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GERMAN LITERATURE.

Amaranth. VON OSKAR VON REDWITZ. Maintz: Kirchheim and Schott. Fourteenth Edition.

To follow the beaten track of German poesy,
noting the thousand and one new productions
as they spring up and bloom, but to perish
and be seen no more, were a task weary-
ing to us and disgusting to our readers. This
is not a poetical age; and we apprehend that
the few who are curious about the vagaries and
platitudes of minor poets will find enough to
occupy their leisure hours, even though their
attention were confined to the second and third-
rate productions of our own language and
country. Indeed, what possible benefit could
our readers derive from the knowledge that
such and such a man has been publishing a
volume of very common-place verse in Ger-
many, when all Germany, except the very
small sphere of the poet's literary friends, re-
main in profound and blissful ignorance of the
fact? It is, moreover, hardly fair to criticise
foreign poetry, unless the critic be prepared to
praise it. He cannot expect the public to have
faith in his word, and accept his condemnation,
unless he gives specimens of the poetry against
which he inveighs; and as very good poems
are sometimes made absurd by very bad trans-
lators, it will always remain an open question,
whether the verses he quotes were originally
bad, or whether they were spoilt in the trans-
lation. Hence the effusions of the small Ger-
man poets have been studiously neglected
in this record of contemporaneous literature;
nor, indeed, do we see any reason to repent
ourselves of the neglect, or improve our prac-
tice with respect to these men. But far diffe-
rent is the case when a poet, no matter whether
good or bad, stands forth really and truly as a
sign of the time-when the thought and the
temper of his nation are represented in his
works when his appearance marks an epoch
in the history of his country's literature. This
was the case when Goethe embodied the vapid
sentimentality of the age in "Werther." It
was again the case when the blustering piety
and the old Teutonic longings of the Germans
of 1815 were incorporated in Foque's Scandi-
navian plays and romances of mediæval chi-
valry. The leading thought of the age was
again pronounced in 1830 by Heine's medley
of sentimentalism and raillery in the "Buch
der Lieder;" in 1842, by Herwegh's battle

*See, for example, all the English translations of Freiligrath's poems, but especially those by Mrs. Howitt.

songs in the "Gedichte eine Lebendigen ;" and lastly, in 1844, by Freiligrath's "Glaubensbekentniss," the reception of which shewed that the nation was ripe for mischief. In a like manner, and from the same point of view, we notice the German poem "Amaranth," by a very young man, Herr Oskar von Redwitz.

"Amaranth" is indeed a sign of the times, as far as our Teutonic cousins are concerned, Drunk with the poetic fury of Herwegh-topheavy, but still sublime in their ravings, so long as they were under the poetic influence of Freiligrath-they made the revolution of fortyeight, strutted about in fanciful costumes, and shouted aloud for universal liberty, brotherhood, and a great, united, and pacific Germany, which was to swallow up all other European nations. The illusion was glorious, so long as it lasted. But human nature could not bear much of it, nor could it bear it long. The excitement was followed by apathy and somnolence; and finally came that terrible next morning, with its lassitude, headaches, nausea, with its morbid desire for rest, and its feverish longing after a cup of weak tea. Redwitz published his "Amaranth," and the public were grateful and delighted. Fourteen editions in less than three years shew, whatever the poetic value of the production may be, that the poet expresses the feelings and the necessities of his nation at this present time. We should be sorry to incur the odium of the PhiloGermans in this country, by saying, on our own responsibility, what these feelings and necessities Let "Amaranth" speak for herself. really are.

Herr von

A young cavalier in the time of the Crusades is first introduced to the reader, informing him, in very tame quatrains, of his very "serious sentiments. The young cavalier gives a description of the maid he desires to love. The "maid" need not be beautiful; she must be peaceable, orthodox, and "serious." He also expresses his conviction that a hero in battle must needs be a true believer. The cavalier, however, somewhat unchivalrously, says-

"And could I, as the Lord God can,
I'd take his strength away apace;
In mortal combat, man to man,
I'd have him kneel, and sue for grace."†

"Und könnt ich, wie der Herrgott kann,
Ich liess ihm alle Kraft vergehn;
Im stärksten Streite, Mann an Mann,
Er müsst mir knien und Gnade flehn."

