_Munich, Oct. 28th, 1833._
II.
NUREMBERG.
Nuremberg--with its long, narrow, winding, involved streets, its precipitous ascents and descents, its completely gothic physiognomy--is by far the strangest old city I ever beheld; it has retained in every part the aspect of the middle ages. No two houses resemble each other; yet, differing in form, in colour, in height, in ornament, all have a family likeness; and with their peaked and carved gabels, and projecting central balconies, and painted fronts, stand up in a row, like so many tall, gaunt, stately old maids, with the toques and stomachers of the last century. In the upper part of the town, we find here and there a new house, built, or rebuilt, in a more modern fashion; and even a gay modern theatre, and an unfinished modern church; but these, instead of being embellishments, look ill-favoured and mean, like patches of new cloth on a rich old brocade. Age is here, but it does not suggest the idea of dilapidation or decay, rather of something which has been put under a gla.s.s-case, and preserved with care from all extraneous influences. The buildings are so ancient, the fashions of society so antiquated, the people so penetrated with veneration for themselves and their city, that in the few days I spent there, I began to feel quite old too--my mind was _wrinkled up_, as it were, with a reverence for the past. I wondered that people condescended to talk of any event more recent than the thirty years" war, and the defence of Gustavus Adolphus;[21] and all names of modern date, even of greatest mark, were forgotten in the fame of Albert Durer, Hans Sachs, and Peter Vischer: the trio of worthies, which, in the estimation or imagination of the Nurembergers, still live with the freshness of a yesterday"s remembrance, and leave no room for the heroes of to-day. My enthusiasm for Albert Durer was all ready prepared, and warm as even the Nurembergers could desire; but I confess, that of that renowned cobbler and meister-singer, Hans Sachs, I knew little but what I had learnt from the pretty comedy bearing his name, which I had seen at Manheim; and of the ill.u.s.trious Peter Vischer I could only remember that I had seen, in the academy at Munich, certain casts from his figures, which had particularly struck me. Yet to visit Nuremberg without some previous knowledge of these luminaries of the middle ages, is to lose much of that pleasure of a.s.sociation, without which the eye wearies of the singular, and the mind becomes satiated with change.
Nuremberg was the gothic Athens: it was never the seat of government, but as a free imperial city it was independent and self-governed, and took the lead in arts and in literature. Here it was that clocks and watches, maps and musical instruments, were manufactured for all Germany; here, in that truly German spirit of pedantry and simplicity, were music, painting, and poetry, at once honoured as sciences, and cultivated as handicrafts, each having its guild, or corporation, duly chartered, like the other trades of this flourishing city, and requiring, by the inst.i.tution of the magistracy, a regular apprenticeship.
It was here that, on the first discovery of printing, a literary barber and meister-singer (Hans Foltz) set up a printing-press in his own house; and it was but the natural consequence of all this industry, mental activity, and social cultivation, that Nuremberg should have been one of the first cities which declared for the Reformation.
But what is most curious and striking in this old city, is to see it stationary, while time and change are working such miracles and transformations every where else. The house where Martin Behaim, four centuries ago, invented the sphere, and drew the first geographical chart, is still the house of a map-seller. In the house where cards were first manufactured, cards are now sold. In the very shops where clocks and watches were first seen, you may still buy clocks and watches. The same families have inhabited the same mansions from one generation to another for four or five centuries. The great manufactories of those toys, commonly called Dutch toys, are at Nuremberg. I visited the wholesale depot of Pestelmayer, and it is true that it would cut a poor figure compared to some of our great Birmingham show-rooms; but the enormous scale on which this commerce is conducted, the hundreds of waggon-loads and ship-loads of these trifles and gimcracks, which find their way to every part of the known world, even to America and China, must interest a thinking mind. Nothing gave me a more comprehensive idea of the value of the whole, than a complaint which I heard from a Nuremberger, (and which, though seriously made, sounded not a little ludicrous,) of the falling off in the trade of _pill-boxes_! he said that since the fashionable people of London and Paris had taken to paper pill-boxes, the millions of wooden or chip boxes which used to be annually sent from Nuremberg to all parts of Europe were no longer required; and he computed the consequent falling off of the profits at many thousand florins.
