'M. Mauguin, who has a very long nose.' 'Yesterday I was in the Chamber of Peers, who were engaged in pronouncing judg'ment on their own hereditary rights, and I saw M. Pasquier's 'wig.' 'It is alleged that the Chambers are about to discuss the following proposition: "Tous les Français du sexe masculin "ont dès leur naissance le droit de porter l'ordre de la Légion "d'Honneur;" and the permission to appear without the order 'can only be obtained by special services.' But not only does he humorously affect to become a doctrinaire; his very music is implicated. Describing the arrest of some of his friends, who were St. Simonians, of the Rue Monsigny, he says, 'Everything is sealed up, and now the procès will begin. My B minor Quartett, which is lying in the Rue Monsigny, is also sealed up. The Adagio alone is in the style of the "juste milieu," all the other parts mouvement. I suppose I shall eventually be obliged to play it before a jury.'

There is in all this much of the neatness and sparkle which we observe in Ludwig Börne's Parisian letters of that period. It is clear that Mendelssohn was well qualified to shine in the brilliant circle of German wits who then lived in Paris, and that he was warmly welcomed amongst them. But he was in no danger of settling down to this; for though he jocularly pleaded, in response to his sister's urgent calls for composition, that he was in Paris and must see it, and though jeux flashed from his pen as freely as arpeggios from his fingers, he was constitutionally too earnest ever to fall into that most pestilent of French heresies that life is a game of badinage, and a bon mot the chief end of man. He well knew that work and not play lay before him, and that Paris was not his sphere. It is refreshing to cross the Channel with him in the spring of 1832, and note the immediate change to his old healthy directness of speech and hearty enjoyment of all around him. If the last words we quote from this volume are the account he gives of his feelings on his arrival in England, it will have left an agreeable savour on the palate, not so much from our natural pride in the partiality which he so strongly expresses for this country, as from the response we cannot but yield to the simplest yet deepest elements of his nature-his affections.

'I cannot describe to you the happiness of these first weeks here. As from time to time every evil seems to accumulate, as it did during my winter in Paris, where I lost some of my most beloved friends, and never felt at home, and at last became very ill, so the reverse sometimes occurs; and thus it is in this charming country, where I am once more amongst friends, and am well, and among well-wishers, and enjoy in the fullest measure the sensation of

Arndt and his Sacred Poetry.

309

returning health. Moreover it is warm, the lilacs are in bloom, and music is going on: only imagine how pleasant all this is! I must really describe one happy morning last week. Of all the flattering demonstrations I have hitherto received, it is the one which has most touched and affected me, and perhaps the only one which I shall always recall with fresh pleasure. There was a rehearsal last Saturday at the Philharmonic, where however nothing of mine was given, my Overture not being yet written out. After Beethoven's "Pastoral Symphony," during which I was in a box, I wished to go into the room to talk to some old friends; scarcely, however, had I gone down below, when one of the orchestra called out, "There is Mendelssohn!" on which they all began shouting, and clapping their hands to such a degree, that for a time I did not really know what to do; and when this was over, another called out, "Welcome to him!" on which the same uproar recommenced, and I was obliged to cross the room, and to clamber into the orchestra, and return thanks. Never can I forget it, for it was more precious to me than any distinction, as it showed me that the musicians loved me, and rejoiced at my coming, and I cannot tell you what a glad feeling this was.'

In this happy spirit closes the story of a striking episode― the true Wanderjahr of the composer's life. In the absence of that complete history of his life which we yet hope to see executed, we receive thankfully this record of a well-rounded fragment, told in his own vivid language, and are inclined to adopt, in reference to it, the hearty phrase with which the Philharmonic votary led off the acclamations of his brethren, 'Welcome to it!' There are further rich deposits in the Berlin bank from which Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy dates his preface; and when the time comes for the full issue of his notes, we shall hope to render our little aid in giving them their well-merited currency.

ART. III.-Gedichte von Ernst Moritz Arndt. Letzte Ausgabe. (The Poems of Ernst Moritz Arndt. Last Edition.)

MORE than two years have now elapsed since one of her noblest spirits passed from Germany. In the obituary of 1860, we may safely affirm, there will be found few announcements more vividly affecting the student of European literature, than that which records the death of the venerable poet-patriot whose name is prefixed to the present paper. On the 29th of January of that year, at the advanced age of ninety-one, and immediately after receiving the congratulations alike of friends and strangers on the return of another birthday, and preserving, let us add,

his wonderful intellectual powers unimpaired to the last, Arndt was summoned to his reward. We need not marvel that deep and wide-spread sorrow should have been at the time evoked by such an event throughout the entire Teutonic fatherland; for, although the one grand object of the poet's strivings—the realization of German unity-remained, as it still remains, a glorious dream, there was enough of true patriotism, true admiration of genius, and true hero-worship of the highest kind-the heroworship of moral principle in some of its grandest embodiments -existent among the German kindred, to unite its various branches in the sacred task of paying a common and harmonious tribute of reverence to the memory of the great departed. Here in England, we too, although at this late period, would willingly take our share in a labour so befitting and so pious, and add a leaf to the many garlands with which the gratitude and love of thousands have sought to decorate his tomb.