The desire on the part of our young cavalier to have his antagonist despoiled of his strength by supernatural means gives us a very indifferent idea of Herr Redwitz's appreciation of heroism. But let that pass. The young hero's mother, a very pious old lady, is much delighted with the very proper views to which her son gives utterance. She expresses her satisfaction in terms which are rather out of place in the mouth of an elderly lady of the twelfth century, and in Germany too:

"At my love's fountain did'st thou drink the morning of thy life,

And all my being did I hide within thy soul, my son."* Herr von Redwitz, who talks so largely of the Crusades, has positively never read a single line of the chronicles of his country, else he would have spared us this absurdity, and a dozen others worse than this. Mother and son discuss the question of matrimony. The son's views are highly proper; quite delightful in a young gentleman at his time of life. But this crusading Coelebs is rather too exacting. Where is so good a young lady to be found?

Now, it does happen, that exactly at that time, viz. the Crusades, there lives in another part of Germany a very moral and pious young lady, Amarantha, a noblewoman of course, else all her morality and piety would go for nothing in the estimation of our Christian hero. This young lady is in the habit of saying long prayers, and giving vast sums of money away in charity. Her views generally are very correct; but her conception of the duties of maternity will at once shew how truly edifying her conversation must have been:

"Sinful the infant enters life,

Until 't is laved by Christ's dear blood;
But the foul fiend, with angry strife,
Creates fresh sin, and spoils all good.

The sword to flourish be my part,
Until the child is grown in grace;
No pity false shall touch my heart,
Since 'tis the fiend who prays for grace." †

Amaranth's sword is the rod, of course! In "maiden meditation fancy free," this exemplary young lady delights in the idea of whipping the devil out of the new-born babe. She flourishes an imaginary rod over the little quivering limbs: no "pity false" touches her

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heart; the infant voice of supplication is heard in vain, for a good child takes pleasure in flagellation, and it is only the "foul fiend" that objects to the chastisement. Oh, Herr Oskar! Herr Oskar von Redwitz! The rod has been spared in your case, and in that of Amaranth, else neither of you would talk so lightly of it! However that may be, Amaranth, longing to have children that she may whip them, is altogether a happy creature; she is so good, so pure, so severe! To refresh her soul," the sacraments are ready;" she has the comfort "of hearing mass;" and, not only are all her reasonable wishes gratified, but she has luxuries too, in the shape of divers paupers, whom she occasionally relieves, and always sermonizes.

Given the pious youth, and given the pious maiden, what must necessarily happen? They must meet and fall in love. So they do. And here would be an end of the story (unless Herr von Redwitz were prepared to describe, with the minuteness which such an auto da fè deserves, the whipping of one of the children) but for a small obstacle to the union of the two loving hearts. Walter, for that is the name of the good young cavalier, is engaged to marry another woman. He knows nothing about it, except that his father, a sturdy old knight, now deceased, pledged his son's troth when that son was a mere baby. His father's last will and testament has been revealed to Walter-by what means it were too long to tell-and he forthwith, saying farewell to his pious Amaranth, sets ont for " Welshland," or Italy, where Miss Ghismonda, his intended, resides.

Ghismonda is an Italian woman, not a German. Need Herr von Redwitz say more to fill us with abhorrence of this wretched abandoned creature? Strictly speaking, it is enough to say she is not born in Germany: that simple fact suffices to overwhelm her with confesion. But the poet does more. He tells us all, that our boding hearts have long since realised, as the dread words "Ghismonda" and "Welshland" burst upon our sight. Ghismonda-" angels and ministers of grace defend us!"—is an emancipated character of the time of the Crusades. She is a Corinna, a Georges Sand, a Woman'sRight Convention woman! She does not pray, she does not give alms; her religious views are very objectionable. She is a heartless coquette, and, what is ten times worse, instead of speaking in quatrains, as Amaranth does, who knows what is proper, this wretched creature talks in *sonnets! She is over head and ears in the mire of the pomps and vanities of this wicked world; indeed, what else. can be expected of a "Welshwoman?" But then, she is beautiful; she is tall, and plump, and slender, with a very white skin and very round shoulders-with raven black hair, coral lips, eyes as the fish

