Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348», sayfa 3
In the year following, Sir James Harris was appointed by Pitt to the Dutch embassy, to which he had been previously nominated by Fox, his friend and political leader. The appointment by the new cabinet was thus the strongest testimony to his talents. His letters from the Hague contain a very intelligent statement of the parties and principles which agitated Holland in 1787. The object was the establishment of a democracy and the extinction of the Stadtholderate, or at least its suppression as a hereditary dignity. The court of France was busy in this democratic intrigue; and its partial success unquestionably added new combustibles to the pile on which that unfortunate monarchy, in the hour of infatuation, was preparing to throw itself. The ambassador’s language on this occasion is characteristic and memorable. In one of his despatches to the Marquis of Carmarthen, then secretary of state, he thus says:—
“The infamy and profligacy of the French make me long to change my profession, and to fight them with a sharper instrument than a pen. It must be with those (not our pens, but our swords) that we must carry the mediation through, if we mean it should be attended with any success. There are strong reports of a popular insurrection in France:”—“Si Dieu voulait les punir par où ils ont peché, comme j’admirerais la justice divine!” The remark was natural; it was almost prophetic; and it was on the eve of realization. In 1789, but two years after, the Revolution began.
These volumes contain a great deal of extremely curious material, especially important to every man who may in future be employed in the foreign service of our diplomacy. They supply a model of the manner in which those offices may be most effectively sustained. We have already expressed dissatisfaction at the submissive style used in addressing the Russian empress. But in other instances, the language of the ambassador seems to have been prompt and plain. It is remarkable that England has, at the present time, arrived at a condition of European affairs bearing no slight resemblance to that of the period between 1783 and 1789. It is true that there will be no second French Revolution; one catastrophe of that terrible extent is enough for the world. But there are strong symptoms of those hostilities which the Bourbons were endeavouring to kindle against this country, for at least a dozen years before the Revolution which crushed their monarchy.
Without any provocation on the part of England, any actual claim, or any desire whatever of war, this country finds itself suddenly made an object of perpetual insult on the part of all the active mind of France. The cry from every organ of public opinion seems to be, war with England, whether with or without cause. A violent clamour is raised for our national ruin; the resources of France are blazoned in all quarters; and the only contemplation popular in France is, how most suddenly and effectually French armies may be poured on our shores, our fields ravaged, our maritime cities burned, and our people massacred! It must be hoped that this detestable spirit does not reach higher than the Jacobin papers, and the villains by whom that principal part of the French press is conducted. Yet we find but little contradiction to it in even the more serious and authentic portion of the national sentiments. In such circumstances, it is only right to be prepared. We find also the still more expressive evidence of this spirit of evil, in the general conduct of the agents of France in her colonies—a habit of sudden encroachment, a growing arrogance, and a full exhibition of that bitter and sneering petulance, which was supposed to have been scourged out of the French by their desperate defeats towards the close of the war. All this insolence may, by possibility, pass away; but it also may go on to further inflammation, and it may be necessary to scourge it again; and this discipline, if once begun, must be carried through more effectually than when the Allies last visited Paris. The respect felt for the French king and his prime minister, as the friends of peace, naturally restrains the language with which aggression deserves to be reprobated. But the French government, if it desires to retain that respect, must exhibit its sincerity in making some substantial effort to preserve peace. No man of sense in Europe can believe in the necessity of the seizure of Algiers, nor in the necessity of the war with Morocco. But every man can see the influence of both on the freedom of the Mediterranean. The seizure of the British consul at Otaheite shows a spirit which must be summarily extinguished, or the preservation of peace will be impossible. In the mean time, we hear from France nothing but a cry for steam-ships, and threats of invasion. We ask, what has England done? Nothing to offend or injure: there is not even an allegation of any thing of the kind. But if war must come, woe be to those by whom it is begun! The history of all the wars of England with France, is one of French defeat. We have beaten the French by land, we have beaten them by sea; and, with the blessing of Heaven on the righteous cause and our own stout hands, we shall always beat them. We have beaten them on the soil of the stranger—we have beaten them on their own. From the fourteenth century, when English soldiers were masters of the half of France, down to Waterloo, we have always beaten France; and if we beat her under Napoleon, there can be no fear of our not beating her under a race so palpably his inferiors. All England deprecates war as useless, unnatural, and criminal. But the crime is solely on the head of the aggressor. Woe to those who begin the next war! It may be final.
