the neighbouring baker's "assistant." Her appearance was always hailed by children with clamorous delight. Her exhaustless and imperturbable good humour, her stock of marvellous stories, domestic and foreign; the treasures of a pocket, so ample, little hands could scarcely fathorn it, which included, not only the usual complement of pen-knife, scissors, needle case, thimble, and purse, but an endless variety of picture books, song books, shells, to say nothing of hard bake and comfits; all these made Molly to baby-hood an amusement and joy. But great and useful as were her qualifications, it is not, we believe, on record, that in any household, however pressing the emergency, she was ever exalted to my lady's dressing-room. Poor Molly! she would, indeed, have been sadly out of place in braiding hair, or adjusting robes; we hardly know how her large hands would unite in accurate juxta-position the tiny and delicate links of "hooks and eyes." But if we have glanced at the attributes which recommended her to mistresses, we must speak of those which gave her in the eyes of servants such wide-spread popularity, and made all to whom she was known, when extra help was demanded, instantly suggest "Oh! ma'm, let me fetch Molly, no one can be so useful as she." Not only was it that they knew when she came, every servant's burden in the house was lightened by her readiness, strength and activity; not only was her merry jest and sage counsel in love affairs always acceptable; but, added to these, and which gave her priceless value-Molly could tell fortunes! Could read the cards, and extract from the grounds of a tea cup, the type and promise of future events! As we do not wish to degrade her in our reader's estimation, we wish it distinctly to be understood, that it was as an amateur only, that she practised in the occult sciences. But her powers of divination were said to be so infallible, that- but we must not betray the secrets of our young friends, or we could name two or three instances in which Molly's skill has been sought--not by the soubrette, to learn whether the "butcher's young man" were true or false-but they do say by fair damosels of gentle birth, by the lovely and the gifted, who have lent an attentive and credulous ear, to be resolved whether the aristocratic guardsman, or the handsome Oxonian, preserved inviolate his love and fealty. We verily believe it was her skill in these matters, inclusive of deep and profound acquaintance with all arts, charms and spells for allhallow's eve, midsummer's day, &c. &c., and her own apparent implicit belief in her prophecies and "conjurations," more even than her general usefulness, which procured her such constant employment and ready acceptance any where. Go on, Molly, and prosper; and we hope the lore which tells you when "Coming events cast their shadows before," will teach you to lay up from the gains your industry and (forgive us) cunning levy, a provision for the day-far off may it be !-when age shall diminish your exuberant strength and fertile fancy. Again we say, go on and prosper! Sweet summer-time !-you lov'd it so! 'Tis here! 'tis here in all its pride; The glad earth smiles, the blue skies glow, And birds are singing side by side. Your favourite flowers are blooming bright Upon the hill and in the glen ; I saw them bath'd in dew last night, The old oak woods with leaves are green, Invites you to return to me. SKETCHES OF GERMAN LITERATURE. | but very few have enough of the incident, the pas BY MARY ANN YOUATT. Introductory Remarks. The principal literary names of Germany have, for some years past, been nearly as familiar to the educated classes of England as those of native writers, and her language, literature, and music, have lately become the objects of study, criticism, and eulogy. In these days of steam and rail-roads, when we are brought so closely in contact with this nation, when every petty tourist who can escape from his business or profession, even but for a week or ten days, hastens up the Rhine, to feast his eyes on its wild scenery, its vine-clad hills, and mouldering castles; pausing for a day here and there to view the ancient cities of Coblenz, Cologne, or Mayence, or perhaps to visit the gay metropolis of Frankfort-in these days, it behoves us to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance with this interesting people, with their rich, powerful, and expressive language, and their imaginative, philosophical, oft-times quaint, and ever beautiful literature. It is with a view to the furtherance of this object, that these sketches are written; and if our pigmy endeavours should tend in the least towards its advancement, we shall be more than repaid. sion, and the stirring realities of life, to interest the English reader generally. It has so frequently been found that translations of German novels do not answer in this country, that few publishers will now attempt them. This is, however, not attributable so much to any deficiency in the works themselves, as to other and very different causes. Firstly, the translation is, perhaps, undertaken by some novice in literature, or by one who does not catch the spirit of the author, or if he did, would not have power to do it justice; for it is seldom that we see such names as those of Bulwer and Howitt appended to a translation. In Germany, they manage these things better; there even Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, Schlegel, and Tieck, have not disdained thus to employ their mighty genius, and the consequence is, that no nation possesses so many, and such perfect translations as Germany does, and, consequently, such facilities for study, comparison, and improvement. Another great reason why, generally