author has taken rank under the ministerial standard: but this is by no means the case. He treats the question philosophically; in order to demonstrate that the event of a legislative union between Great Britain and Ireland is inevitable as effect from cruse; and probably not far distant; and this consummation he considers as the political death of Ireland.'-It were needless to add that, (as the evident advocate for Irish independency,) he does not himself rejoice in the prospect which he opens to the view of his countrymen.-Without entering with the writer into the depths of his politico-philosophic discussion, we only add that, considered as a literary composition, we regard his performance as a master-piece of eloquent writing.

POETIC and DRAMATIC.

Art. 37. Gortz of Berlingen, with the Iron Hand. An Historical Drama, of the Fifteenth Century. Translated from the German of Goethe. 8vo. 3s. 6d. Cadell jun. and Davies.

The reputation of Goethe is so well established, by different performances which have attracted universal notice, that his name is a sufficient passport for any work. The rapid progress and great celebrity of the German drama exhibit, indeed, a singular phenomenon in literary history. A nation just emerged from barbarity offers, in the poetical compositions of its own language, models to surrounding countries which have been long favoured both by Melpomene and Thalia; and its first attempts to imitate foreign writers are received with an eagerness and an admiration, which would seem to announce that they have excelled their originals. The fame of our immortal Shakspeare is scarcely greater among us, at this moment, than that of Schiller and Goethe, who have professedly copied him. Nor is the influence of the Teutonic stage confined to the terrible and severe; the sentimental comedy has emigrated from France, to soften the proud hearts of German nobles, and has taught them to weep even for the misfortunes of those who cannot boast the honour of thirty descents.

There is a peculiar character of wildness and energy in the German tragedy, which seizes the imagination, and scarcely leaves time for the decision of the judgment. With all the bold irregularity of our older writers, there is also, in Goethe especially, a striking attention to the manners of those ages to which we are thus recalled. In the present play, the author presents us with a view of the distracted state of Germany, during the vigour of the feudal system, and under the weak guidance of Maximilian I. The insurrection of the peasants, a theme hitherto unknown to the stage, and little regarded even in general history, is introduced, to add interest to the piece ; and the Secret Tribunal, now generally known from the romance of Herman of Unna, furnishes a very impressive scene. This tragedy, though it evidently bears the stamp of genius, is not entirely free from defects. Some of the scenes are flat and uninteresting, and consume

*If death, however, be only (as righteous and good men hope and believe) a passage to a better state, why all this fearful apprehension of the change?

the

the time in trifling and unnecessary details; of others, even when the action is hurried forwards, the effect must depend on the skill of the performers, since the dialogue furnishes little that is interesting. In attempting to avoid an over-strained and affected manner of writing, authors sometimes sink beneath propriety. Professor Goethe does not always appear to have distinguished between writing naturally, and writing trivially. We shall take, without selection, a complete scene, as an evidence of our assertion.

Soldier. We have had

brought home noble game.

Enter a Soldier.

a tedious chace, but at last we have God keep you, gracious ladies.

Elizabeth. Falkenhelm is then in your power?

Soldier. He, and three of his attendants.

Elizabeth. How happened it you were so long away?

Soldier. We lay in ambush for him between Nuremberg and Bamberg. He did not appear, and yet we were certain he must be on the way; at iaft we got intelligence that he had taken a bye rozd, and had arrived undiscovered at the count of Schwartzenburg's.

Elizabeth. Schwartzenburg! Do they want to excite him also to enmity against my husband?

Soldier. I told my master that was their intention, the moment I heard that Falkenhelm was on a visit there. Well, away we gallop'd to the Haslacher wood, and at length met Falkenhelm attended only by four servants.

Maria. My heart trembles with apprehension.

Soldier. I and my comrade, as my master had commanded us, fastened upon Falkenhelm as if we would have grown to him, and completety prevented him stirring or freeing himself; in the mean time my Lord and Hans took care of his attendants; but one of them has escaped us.

Elizabeth. I am curious to see this Falkenhelm; will they be here immediately?

Soldier. I left them in the valley, in a quarter of an hour they must arrive.

Maria. He will be sadly dejected.

Soldier. Yes, he looks gloomy enough.