The late visit of the Emperor of Russia to this country, which so much perplexed the political circles of both France and England, now probably admits of elucidation. The emperor’s visit has been followed by that of the ablest and most powerful diplomatist in his dominions, the Count Nesselrode, his foreign minister. For this visit, too, a speedy elucidation may be found. The visits of the King of Saxony, and the Princes of Prussia and Holland, also have their importance in this point of view; and the malignant insults of the French journals may have had a very influential share in contributing to the increased closeness of our connexion with the sovereignties of Germany and Russia. The maxim of Fox, that the northern alliances are the true policy of England, is as sound as ever. Still, we deprecate war—all rational men deprecate war; and we speak in a feeling which we fully believe to be universal in England, that nothing would be a higher source of rejoicing in Great Britain, than a safe peace with France, and harmony with all the nations of the world.
POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE
No. II
Goethe’s love for the Fine Arts amounted almost to a passion. In his earlier years, he performed the painter’s customary pilgrimage through Italy, and not merely surveyed, but studied with intense anxiety, the works of the great modern masters. A poet, if he understands the theory of his own calling, may learn much from pictures; for the analogy between the sister arts is very strong. The secret of preserving richness without glare, fulness without pruriency, and strength without exaggeration, must be attained alike by poet and painter, before either of them can take their rank among the chosen children of immortality. It is a common but most erroneous idea, that an artist is more indebted for success to inspiration, than to severe study. Unquestionably he must possess some portion of the former—that is, he must have within him the power to imagine and to create; for if he has not that, the fundamental faculty is wanting. But how different are the crude shapeless fancies, how meagre and uncertain the outlines of the mental sketch, from the warm, vivid, and glowing perfection of the matured and finished work! It is in the strange and indescribable process of moulding the rude idea, of giving due proportion to each individual part, and combining the whole into symmetry, that the test of excellence lies. There inspiration will help but little; and labour, the common doom of man in the loftiest as well as the lowest walks of life, is requisite to consummate the triumph.
No man better understood, or more thoroughly acted upon the knowledge of this analogy, than Goethe. He wrought rigidly by the rule of the artist. Not one poem, however trifling might be the subject, did he suffer to escape from his hands, until it had received the final touches, and undergone the most thorough revision. So far did he carry this principle, that many of his lesser works seem absolutely mere transcripts or descriptions of pictures, where the sentiment is rather inferred than expressed; and in some, for example that which we are about to quote, he even brings before the reader what may be called the process of mental painting.
Cupid As a Landscape Painter
Once I sate upon a mountain,
Gazing on the mist before me;
Like a great grey sheet of canvass,
Shrouding all things in its cover,
Did it float ’twixt earth and heaven.
Then a child appear’d beside me;
Saying, “Friend, it is not seemly,
Thus to gaze in idle wonder,
With that noble breadth before thee.
Hast thou lost thine inspiration?
Hath the spirit of the painter
Died within thee utterly?”
But I turn’d and look’d upon him,
Speaking not, but thinking inly,
“Will he read a lesson now!”
“Folded hands,” pursued the infant,
“Never yet have won a triumph.
Look! I’ll paint for thee a picture
Such as none have seen before.”
And he pointed with his finger,
Which like any rose was ruddy,
And upon the breadth of vapour
With that finger ’gan to draw.
First a glorious sun he painted,
Dazzling when I look’d upon it;
And he made the inner border
Of the clouds around it golden,
With the light rays through the masses
Pouring down in streams of splendour.
Then the tender taper summits
Of the trees, all leaf and glitter,
Started from the sullen void;
And the slopes behind them rising,
Graceful-lined in undulation,
Glided backwards one by one.
Underneath, be sure, was water;
And the stream was drawn so truly
That it seem’d to break and shimmer,
That it seem’d as if cascading
From the lofty rolling wheel.
There were flowers beside the brooklet;
There were colours on the meadow—
Gold and azure, green and purple,
Emerald and bright carbuncle.
Clear and pure he work’d the ether
As with lapis-lazuli,
And the mountains in the distance
Stretching blue and far away—
All so well, that I, in rapture
At this second revelation,
Turn’d to gaze upon the painter
From the picture which he drew.
“Have I not,” he said, “convinced thee
That I know the painter’s secret?
Yet the greatest is to come.”
Then he drew with gentle finger,
Still more delicately pointed,
In the wood, about its margin,
Where the sun within the water
Glanced as from the clearest mirror,
Such a maiden’s form!
Perfect shape in perfect raiment,
Fair young cheeks ’neath glossy ringlets,
And the cheeks were of the colour
Of the finger whence they came.
