tion. Perhaps his was no easy task. The chief cha-
racteristic of Andersen's writings is their extreme
simplicity. He lays all his thoughts and feelings
open before us in the most unreserved manner; his
language is natural and unaffected, and his style (es-
pecially in these three volumes) familiar, interesting,
unstudied, and even careless. In this last particular,
his translator has certainly done him more than jus-
tice. Yet, however faulty the style (and for an Eng-
lish composition it is faulty), its simplicity harmonises
well with the thoughts and feelings of the Danish
writer. Mr. Macaulay has said that "he who, in an
enlightened and literary society, aspires to be a great
poet, must first become a little child." Christian
Andersen is a striking illustration of this idea. His
remarks have all the naivete and freshness of child-
hooi—he delights in idle day-dreams, in fanciful pic-
tures, in marvellous tales : his imagination is bound-
less on such themes—at times rising almost to the
sublime, at others (shall we say it ?) approaching
the ridiculous. We should like these volumes better
if we found less in them about the poet ; it is not,
doubtless, from vanity that the author thus speaks of
himself—it is only another proof of his simplicity and
frankness. He believes himself to be so, and he says
just what he thinks, " I am a poet." " The poet saw
this;" or " the poet said that," is to him as natural as
to say "lam a Dane," or " the Dane did this." But
these observations have an unfortunate effect ; we are
led to expect too much : and, also, he in many places
treads on dangerous ground; he comes on the tract
of Harold's wanderings, where, notwithstanding Mr.
Macaulay's definition, his title of poet is very much
placed in jeopardy. Yet we would not be too
critical on these volumes—they are full of inte-
rest, they are calculated to amuse—their very
carelessness is attractive. We follow, or rather we
zo with, our author, through part of Germany, to
Italy, to Greece, to the East, up the Danube, and to
the North. We see all the places that we pass, we
know all the individuals to whom we are introduced.
The description of Rome, brief though it be, is full
of interest; it is not such a description as we might
find in a history or geography, or ordinary book of
travels, it is rather a description of the author's own
feelings as he regards it—a series of exclamations of
wonder and amazement. He leads us through the gal-
leries of the Vatican in a state of perfect bewilderment,
explaining to us all that he sees, yet hardly seeming
to comprehend it himself, till at last, after passing
what he happily designates the " painted poetry" of
Raphael, we " lift a curtain and stand in St. Peter's
Church !" Notwithstanding the simplicity of the
style, the whole narrative is not wanting in force or
expression—on the contrary, the chapters on Con-
stantinople and the bazaars convey to us some idea of
the magnificence of those gorgeous regions while the
voyage on the Bosphorus is most graphically de-
scribed—the coast, on either side, seems to pass before
us. Many tales and legends are entwined with the
narrative, among others " The Bronze Hog," an
imaginary sketch of some Florentine painter. It
is in Andersen's peculiar style—we hardly know
whether to admire or to laugh at it. A child, sleep-
ing on the bronze figure of a hog, is conveyed, in a
dream, through the galleries of Florence, where the
Venus de Medici and all the other works of art appear 1
alive before him. He pauses before the Church of '
Santa Croce—a church, consecrated not only to the
the glory of heaven but to the genius of earth—where, ,
by the bust of Dante, are the graves of Michael ,
Angelo, of Alfieri, of Machiavelli, and of Galileo.
We are almost angry with Andersen for only allud-
ing to such a spot in connexion with such a fabulous
tale—what description should not a poet have given
us of such tombs ? And yet, perhaps, it is as well ;
lie names of those men are their most eloquent
epitaphs—they want no poet to inspire us with poetic
thoughts. The first of these volumes contains a por-
trait of their author; and a brief memoir of his event-
ful and interesting life. The following extracts will
show the very diversified character of this work :
" A poet sings because, like the bird, he cannot help
it ; something swells in his breast and in his thoughts.
The song will out : it spreads lice the light, it rises l;ke
the waves ; but very often nature places a leaf of her
great music-book before him, and it. is a challenge to
sing, and then he sings from her notes."