Maria. The sight of him in such circumstances will pain me to the heart.

Elizabeth. Well, I will go and prepare dinner, you will all have good appetites, I suppose.

Soldier. We are all hungry enough.

Elizabeth. Take the keys of the cellar, and fetch some of the best

wine, you have well deserved it.

Charles. Aunt, I will go with you.

Maria. Come, boy!

Manet Soldier.

[Exit.]

[Exeunt.]

Soldier. The lad does not take after his father, or he would have gone with me to the stable.

Enter GORTZ of Berlinger, and ADELBERT of Fulkenhelm with

Attendants.

Gortz. (Laying his sword and helmet on the table.) Unbuckle my cuirass here, and give me my cloak. Rest will now taste sweet to

me.

Brother Martin thou saidst well! Falkenhelm, you have kept us in breath. (Falkenhelm does not answer, but walks up and down in great agitation.) Be of good courage, come, disarm; Where are your cloaths? I hope they have not been lost in the scuffle-(to the page) ask his pages. Open the baggage, and see that nothing is missing. I can lend you some of mine.

Falkenhelm. Let me remain as I am, it signifies not.

Goriz. I can give you a nice clean dress enough: to be sure it is only coarse stuff, 'tis grown too tight for me; I had it on at the marriage of his highness the Count Palatine, that day when your bishop shewed so much rancour against me. I had sunk two of his vessels on the Mayne about a fortnight before, and as I and Francis of Sickingen went into the Hart inn at Heidelberg; half way up the stairs there is a landing place with an iron railing, you know; and there stood the bishop, who shook hands with Francis as he passed up, and as I followed gave me too his hand. I laughed within myself, and said to the Landgrave of Hanau, who was always gracious to me, "The bishop took me by the hand, I'd wager any thing he did not know me." The bishop overheard me, for I spoke aloud on purpose, and coming up to me in a great passion, he said, "you have guessed right, it was only because I did not know you that I offered you my hand." My Lord, I answered, I perceived you mistook me, and since that was the case, there you have your hand again. Then the little man grew as red as a lobster with rage, and ran to complain of me to count Lewis, and the prince of Nassau. We have often laughed about it since.

Falkenhelm. I entreat you, leave me to myself.

Gort. For what reason-(earnestly,) I pray you be at ease. You are in my power, but I will never misuse it.

Falkenhelm. I never felt a fear on that account. Your honor and your knighthood both forbid you.

Gortz. And you know well that they both are sacred to me.
Falkenbelm. I am a prisoner-of the rest I am careless.

Gortz. You should hot talk thus. Suppose you had to do with princes who would throw you loaded with chains into a dungeon, and perhaps command the watch to rouse you at every quarter from your sleep, or

[The attendants come in with cloaths, Falkenhelm disarms, and puts them on.]

Enter CHARLES.

Charles. Good morrow, Father.

Gortz. Good morrow boy, (kissing him) how have you been of

late.

Charles. Very clever, father, my aunt says I am very clever,
Gartz. So!

Charles. Have you brought me any thing home?

Gortz. No; not this time.

Charles. I've learnt a great deal since you've been gone. Shall I

tell you the story of the good boy?

Gorts. After dinner, after dinner.

Charles. I know something.

Gort

Gortz

Why, what may

that be?

Charles. "Yarthausen is the name of a village and castle on the river Yart, which has belonged for two centuries by right and by inheritance to the Lords of Berlingen."

Gortz. Dost thou know the Lord of Berlingen?
Charles. (Looks stedfastly at him.)

Gortz (Aside, laughing) Through sheer learning he does not know his own father. (To the child) Why to whom does Yarthausen belong?

Charles. Yarthausen is a village and castle on the river Yart." Gortz. That was not what I asked: I was acquainted with every path, wood, and wild of it, before I knew what river, village, or castle meant. What, is thy mother in the kitchen?

Charles. She is getting some roast lamb and turnips ready.
Thou canst tell that then, little scullion boy.

Gertz.

Charles. And my aunt is roasting an apple for my supper.
Gortz Can't you eat it raw?

Charles. It tastes better roasted.

Gortz. Thou must ever have something set apart for thee. Falkenhelm, I will return to you immediately: I must go and see my wife. Come, Charles!