Nuremberg was rendered so agreeable to me by the kindness and hospitality I met with, that instead of merely pa.s.sing through it, I spent some days wandering about its precincts; and as it is not very frequently visited by the English, I shall note a few of the objects which have dwelt on my memory, premising, that for the artist and the antiquary it affords inexhaustible materials.
The whole city, which is very large, lies crowded and compact within its walls; but the fortifications, once the wonder of all Germany, and their three hundred and sixty-five towers, once the glory and safeguard of the inhabitants, exist no longer. Four huge circular towers stand at the princ.i.p.al gates,--four huge towers of almost dateless antiquity, and blackened with age, but of such admirable construction, that the masonry appears, from its entireness and smoothness, as if raised yesterday.
The old castle or fortress, which stands on a height commanding the town and a glorious view, is a strange, dismantled, incongruous heap of buildings. It happened, that in the summer of 1833, the king of Bavaria, accompanied by the queen and the princess Matilda, had paid his good city of Nuremberg a visit, and had been most royally entertained by the inhabitants. The apartments in the old castle, long abandoned to the rats and spiders, had been prepared for the royal guests, and, when I saw it, three or four months afterwards, nothing could be more uncouth and fantastical than the effect of these irregular rooms, with all manner of angles, with their carved worm-eaten ceilings, their curious latticed and painted windows, and most preposterous stoves, now all tricked out with fresh paint here and there, and hung with gay glazed papers of the most modern fashion, and the most gaudy patterns. Even the chapel, with its four old pillars, which, according to the legend, had been brought by Old Nick himself from Rome, and the effigy of the monk who had cheated his infernal adversary, by saying the Litanies faster than had ever been known before or since, had, in honour of the king"s visit, received a new coat of paint. There are some very curious old pictures in the castle, (which luckily were not repainted for the same grand occasion,) among them an original portrait of Albert Durer. In the courtyard of the fortress stands an extraordinary relic--the old lime-tree planted by the Empress Cunegunde, wife of the Emperor Henry III.; every thing is done to preserve it from decay, and it still bears its leafy honours, after beholding the revolution of seven centuries.
From the fortress we look down upon the house of Albert Durer, which is preserved with religious care; it has been hired by a society of artists, who use it as a club-room: his effigy in stone is over the door. In every house there is a picture or print of him; or copies, or engravings from his works, and his head hangs in every print shop.
The street in which he lived is called by his name; and the inhabitants have moreover built a fountain to his honour, and planted trees around it;--in short, Albert Durer is wherever we look--wherever we move. What can Fuseli mean by saying that Albert Durer "was a man of extreme ingenuity without being a genius?" Does the man of mere ingenuity step before his age as Albert Durer did, not as an artist only, but as a man of science? Is not genius the creative power? and did not Albert Durer possess this power in an extraordinary degree? Could Fuseli have seen his four apostles, now in the gallery of Munich, when he said that Albert Durer never had more than an occasional _glimpse_ of the sublime?
Fuseli, as an _artist_, is an example of what I have seen in other minds, otherwise directed. The stronger the faculties, the more of original power in the mind, the less diffused is the sympathy, and the more is the judgment swayed by the individual character. Thus Fuseli, in his remarks on painters--excellent and eloquent as they are--scarcely ever does justice to those who excel in colour. He perceives and admits the excellence, but he shows in his criticisms, as in his pictures, that the faculty was wanting to feel and appreciate it: his remarks on Correggio and Rubens are a proof of this. In listening to the criticisms of an author on literature--of a painter on pictures--and, generally, to the opinion which one individual expresses of the character and actions of another, it is wise to take into consideration the modification of mind in the person who speaks, and how far it may, or _must_, influence, even where it does not absolutely distort, the judgment; so many minds are what the Germans call _one-sided_! The education, habits, mental existence of the individual, are the refracting medium through which the rays of truth pa.s.s to the mind, more or less bent or absorbed in their pa.s.sage. We should make philosophical allowance for different degrees of density.