speaking, the isolated translations which do reach us occasionally, afford so imperfect a means of coming to any just appreciation of an original or thinking author, especially if his writings reflect the age, the national characteristics, and social circumstances of the man, is, that in all probability the reader is but superficially acquainted with the manners, customs, idioms, modes of thought and expression, or habits of the nations to which the work belongs, and is consequently surprised and puzzled by much that he meets with; his prejudices rise up against the apparent innovations, and all that appears so preposterous and unnatural, and he condemns the author and his work, because he cannot rightly understand them. How often do we encounter, nay how often are we guilty of this great error in human judgment; we form our opinions of others on the basis of our own personal feelings, situation, and experience, forgetting that, in all probability, we have not one thought, habit, or feeling in common with those whom we thus "Fully to enjoy the flowery, graceful, richness of German Literature," says Mrs. Trolloppe, "locked up as it is in its splendid case of Gothic workmanship, where every quaint idiom stands out in deep relief upon it, like some precious gem, requires long months of study, if not an actual residence among the people." In one point of view, German Literature of the present day greatly resembles our own; the most celebrated authors have passed, or are passing away, and, although there is an abundance of talent still remaining, the individual writers bear no proportion to the collossal forms of past years. Schiller and Goethe still tower far, far above all competitors, the giants, as it were, of poetry. It is true that a numerous body of young aspirants claim their share of public attention, many of whom possess feeling, elegance, and imagination; for the national characteristic of the Germans may be said to be poetry, and certainly they have every requi-judge. site both for its production and appreciation, in their enthusiasm, simplicity, energy, warmth of heart, superstition, acute taste for all the beauties and wonders of nature, and love of the marvellous and imaginative. But most of the poets of the present day are wanting in originality; they seem content to tread in the steps of their predecessors, to form themselves on their model, revel in their beauties, and, with very few exceptions, seek not to strike out for themselves any new path to fame. Menzel, in his "German Literature," when speaking of them, says: "They are more anxious to sing, than to be listened to, and, like birds in the spring time of the year twitter upon every branch, apparently quite unconscious that their number is so great, or that they do but repeat the old song over and over again; and many too," he adds, "vanish with the spring, and are heard no more." The same observations will apply, in a great measure, to the prose writers of fiction; a quiet dreamy speculative style pervades the works of some of the very best of them, diversified here and there by rich morsels of imagination or sentiment; The last obstacle which we shall mention to the success of translations from the German is, the prejudices and misapprehensions respecting the peculiar tendency of that literature, which have warped the judgment even of men of sense and liberality, and been very generally entertained. It has been condemned as sentimental, trashy, and maudlin; nay, even worse, as immoral and irreligious and certainly those who have formed their judgment of it, from the writings of Veit Weber, Kotzebue, and some few others of similar standing, have some ground to go upon; but as well might any foreign nation attempt to form a criterion of our literature from such works as "the Castle Spectre," "the Mysteries of Udolpho," Lewis's Monk," and the questionable morality of Rich D ardson and Fielding, or judge of our dramatic taste from such dramas as "Tom and Jerry," and the "Beggar's Opera." A closer acquaintance, however, with the treasures contained in the writings of such men as Goethe, Lessing, Schiller, Wieland, Richter, Tieck, &c., will soon dissipate these illusions. It is true that idealism, and romanticism, are among the most prominent features of German authors; that they love to indulge in a species of composition, half miraculous, half poetic, full of the ideal and beautiful in point of sentiment and feeling, breathing of all that is lovely in nature, pure in virtue, holy in religion, and yet told with a simplicity of eloquence, which reminds you of some tale recited by the sweet lips of childhood, or one of the narrative portions of the Old Testament: And it is also true, that in many of them, the love of the beautiful, the spiritual and the sublime-the unattainable in this life-is carried to such an excess, as to place virtue on so high a pedestal, that the enthusiastic student who pines to reach this imaged perfection, shrinks back discouraged, and while striving to attain to that lofty ideal on which his mind's eye is fixed, neglects the material good within his reach, and becomes a mere visionary; but these are their greatest faults, and there are spots even on the sun. We will however proceed, without further preface, to introduce our readers to some of the principal German writers, and endeavour to give a slight sketch of their principal works, their lives, and peculiarities, as far as it has been in our power to become acquainted with them. SKETCH I. Goëthe. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was born at Frankfort-on-the-maine, in the year, 1749. The history, or rather the poetical account of himself, which he has given in his own memoirs, (Aus meinem Leben) enables us to trace the mental development of this extraordinary man from his childhood upwards. While very young he seems to have thought deeply and anxiously about religion, and before he was eight years old, had devised a form of worship to the "God of Nature," and actually burnt sacrifices. All the arts and sciences seemed to have had charms for him, and he was particularly fond of the study of languages, to further his proficiency in which, he wrote a romance in which seven sisters corresponded, each in a different tongue. He began to write poetry in early youth, but his decidedly poetical genius did not manifest itself until he was at the University of Leipsic. "Here began," says he, "that tendency which never afterwards departed from me, to poetise every feeling of my life, whether of joy or pain." About this time also, he devoted some time to the study of the fine arts, and made some attempts at etching, but this pursuit impaired his health, and he was still very far from well when he left Leipsic, in 1768. In order to recover his health and strength he was sent to the residence of a lady named Kieltenberg. She was a mystic, a female philosopher, and, at her house Goethe became acquainted with the study of alchemy, and with many cabalistic authors, which gave a new turn to his thoughts, and colouring to his feelings, so that on going to Strasburg to finish his studies, he neglected jurisprudence and gave up his thoughts to chemistry, natural philosophy, and the sciences. On his return home in 1773, he published the play of "Götz von Berlichingen," and in 1774, the novel of "Werther," which excited a general sensation throughout Germany. The Prince of Weimar made his acquaintance, and on assuming his government invited him to court; he went to Weimar in 1775, and in 1779 was made a privycounsellor (Geheimrath). In 1786 he travelled to Italy, where he stayed two years; subsequently he became one of the ministry, received honourable marks of notice from several sovereigns, and died in 1832, after a long and useful life devoted to science, literature, and art. "Werther," Goethe's first novel, was, as we have before stated, published in 1774. The plot is very simple. The hero is a student at one of the universities, and coming to pass his vacation in the country, sees, and falls in love with Charlotte the daughter of the Amtmann, and the betrothed of Albert. The period appointed for her marriage approaches, but this, far from diminishing, only serves to increase Werther's unhappy passion. He, at length, so far forgets himself, as to lose sight of the respect due to her, she indignantly forbids him the house, and, in despair, he borrows Albert's pistols and shoots himself. Notwithstanding the rich vein of pathos, beauty, and poetic eloquence, which runs through this work, there is a sickly effeminate sentimentality about the hero by no means in accordance with our English tastes; nor do we cordially agree with the moral bearing of some of the philosophical portions. It has been translated from a French translation, and very incorrectly, its melancholy rendered maudlin, and its hero shorn of every ray of interest. We have heard that a new and better English version of it is either published or forthcoming. "Götz von Berlichingen," is rather a series of dramatic tableaux, illustrative of the times of Maximillian than a drama. Martin Luther, then a monk, is introduced; also a very graphic sketch of the Vehmgericht, or secret tribunal. The character of Götz of the iron hand, the sturdy, warmhearted, old German knight, is finely drawn, and his fate excites our sympathy. The gentle womanly Maria, the subtle intriguing Adela, and the homely domesticated affectionate Elizabeth, are all truthful sketches. This play has been very well translated by Sir Walter Scott. "Egmont" greatly resembles Götz von Berlichingen in point of style, both being imitations of Skakespeare. The prince of Orange, and Count Egmont, are contending for the liberties of the Netherlands, and endeavouring to resist the Spanish encroachments. Margaret of Parma is Regent, and Micchiavel, who afterwards became so celebrated in history, is her secretary; they are both inclined to lenient and temporizing measures. Suddenly the Duke Alba arrives with authority to supersede Margaret. He is resolved on enforcing unconditional submission. His first act is to summon all the chief nobility to hear his commission read. The Prince of Orange distrusts him, and betakes himself to his own territories, after vainly endeavouring to induce Egmont to do the same; but he courageously attends, and advocates the ancient constitution and rights of the people. Alba, whose only purpose in inviting them was to get them into his power, seizes the Count, throws him into prison, and executes him. There is little of pathos, and much of historic detail in this drama. Egmont, with all his frank, careless confidence, his courage, and high qualities, is irresolute and trifling; his character, however, bears the stamp of nature. Goëthe does not usually portray man as he should or could be, but as he is; if his heroes are not always interesting, they are usually natural, and every incident is probable. He appeals less to the passions than to the experience of his readers. The heroine of this piece, Clara, charms us by her devoted self-sacrificing love, and by the fervency with which she cherishes the image of her noble lover through weal and woe; but we cannot quite forgive her trifling with Blackenberg, and admitting his attentions, when she cannot return his attachment. We quote one scene from this drama, which somewhat reminds us of one in "Kenilworth." "Scene, a Cottage-Clara and her MotherEnter Count Egmont, enveloped in a riding-mantle, and his hat pressed down over his brows. Egmont.