“Child,” I cried, “what wond’rous master
In his school of art hath form’d thee,
That so deftly and so truly,
From the sketch unto the burnish,
Thou hast finish’d such a gem?”
As I spoke, a breeze arising
Stirr’d the tree-tops in the picture,
Ruffled every pool of water,
Waved the garments of the maiden;
And, what more than all amazed me,
Her small feet took motion also,
And she came towards the station
Where I sat beside the boy.
So, when every thing was moving,
Leaves and water, flowers and raiment,
And the footsteps of the darling—
Think you I remain’d as lifeless
As the rock on which I rested?
No, I trow—not I!
This is as perfect a landscape as one of Berghem’s sunniest.
An artist is, to our mind, one of the happiest creatures in God’s creation. Now that the race of wandering minstrels has passed away, your painter is the only free joyous denizen of the earth, who can give way to his natural impulses without fear of reproach, and who can indulge his enthusiasm for the bright and beautiful to the utmost. He has his troubles, no doubt; for he is ambitious, and too often he is poor; but it is something to pursue ambition along the natural path with unwarped energies, and ardent and sincere devotion. As to poverty, that is a fault that must daily mend, if he is only true to himself. In a few years, the foot-sore wanderer of the Alps, with little more worldly goods than the wallet and sketch-book he carries, will be the royal academician, the Rubens or the Reynolds of his day, with the most recherché studio in London, and more orders upon his list than he has either time or inclination to execute. Goethe has let us into the secret of the young German artist’s life. Let us look upon him in the dawnings of his fame, before he is summoned to adorn the stately halls of Munich with frescoes from the Niebelungen Lied.
The Artist’s Morning Song
My dwelling is the Muses’ home—
What matters it how small?
And here, within my heart, is set
The holiest place of all.
When, waken’d by the early sun,
I rise from slumbers sound,
I see the ever-living forms
In radiance group’d around.
I pray, and songs of thanks and praise
Are more than half my prayer,
With simple notes of music, tuned
To some harmonious air.
I bow before the altar then,
And read, as well I may,
From noble Homer’s master-work,
The lesson for the day.
He takes me to the furious fight,
Where lion warriors throng;
Where god-descended heroes whirl
In iron cars along.
And steeds go down before the cars;
And round the cumber’d wheel,
Both friend and foe are rolling now,
All blood from head to heel!
Then comes the champion of them all,
Pelides’ friend is he,
And crashes through the dense array,
Though thousands ten they be!
And ever smites that fiery sword
Through helmet, shield, and mail;
Until he falls by craft divine,
Where might could not prevail.
Down from the glorious pile he rolls,
Which he himself had made,
And foemen trample on the limbs
From which they shrank afraid.
Then start I up, with arms in hand,
What arms the painter bears;
And soon along my kindling wall
The fight at Troy appears.
On! on again! The wrath is here
Of battle rolling red;
Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm,
And dead men fall on dead!
I throng into the inner press,
Where loudest rings the din;
For there, around their hero’s corpse,
Fight on his furious kin!
A rescue! rescue! bear him hence
Into the leaguer near;
Pour balsam in his glorious wounds,
And weep above his bier.
And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm;
There hangs my lady’s picture near—
A picture yet so warm!
How fair she was, reclining there;
What languish in her look!
How thrill’d her glance through all my frame!
The very pencil shook.
Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
Were all the world to me;
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.
Oh! turn again, and bide thee here,
Nor fear such rude alarms;
How could I think of battles more
With thee within my arms!
But thou shalt lend thy perfect form
To all I fashion best;
I’ll paint thee first, Madonna-wise,
The infant on thy breast.
I’ll paint thee as a startled nymph,
Myself a following fawn;
And still pursue thy flying feet
Across the woodland lawn.
With helm on head, like Mars, I’ll lie
By thee, the Queen of Love,
And draw a net around us twain,
And smile on heaven above.
And every god that comes shall pour
His blessings on thy head,
And envious eyes be far away
From that dear marriage-bed!
There is abundance of spirit here. For once, in describing the battle and fall of Patroclus, Goethe seems to have caught a spark of Homeric inspiration, and the lines ring out as clearly as the stroke of the hammer on the anvil. There is no rhyme in the original, which, we confess, appears to us a fault; more especially as the rhythm is that of the ordinary ballad. We have, therefore, ventured to supply it, with as little deviation otherwise as possible. It is for the reader to judge whether the effect is diminished.