Hans Sachs,[22] the old poet of Nuremberg, did as much for the Reformation by his songs and satires, as Luther and the doctors by their preaching; besides being one of the worshipful company of meister-singers, he found time to make shoes, and even enrich himself by his trade: he informs us himself that he had composed and written with his own hand "four thousand two hundred mastership songs; two hundred and eight comedies, tragedies, and farces; one thousand seven hundred fables, tales, and miscellaneous poems; and seventy-three devotional, military, and love songs." It is said he excelled in humour, but it was such as might have been expected from the times--it was vigorous and coa.r.s.e. "Hans," says the critic, "tells his tale like a convivial burgher, fond of his can, and still fonder of his drollery."[23] If this be the case, his house has received a very appropriate designation: it is now an ale-house, from which, as I looked up, the mixed odours of beer and tobacco, and the sound of voices singing in chorus, streamed through the old latticed windows. "Drollery"
and "the can" were as rife in the dwelling of the immortal shoemaker as they would have been in his own days, and in his own jovial presence.
In the church of St. Sibbald, now the chief Protestant church, I was surprised to find that most of the Roman Catholic symbols and relics remained undisturbed: the large crucifix, the old pictures of the saints and Madonnas had been reverentially preserved. The perpetual light which had been vowed four centuries ago by one of the Tucher family, was still burning over his tomb; no puritanic zeal had quenched that tiny flame in its chased silver lamp; and through successive generations, and all revolutions of politics and religion, maintained and fed by the pious honesty of the descendants, it still shone on,
Like the bright lamp that lay in Kildare"s holy fane, And burned through long ages of darkness and storm!
In this Protestant church, even the shrine of St. Sibbald has kept its place, if not to the honour and glory of the saint, at least to the honour and glory of the city of Nuremberg; it is considered as the _chef-d"oeuvre_ of Peter Vischer, a famous sculptor and caster in bronze, cotemporary with Albert Durer. It was begun in 1506, and finished in 1519, and is adorned with ninety-six figures, among which the twelve apostles, all varying in character and att.i.tude, are really miracles of grace, power, and expression; the base of the shrine rests upon six gigantic snails, and the whole is cast in bronze, and finished with exquisite skill and fancy. At one end of this extraordinary composition the artificer has placed his own figure, not obtrusively, but retired, in a sort of niche; he is represented in his working dress, with his cap, leather ap.r.o.n, and tools in his hand. According to tradition, he was paid for his work by the pound weight, twenty gulden (or florins) for every hundred weight of metal; and the whole weighs one hundred and twenty centners, or hundred weight.
The man who showed us this shrine was descended from Peter Vischer, lived in the same house which he and his sons had formerly inhabited, and carried on the same trade, that of a smith and bra.s.s-founder.
The Moritz-Kapel, near the church, is an old gothic chapel once dedicated to St. Maurice, now converted into a public gallery of pictures of the old German school. The collection is exceedingly curious; there are about one hundred and forty pictures, and besides specimens of Mabuse, Albert Durer, Van Eyck, Martin Schoen, Lucas Kranach, and the two Holbeins, I remember some portraits by a certain Hans Grimmer, which impressed me by their truth and fine painting. It appears from this collection that for some time after Albert Durer, the German painters continued to paint on a gold ground. Kulmbach, whose heads are quite marvellous for finish and expression, generally did so.
This gallery owes its existence to the present king, and has been well arranged by the architect Heideldoff and professor von Dillis of Munich.
In the market-place of Nuremberg stands the Schonebrunnen, that is, the beautiful fountain; it bears the date 1355, and in style resembles the crosses which Edward I. erected to Queen Eleanor, but is of more elaborate beauty; it is covered with gothic figures, carved by one of the most ancient of the German sculptors, Schonholfer, who modestly styles himself a stone-cutter. Here we see, placed amicably close, Julius Caesar, G.o.dfrey of Boulogne, Judas Maccabaeus, Alexander the Great, Hector of Troy, Charlemagne, and king David: all old acquaintances, certainly, but whom we might have supposed that nothing but the day of judgment could ever have a.s.sembled together in company.