ponds of Heshbon, and small feet and taper fingers. Really the very breath of such a glorious sinner is a desecration of the chaste pages of the Redwitzian poem at the side of Amaranth, with her pinched-in face and eyes cast down, muffled up to the chin, a mediæval mummy, cured in holy water and smoked in frankincense. Corregio on the one hand, and the "laid ideal" of the pre-Rafaelites on the other, what is Childe Walter to do? He is a good son, and makes love to the pretty woman, and he does it with so much reality, that we very much fear the studies of Herr von Redwitz have not altogether been confined to mass and meditation. The lovescenes between Walter and Ghismonda have touches of real life which make "Amaranth" somewhat objectionable for family reading. But we presume all these voluptuous scenes are merely introduced to heighten our admiration. of good young Walter's principles. On the very brink of perdition, his spirit is reclaimed; and, in utter contempt of the maddening charms of Ghismonda, he attempts to convince her of the wickedness of her ways. That sinful woman desires to ride out a-hunting. He implores her to forbear, to remain at home and be his "loving and faithful handmaiden." "Handmaiden, indeed!" says the lady with great disgust; and forthwith she is delivered of an atrocious sonnet in defence of woman's rights. Nothing daunted, the bold knight desires that she will forswear dancing. All he asks from her is the "humbleness of a Christian heart." But Ghismonda detests humility. We are really angry with Herr von Redwitz on account of the conversation which ensues. Blasphemy is blasphemy, even in the mouth of a wicked Welshwoman, and it remains blasphemy, no matter how orthodox the objections which it elicits. Ghismonda blasphemes, and Walter makes a long speech in the hope of converting her. He descants on the beauties of faith, and the horrors of infidelity; and, in his zeal, he carries his remarks to an ungentlemanly length. "Ghismonda," he says, "ought not to be proud, for, unbelieving as she is, she is a mere toad in a hole;" and he gives her an abstract (stolen from Dante) of the torments of hell. But all his eloquence is lost on the "Welshwoman," and the disconsolate Walter writes a score of love songs to Amaranth, all illustrative of the holiness and beauty of Christian matrimony. Nevertheless, seduced doubtless by the charms of the fair pagan, he leads her to the altar; but before the blessing is pronounced, and the knot tied, he desires, that then and there she shall repeat the Credo. She, abandoned to the last, turns away, and is forthwith cursed by the bishop. Walter, of course, is free-hæreticis non est tenenda fides. He takes the cross under

Barbarossa, and writes a letter to his Amaranth, containing a promise of marriage on his return. So that the whipping, after all, does not take place in this volume. What it will be in the next remains to be seen; but we tremble for the children!

We are to have a second volume-Herr von Redwitz has said it. In his dedication, he says that a temple must be built to serve as a fortress against the infidels, and that his is the pleasure of laying the first stone. That temple is to be built of "lyres," and "Amaranth" is the first "lyrestone." It is heavy enough, at all events; but still we cannot help thinking that there must be some mistake somewhere. A lyre is a beautiful instrument, and, mixed up with other materials, such as chests of drawers, pavingstones, cabs, and omnibusses, it might possibly serve to form a barricade-though even that were a pity, since less costly materials will do as well; but how a lyre can ever be thought of as the foundation of a temple or a fortress, is, we confess, a thing which passes our understanding. It is too fragile, too brittle, and must be crushed by the first layer of bricks that is put upon it. We earnestly hope Herr von Redwitz will reconsider his architectural theories.

"Amaranth" is written in a variety of metres; it is a sample-box of all the poetic measures of the German language. It is even more than that: it contains samples of all the German poets. Herr von Redwitz has evidently been a great reader of verse: his reading is fresh in his memory, as his pages clearly shew. Some readers may possibly be awed by his frequent changes of metre; but few that go on to the last page will misunderstand us, when we say that the poet tries his hand at so many measures, chiefly because in not one of them does he feel at home. They are either too long or too short; they pinch or they trail, like borrowed clothes. In fact, they are borrowed. Herr von Redwitz robes his medieval Mystery in the rags and tatters which he has managed to tear from the dwellers on the German Parnassus. He takes Viland's ballad-style, and stanzas from Foque and Ernst Schulze. Stollberg's cavaliers strut again in his pages, and sigh forth" Stanzas for Music" in the fine Suabian style of Schwab and Kerner. There are Arabesques and Barcaroles "done after Reinick and Rückert. Schiller's "Glove," the tale of king Francis who sat one day

"Before his lion-court Impatient for the sport,"

as Bowring has it, has been robbed of some of its most striking passages; and even Herwegh is pressed into the service with his "Reiterlied." The rhythm of that noble poem Herr

von Redwitz mimicks to perfection; but the burden of

"To die for it! to die for it!"

is emasculated into :

"We ride on! we ride on!"