Our next selection shall be “The God and the Bayaderé”—a poem which is little inferior in beauty to the Bride of Corinth, and which, from its structure, opposes to the translator quite as serious a difficulty. The subject is taken from the Hindoo mythology, and conveys a very touching moral of humanity and forbearance; somewhat daring, perhaps, from its novelty, and the peculiar customs and religious faith of an eastern land, yet, withal, most delicately handled.
The God and the Bayaderé.
An Indian Legend
I
Mahadeh, earth’s lord, descending
To its mansions comes again,
That, like man with mortals blending,
He may feel their joy and pain;
Stoops to try life’s varied changes,
And with human eyes to see,
Ere he praises or avenges,
What their fitful lot may be.
He has pass’d through the city, has look’d on them all;
He has watch’d o’er the great, nor forgotten the small,
And at evening went forth on his journey so free.
II
In the outskirts of the city,
Where the straggling huts are piled,
At a casement stood a pretty
Painted thing, almost a child.
“Greet thee, maiden!” “Thanks—art weary?
Wait, and quickly I’ll appear!”
“What art thou?”—“A Bayaderé,
And the home of love is here.”
She rises; the cymbals she strikes as she dances,
And whirling, and bending with grace, she advances,
And offers him flowers as she undulates near.
III
O’er the threshold gliding lightly
In she leads him to her room.
“Fear not, gentle stranger; brightly
Shall my lamp dispel the gloom.
Art thou weary? I’ll relieve thee—
Bathe thy feet, and soothe their smart;
All thou askest I can give thee—
Rest, or song, or joy impart.”
She labours to soothe him, she labours to please;
The Deity smiles; for with pleasure he sees
Through deep degradation a right-loving heart.
IV
And he asks for service menial,
And she only strives the more,
Nature’s impulse now is genial
Where but art prevail’d before.
As the fruit succeeds the blossom,
Swells and ripens day by day,
So, where kindness fills the bosom,
Love is never far away.
But he, whose vast motive was deeper and higher,
Selected, more keenly and clearly to try her,
Love, follow’d by anguish, and death, and dismay.
V
And her rosy cheeks he presses,
And she feels love’s torment sore,
And, thrill’d through by his caresses,
Weeps, that never wept before.
Droops beside him, not dissembling,
Or for passion or for gain,
But her limbs grow faint and trembling,
And no more their strength retain.
Meanwhile the still hours of the night stealing by,
Spread their shadowy woof o’er the face of the sky,
Bringing love and its festival joys in their train.
VI
Lately roused, her arms around him,
Waking up from broken rest,
Dead upon her breast she found him,
Dead—that dearly-cherish’d guest!
Shrieking loud, she flings her o’er him,
But he answers not her cry;
And unto the pile they bore him,
Stark of limb and cold of eye.
She hears the priests chanting—she hears the death-song,
And frantic she rises, and bursts through the throng.
“Who is she? what seeks she? why comes she so nigh?”
VII
But the bier she falleth over,
And her shrieks are loud and shrill—
“I will have my lord, my lover!
In the grave I seek him still.
Shall that godlike frame be wasted
By the fire’s consuming blight?
Mine it was—yea mine! though tasted
Only one delicious night!”
But the priests, they chant ever—“We carry the old,
When their watching is over, their journeys are told;
We carry the young, when they pass from the light!
VIII
“Hear us, woman! Him we carry
Was not, could not be, thy spouse.
Art thou not a Bayaderé?
So hast thou no nuptial vows.
Only to death’s silent hollow
With the body goes the shade;
Only wives their husbands follow:
Thus alone is duty paid.
Strike loud the wild turmoil of drum and of gong!
Receive him, ye gods, in your glorious throng—
Receive him in garments of burning array’d!”
IX
Harsh their words, and unavailing,
Swift she threaded through the quire,
And with arms outstretch’d, unquailing
Leap’d into the crackling fire.
But the deed alone sufficeth—
Robed in might and majesty,
From the pile the god ariseth
With the ransom’d one on high.
Divinity joys in a sinner repenting,
And the lost ones of earth, by immortals relenting,
Are borne upon pinions of fire to the sky!
Let us now take a poem of the Hartz mountains, containing no common allegory. Every man is more or less a Treasure-seeker—a hater of labour—until he has received the important truth, that labour alone can bring content and happiness. There is an affinity, strange as it may appear, between those whose lot in life is the most exalted, and the haggard hollow-eyed wretch who prowls incessantly around the crumbling ruins of the past, in the belief that there lies beneath their mysterious foundations a mighty treasure, over which some jealous demon keeps watch for evermore. But Goethe shall read the moral to us himself.