Talking of the day of judgment reminds me of the extraordinary cemetery of Nuremberg, certainly as unlike every other cemetery, as Nuremberg is unlike every other city. Imagine upon a rising ground, an open s.p.a.ce of about four acres, completely covered with enormous slabs, or rather blocks of solid stone, about a foot and a half in thickness, seven feet in length, and four in breadth, laid horizontally, and just allowing s.p.a.ce for a single person to move between them. The name, and the armorial bearings of the dead, cast in bronze, and sometimes rich sculpture, decorate these tombs: I remember one, to the memory of a beautiful girl, who was killed as she lay asleep in her father"s garden by a lizard creeping into her mouth. The story is represented in bronze bas-relief, and the lizard is so constructed as to move when touched.
From this I shrunk with disgust, and turned to the sepulchre of a famous worthy, who measured the distance from Nuremberg to the holy sepulchre with his garter: the implement of his pious enterprise, twisted into a sort of true-love knot, is carved on his tomb. Two days afterwards I entered the dominions of a reigning monarch, who is at this present moment performing a journey to Jerusalem round the walls of his room.[24]
How long-lived are the follies of mankind! Have, then, five centuries made so little difference?
The tombs of Albert Durer, Hans Sachs, and Sandraart, were pointed out to me, resembling the rest in size and form. I was a.s.sured that these huge sepulchral stones exceed three thousand in number, and the whole aspect of this singular burial-place is, in truth, beyond measure striking--I could almost add, appalling.
I was not a little surprised and interested to find that the princ.i.p.al Gazette of Nuremberg, which has a wide circulation through all this part of Germany, extending even to Frankfort, Munich, Dresden, and Leipsig, is entirely in female hands. Madame de Schaden is the proprietor, and the responsible editor of the paper; she has the printing apparatus and offices under her own roof, and though advanced in years, conducts the whole concern with a degree of activity, spirit, and talent, which delighted me. The circulation of this paper amounts to about four thousand: a trifling number compared to our papers, but a large number in this economical country, where the same paper is generally read by fifty or sixty persons at least.
All travellers agree that benevolence and integrity are the national characteristics of the Germans. Of their honesty I had daily proofs: I do not consider that I was ever imposed upon or overcharged during my journey, except once, and then it was by a Frenchman. Their benevolence is displayed in the treatment of animals, particularly of their horses.
It was somewhere between Nuremberg and Hof, that, for the first and only time, I saw a postilion flog his horse unmercifully, or at least unreasonably. The Germans very seldom beat their horses: they talk to them, remonstrate, encourage, or upbraid them. I have frequently known a voiturier, or a postilion, go a whole stage--which is seldom less than fifteen English miles--at a very fair pace, without once even raising the whip; and have often witnessed, not without amus.e.m.e.nt, long conversations between a driver and his steed--the man, with his arm thrown over the animal"s neck, discoursing in a strange jargon, and the intelligent brute turning his eye on his master with such a responsive expression! In this part of Germany there is a popular verse repeated by the postilions, which may be called the German _rule of the road_. It is the horse who speaks--
Berg auf, ubertrieb mich nicht; Berg ab, ubereil mich nicht; Auf ebenen Weg, vershone mich nicht; Im Stahl, vergiss mich nicht.
which is, literally,
Up hill, overdrive me not; Down hill, hurry me not; On level ground, spare me not; In the stable, forget me not.