The form and fashion of "Amaranth" generally shew that the poet's studies have not been confined to the poetical literature of Germany. They remind us of Sir Walter Scott's poetical tales; and Scott's "Ave Maria," too, is there, with some slight alterations. The whole poem, from beginning to end, is one vast mass of plagiarisms, with the exception of the sentiments and principles. They are Redwitz's own; and let him have whatever credit these can procure for him. That man is sinful, and the world wicked; that there is no hope for the present time, until it fashions itself after the "Crusades;" that the Germans are eminently pious, moral, and brave, and that all other nations, especially the "Welsh" or Italians are most abandoned and wicked; that the Roman-Catholic Church is the great vale of rest for all that are weary and laden; that the devil ought to be whipped out of small children, and that pious young ladies best fit themselves for the duties of "maternity," by training their arms to the effectual use of the rod: these principles and sentiments are truly original. We are sure that no poet of any civilized nation expressed them before Herr von Redwitz, and we trust that no poet of any civilized nation will express them after him. The Germans have admired the poem and the poet! Herr von Redwitz has achieved what their greatest men, in the most enthusiastic of periods, could not achieve. The demand for his work has been at the rate of four editions per annum. The nation which stood by, and let Lessing and Schiller starve, until they accepted the bounty of some small prince; the Germans, who, with a meanness which has become proverbial even among them, beg, borrow, and steal books, rather than buy them; the Germans, who, amidst their long array of authors and poets, can scarcely point to a single author or poet who was fairly and honestly paid by the public by the sale of his works; the Germans, who at all times drove their men of genius either to a premature grave, or into the madhouse, or into disgraceful and heartbreaking dependence on the bounty of

[*Not all of them. "That the Roman-Catholic Church is the great vale of rest for all that are weary and laden," has, we believe, been always the sincere belief of our Roman-Catholic fellow-subjects. These are matters with which we do not meddle, but we let the words stand as our Contributor wrote them.-ED, N. Q. R.]

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the

"So fares the follower in the Muse's train :
He toils to starve and only lives in death.
We slight him, till our patronage is vain,

Germans, who have always starved their poets, and afterwards begged pence for a monument;-these very Germans not only read, but purchase "Amaranth," and drive it up to fourteen editions in less than four years! Much good may it do Herr von Redwitz. We do not grudge him the money, nor the fame, nor the professorship which the Emperor of Austria has bestowed upon the young and ultramontane bard; but when we look at the victims of German literature, at those noble hearts and gifted minds, at those wasted forms and careworn faces; when we think of Lenz, who, if we mistake not, died by the road-side; of Hölderlin, who passed his best years in a lunatic asylum; of Grabbe, who literally died of hunger and cold in Düsseldorf garrets; of Platen, whose dulcet strains and classical beauties could not save him from a life of penury, from exile, and death really and truly from a broken heart, and that heart broken by want; when we think of the hundreds of nameless ones who, perhaps to the full as gifted, perished in the very commencement of their career; when we look at this vast battle-field strewed with hopes blighted, toils unrewarded, genius scorned, learning trampled under foot, and reflect what valuable lives might have been spared, what master-works might have been produced if but a tithe of the active interest had been shewn to these martyrs which Herr von Redwitz has carried off in the face of many better men and greater poets; then, indeed, there is a bitter feeling in our heart, not against the poor young author, but against that undiscerning and ungrateful nation, which thus rewarded him far beyond his deserts. If any thing, we pity the man, who, elated with unexpected success, must needs believe that he is the equal of Lessing, Schiller, Göthe, Platen, Heine, Herwegh, and Freiligrath, while he is, in fact, but the maudlin favourite of a maudlin populace. For his sake we wish that the dream could last for ever: for the sake of the Germans it is desirable it should end, and that Herr von Redwitz should take his proper place among the Rousseaus (not Jean Jaques), the Schwabs, Kerners, Knappsin short, among fourth-rate poets of his nation. Their name is legion.

Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe"

Die Könige. Von DR. H. FR. W. HINRICHS Leipzig. Costenoble.
London: Williams and Norgate.

DR. HINRICHS, a professor of Halle, has en-
deavoured in this book to give to the world a
history of the development of monarchical
government from the earliest ages down to our
own days. The undertaking is praiseworthy
at a time when the destinies of almost all the
continental nations are cast between absolutism
and republicanism, and when they are in danger
of coming down to the ground between those two
stools. Royalty, the spirit, the tendencies, the
past and the future of kingly government here,
is an interesting theme! and Professor Hinrichs
has treated it with the erudition of a German
student, and something of the violence of a
pamphleteer. An ardent admirer of royalty,
and its champion in the anxious months of 1848,
he has nevertheless been shocked by the vaga-
ries of a large party among his countrymen,
who admire it even more than he does, and

who would shew their love for it by aping the apes who stifled their pups in their embraces. Hence the book before us. The learned professor discourses eloquently on the kings of the old and new world, on the Indian kings and the Cæsars, the Hohenstaufen and the Hapsburgs; and his book, though altogether valueless to those who have yet to master the first rudiments of history, is likely to be of interest to historians and politicians, to whom we recommend it. We have only to add, that, with respect to England, Professor Hinrichs is still ignorant of the passing of the Reform Bill, to shew, that whatever remarks he makes on this country and its politics must of course be out of date. With this one exception, the learning of the book is sound: its style is fluent throughout, and much better than what generally emanates from such sources.

Dickens: Eine Charackteristik. Von JULIAN SCHMIDT. Leipzig: Lork.
London: Williams and Norgate.

A SIXPENNY pamphlet of about seventy pages;
but, for all that, an important item in our cata-
logue for the quarter. Dr. Schmidt, the most
learned, painstaking, conscientious, and talented
critic among the few that are yet left to Ger-
many, has here given to the world a critical
dissertation on the abilities, the services, and the
works of our most popular novelist. Most
probably Dr. Schmidt was tired of condemning
all the malefactors that have been placed at the
bar of his critical tribunal. He longed to praise
somebody or something, though it were only
for the sake of the novelty of the thing; (we
confess that a similar longing sometimes takes
possession of ourselves while we reluctantly
pass sentence upon whole tribes of contempo-
rary trash;) and not finding any of the writers of
fiction among his countrymen worthy of praise,
he looked abroad, and selected England among

Moderner Jesuitismus.

He ad

the countries of Europe, and from among the
English writers he selected Dickens.
mires Dickens nay more, he loves him.
Dickens' writings," says he, "are more German
than the productions of the most hirsute Teuton."
Alas for Dr. Schmidt! the force of habit is
paramount, even with critics. He has so long
wielded the tomahawk, so long has he handled
the scalping-knife, that he cannot settle down
quietly to smoke the pipe of peace with his
English friend. His praise of Dickens is rank
treason against the majesty of "the German
mind:" each word of laudation applied to
Dickens is converted into a barbed arrow,
and sent with a true aim right at some German
folly, or vanity, or vice. The little book is
certainly worth reading, and will be remem-
bered when many larger and more pretentious
publications are utterly forgotten.

Roman von TH. KENIG. 2 vols. Leipzig: Schulze.
London: Williams and Norgate.

THIS novel, written in the last new German fashion, is not by any means an unfavourable specimen of the school to which it belongs. Like all productions of young Germany, it has a clumsified French air: it is redolent of Eugene Sue, and fully reconciles us to the worst productions of that writer. We have hitherto confined ourselves to a brief condensation of this class of romances; but we will, for

the nonce, report on the persons and the plot of "Modern Jesuitism," that our readers may judge for themselves.

The world of our days is not what the world was formerly. German aristocracy is going down in the market; all attempts to "bull" it are unavailing. It is crushed by the power of capital, pierced by the shafts of Hebrew genius, and laughed to scorn by the diffusion of know

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