Charles. Who is that man?

Gortz. Go, make him welcome, and tell him to be chearful.
Charles. There, man! there's my hand for thee.

Why dinner will be ready directly.

Be merry.

Falkenhelm. (Taking him up in his arms and kissing him) Happy Child! who can imagine no greater evil than the delay of the dinner! God give you much joy of the boy! Berlingen.

dow.

Gortz. Where there is much light, there will also be strong shaYet was he welcome to me. We will see what is to be done. [Exeunt Gortz and Charles.]' We do not give this extract either as the best or the worst part of the whole; it conveys a tolerable idea of the execution of the play in general. The egotism and garrulity of the hero, by which the reader's attention to his importance is perpetually solicited, cannot fail to excite some disgust in the judicious admirers of Shakspeare; who will immediately recollect the calm dignity and unaffected sublimity of his heroic characters. It must, besides, occur to the critical reader, that the interest is much weakened by the author's custom of delineating characters by narratives of past events, instead of expressions of their present feelings. Where the German author runs into a multiplicity of little circumstances, which disperse and enfeeble instead of accumulating the reader's feelings, our bard would have seized the leading features with the boldness of a master, and have left the others in the shade.

We have, in our language, a writer of acknowleged genius, who closely resembles in manner the popular German authors, though he is not a dramatist; and if we were inclined to hazard a bold conjecture, we might suggest the probability that some of the defects of our neighbours originate in their admiration of RICHARDSON. The same passion for unlimited detail, and the same interminable flow of

dialogue,

dialogue, pervade them; yet the sensibility and enthusiasm which prevail in their works extort the applause of the reader, in spite of their irregularities. The dialogue, in all Richardson's novels, is so level, that it has never furnished a single quotation; and it would be very difficult to prove his knowlege of the heart, from any unconnected sentence. He abounds in descriptions, not in maxims. Yet no person of taste and feeling can read his works, without experiencing the strongest interest in his plots, and without contracting a kind of attachment to his principal characters. This is the sensation pro duced by the tragedy of Goethe. We read with increasing curiosity, yet we retain no striking passage, as we proceed; and though our pas sions are agitated frequently before the conclusion, we do not revert to any scene on which we can dwell with particular fondness. On the contrary, those minute particulars, which roused attention at the first perusal, prove insipid on a review of the performance.

We are aware that many of the faults, which we have noticed, are imputed to the prevalent admiration of Shakspeare among the German dramatists. The errors of Shakspeare would be readily forgiven in any man who should approach his excellence: but we confess that he has not been frequently brought to our recollection in the present work. If, however, luxuriance of style be a promise of good-writing in the infancy of art, as Quintilian establishes it to be in that of the individual, we may still hope to see unexceptionable dramatic pieces produced by the German School. When its writers shall elevate themselves more to the majestic simplicity of the Greek Tragedians, and when they shall attend to the correct representation of human passions more than to stage-effect and the impression of vulgar prejudices, we may receive from them productions worthy of our study and our tears.

Art. 38. Adelaide of Wulfingen, a Tragedy, in Four Acts, (exem plifying the Barbarity which prevailed during the Thirteenth Century,) from the German of Augustus Von Kotzebue. By Benja min Thompson, jun. 8vo. 28. Vernor and Hood.

It has been frequently observed, that Professor Kotzebue's plays are distinguished by great latitude of morals. In the present instance, we conceive that his licence has been extended too far; and we cannot help thinking that he has acted very injudiciously, in combining an attack on bigotry and hypocrisy with something like a vindication of incest. We should have dismissed an inferior writer from our bar with a summary rebuke, but the popularity of this author renders his errors extremely dangerous. The intended moral of the play seems to be, that superstitious prejudices are the bane of society: but surely no wise nor good man would rank detestation of an incestuous marriage, though contracted from the ignorance of the parties, among blameable feelings: yet the innocent and virtuous heroine of the piece is driven, by discovering that her husband is her brother, to the murder of her children. This is an unnecessary and shocking termination of the action, and it is very improperly made to pass before the eyes of the audience. We may truly say, after having gone through the play, that we "have supped full with horrors;" though

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