The German postilions form a very numerous and distinct cla.s.s; they wear a half-military costume--a laced or embroidered jacket, across which is invariably slung the bugle-horn, with its parti-coloured cord and ta.s.sels: huge jack-boots, and a smart glazed hat, not unfrequently surmounted with a feather (as in Hesse Ca.s.sel and Saxe Weimer) complete their appearance. They are in the direct service and pay of the government; they must have an excellent character for fidelity and good conduct before they are engaged, and the slightest failing in duty or punctuality, subjects them to severe punishment; thus they enjoy some degree of respectability as a body, and Marschner thought it not unworthy of his talents to compose a fine piece of music, which he called The Postilion"s "Morgen-lied," or morning song. I found them generally a good-humoured, honest set of men; obliging, but not servile or cringing; they are not allowed to smoke without the express leave of the traveller, nor to stop or delay on the road on any pretence whatever. In short, though the burley German postilions do not present the neat compact turn-out of an English post-boy, nor the horses any thing like the speed of "Newman"s greys," or the Brighton Age, and though the traveller must now and then submit to arbitrary laws and individual inconvenience; still the travelling regulations all over Germany, more especially in Prussia, are so precise, so admirable, and so strictly enforced, that no where could an unprotected female journey with more complete comfort and security. This I have proved by experience, after having tried every different mode of conveyance in Prussia, Bavaria, Baden, Saxony, and Hesse. My road expenses, for myself and an attendant, seldom exceeded a Napoleon a-day.
III.
MEMORANDA AT DRESDEN.[25]
Beautiful, stately Dresden! if not the queen, the fine lady of the German cities! Surrounded with what is most enchanting in nature, and adorned with what is most enchanting in art, she sits by the Elbe like a fair one in romance, wreathing her towery diadem--so often scathed by war--with the vine and the myrtle, and looking on her own beauty imaged in the river flood, which, after rolling an impetuous torrent through the mountain gorges, here seems to pause and spread itself into a lucid mirror to catch the reflection of her airy magnificence. No doubt misery and evil dwell in Dresden, as in all the congregated societies of men, but no where are they less obtrusive. The city has all the advantages, and none of the disadvantages, of a capital; the treasures of art acc.u.mulated here, the mild government, the delightful climate, the beauty of the environs, and the cheerfulness and simplicity of social intercourse, have rendered it a favourite residence for artists and literary characters, and to foreigners one of the most captivating places in the world. How often have I stood in the open s.p.a.ce in front of the gorgeous Italian church, or on the summit of the flight of steps leading to the public walk, gazing upon the n.o.ble bridge which bestrides the majestic Elbe, and connects the new and the old town; or, pursuing with enchanted eye the winding course of the river to the foot of those undulating purple hills, covered with villas and vineyards, till a feeling of quiet grateful enjoyment has stolen over me, like that which Wordsworth describes:--
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And pa.s.sing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration.
But it is not only the natural beauties of the scene which strike a stranger; the city itself has this peculiarity in common with Florence, to which it has been so often compared, that instead of being an accident in the landscape--a dim, smoky, care-haunted spot upon the all-lovely face of nature--a discord in the soothing harmony of that quiet enchanting scene which steals like music over the fancy;--it is rather a charm the more--an ornament--a crowning splendour--a fulfilling and completing chord. Its unrivalled elegance and neatness, a general air of cheerfulness combined with a certain dignity and tranquillity, the purity and elasticity of the atmosphere, the brilliant shops, the well-dressed women, and the lively looks and good-humoured alertness of the people, who, like the Florentines, are more remarkable for their tact and acuteness than for their personal attractions;--all these advantages render Dresden, though certainly one of the smallest, and by no means one of the richest capitals in Europe, one of the most delightful residences on the continent. I am struck, too, by the silver-toned voices of the women, and the courtesy and vivacity of the men; for in Bavaria the intonation is broad and harsh, and the people, though frank, and honest, and good-natured, are rather slow, and not particularly polished in their demeanour.
It is the general aspect of Dresden which charms us: it is not distinguished by any vast or striking architectural decorations, if we except the Italian church, which, with all its thousand faults of style, pleases from its beautiful situation and its exceeding richness. This is the only Roman Catholic church in Dresden: for it is curious enough, that while the national religion, or, if I may so use the word, the state religion, is Protestant--the court religion is Catholic; the royal family having been for several generations of that persuasion;[26] but this has caused neither intolerance on the one hand, nor jealousy on the other. The Saxons, the first who hailed and embraced the doctrines of Luther, seem quite content to allow their anointed king to go to heaven his own way; and though the priests who surround him are, of course, mindful to keep up their own influence, there is no spirit of proselytism; and I believe the most perfect equality with regard to religious matters prevails here. The Catholic church is almost always half full of Protestants, attracted by the delicious music, for all the corps d"opera sing in the choir. High ma.s.s begins about the time that the sermon is over in the other churches, and you see the Protestants hurrying from their own service, crowding in at the portals of the Catholic church, and taking their places, the men on one side and the women on the other, with looks of infinite gravity and devotion: the king being always present, it would here be a breach of etiquette to behave as I have often seen the English behave in the Catholic churches--precisely as if in a theatre. But if the good old monarch imagines that his heretic subjects are to be converted by Cesi"s[27] divine voice, he is wonderfully mistaken.