In German literature the name of Ernst Moritz Arndt is, indeed, imperishable. His collected poems, now lying before us, we have long known and prized. They are familiar to us as household words; and repeated perusals serve but to impress our minds more powerfully with a sense of their poetic opulence, their great imaginative range, and their wonderful mastery of diction. He himself, in the preface to that edition of his works which was published in the year 1840-a preface remarkable for the noble and touching simplicity with which, in its brief compass, he alludes to his own laurels gathered in the groves of song says that many may trace in his compositions the 'element of the wild and stormy Baltic Sea,' near whose waters he was born; and that, from the rudeness of the northern air,' no 'fine and delicate southern fruitage' can be expected, like that which ripens in fairer lands and beneath a warmer sun. And, doubtless, not a little of the poetry of Arndt breathes the spirit of the north, instead of the glowing and delicious south. His patriotic poems, properly so called the strains that in such rich profusion he poured forth during the great German War of Independence-strains that resounded like the very trump of battle, and tended so mightily to stimulate the Prussians in their heroic efforts to fling off the tyranny of Napoleon-those patriotic poems utter in every stanza, in every line, we may almost say in every word, the fervid valour of the Teutonic soul; and their roughness, their want of artistic polish, their lack of the finer and sweeter element, become, in reality, their highest excellence. Where armies are to be marshalled, where a whole people is to be shaken out of lethargy, where a spirit of intense daring must be infused into the hearts of men, that they may

Element of Poetic Earnestness.

311

worthily arise and shatter the chains of the oppressor, we do not look for the softer music of the lyre. Its accents would be

unheard amid the tumult of the rising tempest, and the thunder of louder tones is necessary to the desiderated result. Most truly has Landor said, in some of his happiest occasional

verses,

"Twas at thy voice, O Arndt, that Europe rose.
England's was weak, and Germany's was tuned
To theatres, and lowered to ducal ears;

But thy loud clarion waked all living, waked
The dead to march among them.'

And in circumstances like these, we can well conceive that the loftiest honour that could be awarded to the poet's verses should be the ascription of the very element of storm and conflict which he himself half charges against them as a crime. But we cannot admit of the accusation as holding valid in reference to the majority of Arndt's poetical compositions. Few poets evince a truer sense of the worth and importance of poetic ART; and few, it may even be asserted, have given more positive and beautiful proof of the realization of such a conviction. Nothing can exceed the finished delicacy of some of his stanzas; stanzas so exquisite in conception and expression, that it is with difficulty you can recognise them as flowing from the same pen which summoned into fiery life the magnificent war-ballads that shook the throne of Bonaparte. Yet, when we look more closely, we discover that both disclose the same parent origin. In both classes of poems there is the same thorough heartiness, as we may style it for want of a better word; the same intense and impassioned earnestness, bearing irresistibly along, like a river, the reader on its tide, and captivating him with a peculiar fascination. In perusing Arndt's poems, of whatever description-and they range over many varieties of subjects, from the breathings of the tenderest love to the trumpet-blast of battle and of victory -we are specially struck with this characteristic: it is the living, burning thought of a nobly-gifted brother-mortal which speaks in the lines, without any intervening barrier, to our own heart of hearts; and we reciprocate the utterance until, animated by its divine enthusiasm and intense sincerity, we harmonize, for the moment, in soul and spirit with the speaker. We have said that the topics which the Muse of Arndt has selected are of a manifold description; and a similar assertion may with propriety be made as to the manner in which they have been treated. Little snatches of song, breathing all the simple and easy grace of the popular ballad-poetry; elegies in the

hexameter-pentameter measure, which he wields with the skill of a master, and that seem drenched in the very tears of sorrow verging on despair; cradle lullabies, in which one does not know whether more to admire the beauty of the drowsy rhythm or the thought that it adorns; sonnets constructed according to the strictest rules of poetic art, yet moving along with graceful and unlaboured flow; dithyrambs rife with bacchic madness, yet never jarring on our emotions by unbefitting licence or a harshly discordant note; delicate trifles like Melittion, light and airy as a figure cut on an antique gem; ballads of passionate power and fervour, like Harald Schönhaar, where every verse stirs the blood as with some grand old melody ringing out of the depths of the past into our spirits, and blending with the pulse of our existence while we read; strains all warm and throbbing with the glow and life of love, sweet as were ever whispered by adorer in the ear of the adored one when lapped in the elysium of unbounded happiness: such is the well-nigh illimitable field over which the poetic genius of Arndt expatiates, and where he has gained his triumphs as a gifted son of song. And if he has thus so greatly signalized himself in the special domain of the Muses, his efforts have been as unwearied, and his merits have been nearly as great, in another and a different sphere ; we refer to that of prose composition. A patriot of the truest stamp, he has written much and well for his native country. As journalist and pamphleteer, his name will, in Germany, possess imperishable renown. To mention only one of his larger prose productions-his 'Spirit of the Age' is, in many respects, a remarkable work ;* and, indeed, everything of a similar character that he has penned bears the impress of strong individuality and indomitable energy. Yet, that the idea embodied in his famous lines, 'What is the German's Fatherland?'-a song which has made the name of Arndt so widely known beyond the limits of his native country, and on the thought inspiring which song, to a large extent, his other works would form a striking commenthas never yet been realized in the political unity of Germany, is not by any means the noble singer's fault. All that man could do to achieve this end he has done, and done unflinchingly; and future generations of grateful Germans, when the dream of unity has become an accomplished fact, will rejoice to award to the heroic writer his well-earned meed of praise.

In the present article, however, before proceeding to speak of Arndt as a sacred poet, we feel ourselves called upon to refer, a little more fully, to that aspect of his genius by which we

The Geist der Zeit appeared originally in 1806, in a single volume, but was subsequently expanded into four volumes in 1813-18.