The people of Dresden have always been distinguished by their love of music; I was therefore rather surprised to find here a little paltry theatre, ugly without, and mean within; a new edifice has been for some time in contemplation, therefore to decorate or repair the old one may seem superfluous. That it is not nearly large enough for the place is its worst fault. I have never been in it that it was not crowded to suffocation. At this time Bellini"s opera, _I Capelletti_, is the rage at Dresden, or rather Madame Devrient"s impersonation of the Romeo, has completely turned all heads and melted all hearts--that are fusible. The Capelletti is only the last of the thousand-and-one versions of Romeo and Juliet, and though the last, not the best of Bellini"s operas; and Devrient is not generally heard to the greatest advantage in the modern Italian music; but her _conception_ of the part of Romeo is new and belongs to herself; like a woman of feeling and genius she has put her stamp upon it: it is quite distinct from the same character as represented by Pasta and Malibran--_character_ perhaps I should not say, for in the lyrical drama there is properly no room for any such gradual development of individual sentiments and motives; a powerful and graceful sketch, of which the outline is filled up by music, is all that the artist is required to give; and within this boundary a more beautiful delineation of youthful fervid pa.s.sion I never beheld: if Devrient must yield to Pasta in grandeur, and to Malibran in versatility of power and liquid flexibility of voice, she yields to neither in pathos, to neither in delicious modulation, to neither in pa.s.sion, power, and originality, though in her, in a still greater degree, the talent of the artist is modified by individual temperament. Like other gifted women, who are blessed or cursed with a most excitable nervous system, Devrient is a good deal under the influence of moods of feeling and temper, and in the performance of her favourite parts, (as this of Romeo, the Armida, Emmeline in the Sweitzer Familie,) is subject to inequalities, which are not caprices, but arise from an exuberance of soul and power, and only render her performance more interesting. Every night that I have seen her since my arrival here, even in parts which are unworthy of her, as in the "Eagle"s Nest,"[28] has increased my estimate of her talents; and last night, when I saw her for the third time in the Romeo, she certainly surpa.s.sed herself. The duet with Juliet, (Madlle. Schneider,) at the end of the first act, threw the whole audience into a tumult of admiration; they invariably encore this touching and impa.s.sioned scene, which is really a positive cruelty, besides being a piece of stupidity; for though it _may_ be as well sung the second time, it _must_ suffer in effect from the repet.i.tion. The music, though very pretty, is in itself nothing, without the situation and sentiment; and after the senses and imagination have been wound up to the most thrilling excitement by tones of melting affection and despair, and Romeo and Juliet have been finally torn asunder by a flinty-hearted stick of a father, with a black cloak and a ba.s.s voice--_selon les regles_--it is ridiculous to see them come back from opposite sides of the stage, bow to the audience, and then, throwing themselves into each other"s arms, pour out the same pa.s.sionate strains of love and sorrow. As to Devrient"s acting in the last scene, I think even Pasta"s Romeo would have seemed colourless beside hers; and this arises perhaps from the character of the music, from the very different style in which Zingarelli and Bellini have treated their last scene. The former has made Romeo tender and plaintive, and Pasta accordingly subdued her conception to this tone; but Bellini has thrown into the same scene more animation, and more various effect.[29] Devrient, thus enabled to colour more highly, has gone beyond the composer.
There was a flush of poetry and pa.s.sion, a heartbreaking struggle of love and life against an overwhelming destiny, which thrilled me.
Never did I hear any one sing so completely from her own soul as this astonishing creature. In certain tones and pa.s.sages her voice issued from the depths of her bosom as if steeped in tears; and her countenance, when she hears Juliet sigh from the tomb, was such a sudden and divine gleam of expression as I have never seen on any face but f.a.n.n.y Kemble"s.
I was not surprised to learn that Madame Devrient is generally ill after her performance, and unable to sing in this part more than once or twice a week.
Tieck is the literary Colossus of Dresden; perhaps I should say of Germany. There are those who dispute his infallibility as a critic; there are those who will not walk under the banners of his philosophy; but since the death of Goethe, I believe Ludwig Tieck holds undisputed the first rank as an original poet, and powerful writer, and has succeeded, by right divine, to the vacant throne of genius. His house in the Altmarkt, (the tall red house at the south-east corner,) henceforth consecrated by that power which can "hallow in the core of human hearts even the ruin of a wall,"[30] is the resort of all the enlightened strangers who flock to Dresden: even those who know nothing of Tieck but his name, deem an introduction to him as indispensable as a visit to the Madonna del Sisto. To the English, he is particularly interesting: his knowledge of our language and literature, and especially of our older writers, is profound. Endued with an imagination which luxuriates in the world of marvels, which "dwells delightedly midst fays and talismans," and embraces in its range of power what is highest, deepest, most subtle, most practical--gifted with a creative spirit, for ever moving and working within the illimitable universe of fancy, Tieck is yet one of the most poignant satirists and profound critics of the age. He has for the last twenty years devoted his time and talents, in conjunction with Schlegel, to the study, translation, and ill.u.s.tration of Shakspeare. The combination of these two minds has done perhaps what no single mind could have effected in developing, elucidating, and clothing in a new language the creations of that mighty and inspired being.
It is to be hoped that some translator will rise up among us to do justice in return to Tieck. No one tells a fairy tale like him: the earnest simplicity of style and manner is so exquisite that he always gives the idea of one whose hair was on end at his own wonders, who was entangled by the spell of his own enchantments. A few of these lighter productions (his Volksmarchen, or popular Tales) have been rendered into our language; but those of his works which have given him the highest estimation among his own countrymen still remain a sealed fountain to English readers.[31]
It was with some trepidation I found myself in the presence of this extraordinary man. Notwithstanding his profound knowledge of our language, he rarely speaks English, and, like Alfieri, he _will not_ speak French. I addressed him in English, and he spoke to me in German.
The conversation in my first visit fell very naturally upon Shakspeare, for I had been looking over his admirable new translation of Macbeth, which he had just completed. Macbeth led us to the English theatre and English acting--to Mrs. Siddons and the Kembles, and the actual character and state of our stage.
While he spoke I could not help looking at his head, which is wonderfully fine; the n.o.ble breadth and amplitude of his brow, and his quiet, but penetrating eye, with an expression of latent humour hovering round his lips, formed altogether a striking physiognomy. The numerous prints and portraits of Tieck which are scattered over Germany are very defective as resemblances. They have a heavy look; they give the weight and power of his head, but nothing of the _finesse_ which lurks in the lower part of his face. His manner is courteous, and his voice particularly sweet and winning. He is apparently fond of the society of women; or the women are fond of his society, for in the evening his room is generally crowded with fair worshippers. Yet Tieck, like Goethe, is accused of entertaining some unworthy sentiments with regard to the s.e.x; and is also said, like Goethe, not to have upheld us in his writings, as the true philosopher, to say nothing of the true poet, ought to have done. It is a fact upon which I shall take an opportunity of enlarging, that almost all the greatest men who have lived in the world, whether poets, philosophers, artists, or statesmen, have derived their mental and physical organization, more from the mother"s than the father"s side; and the same is true, unhappily, of those who have been in an extraordinary degree perverted. And does not this lead us to some awful considerations on the importance of the moral and physical well-being of women, and their present condition in society, as a branch of legislation and politics, which must ere long be modified? Let our lords and masters reflect, that if an extensive influence for good or for evil be not denied to us, an influence commencing not only with, but before the birth of their children, it is time that the manifold mischiefs and miseries lurking in the bosom of society, and of which woman is at once the wretched instrument and more wretched victim, be looked to.