-Clara! Clara.-(Springing towards kim) Egmont !dearest-best! Do I behold thee here once more? Egmont.-Good evening, mother. Mother.-God greet thee, noble sir! My child has been pining for your presence, and speaking of you the whole live-long day. Egmont.-Will you give me some supper? Mother.-Will I! with the greatest pleasure. But we have nothing in the house fit for you to eat. Clara.-Do not be alarmed, mother, I have cared for that, and small as my preparations are, they will suffice; for when he is with me, I can never think of eating, and hence do I judge that he will not have any great appetite. Egmont.-Dost think so? (Clara stamps her feet peevishly and turns away). Nay, what ails thee? Clara. Why this cold formality? no embrace, no kiss, but there you stand with your arms wrapped in that cloak, like a child enveloped in swaddling clothes. A soldier and a lover should ever have his arms at liberty. Egmont.-Patience, love, patience! When the soldier plans some secret stratagem wherewith to deceive the enemy, he assumes a disguise, suppresses each emotion, and waits his time in silence; and a lover Mother.-Prithee sir, be seated, and make yourself at home. Clara can think of nothing when you are present; but you know you are welcome, and will take things as you find them. Egmont. Thanks, thanks, your kindness seasons everything. (exit Mother) And now my Clara! (Throws off his mantle, and stands before her magnificently attired.) Clara.-Oh, heavens! Clara.-Let me go-you will spoil all this. (Gazing on him) How gorgeous-I dare not touch you now. Egmont.-Art contented, love? Long ago I did promise to come to thee in this my Spanish uniform. Clara.-Yes; but I have ceased to ask it of you lately, for I thought it was unpleasant to you. Let me look at that splendid order. May I touch it did not the emperor, with his own hands, place it about thy neck? Egmont. Yes, dearest! and this chain and order gives to those who wear it, the noblest of all privileges. I acknowledge no superior on earth, no judge over my actions, save the grand-master of this order and his chapter of knights. Clara.-O, thou need'st fear no man's judgment! This velvet too, how soft-how rich it is, and these glittering jewels-this skilful embroidery-I know not where to begin. Egmont.-Look thy fill at all, sweet! Clara.-You did once tell me the history of this bright golden medal, how that it was a valued mark of honour and distinction, only to be won by sterling worth and earnest striving. "Tis precious- . so is the rich jewel of thy love; so do I wear that on my bosom, in my heart, but there the comparison ends. Egmont.-How so, love? Clara. I have not striven for it—not deserved it! Egmont.-Ay! but in love it is far otherwise. Love is a free gift, oftenest bestowed on those who seek it not, and best retained by those who scarcely value it. Clara. Does experience prompt these words? Do these proud remarks apply to thyself, so loved by all the people? Egmont.-Would that I had done, or could do something for them. 'Tis not to my deserts, but their good will, I owe their love. Clara. You have been with the Queen Regent to-day? are you on good terms with her? Egmont. It would seem so. We are friendly, and mutually serviceable to each other. Clara. And at heart? Egmont.-I wish her well. Both have their own private views and aims, but that is nothing to the purpose. She is an excellent woman, loves her people, is quick-sighted and shrewd,-t'were well if she were a little less suspicious. I fear I give her a great deal of trouble, for she will persist in seeking for mysteries, and secret purposes in all my actions, while there are none. Clara.-Positively none? Egmont.-Well, well! The purest wine will leave some sediment. But the Prince of Orange affords her still more occupation, for he has such a reputation for intrigues and plots, that she mistrusts his every glance, rivets her piercing gaze upon his brow, in hopes there to read his thoughts, and marks each step. Clara. And think'st thou she is sincere? Clara. Forgive me-I do but fear for thee. Should she be false? Egmont. She is not more or less so than all Egmont.-Now my arms are free (embraces her). who seek to compass their own ends. Clara.-Thank Heaven, I was not born great! I ask no world beyond thy love. Let me but feel thy circling arm, listen to thy voice, look into thine eyes, and there read love, hope, joy, pride, and I am content. But speak, mine own,-tell me,--Art thou Egmont-the Count Egmont-the great Egmont? He whose praise forms the universal theme-whose deeds are chronicled in fame's bright heraldry-the hero-the beloved of all the provinces ? Egmont.-No, Clara, that Egmont am I not. Egmont,-Listen! but first let me be seated. (He seats himself, she kneels before him on a stool, resting her arms upon his lap, and gazing fondly into his face). That Egmont is a proud, cold, reserved being; tormented by his friends, misjudged by his enemies-one whose whole life is a glittering, unreal pageant. Beloved by a fickle populace, honoured and looked up to by a crowd of unmanagable spirits-surrounded by friends on whom he dares not rely, tracked by artful spieshe seeks his country's welfare with his whole heart, and labours on uncheered by success, and with scarcely a gleam of hope. No no, Clara, such is not thy Egmont! He is calm, frank, joyous, happy. On him is bestowd the rich treasure of a woman's pure, gentle, confiding heart, which he knows how to value, and presses to his bosom in perfect love, gratitude, and trust.-(Embracing her tenderly). Clara. Oh, let me now die! The world has no joy surpassing this. ACT. III., Sc. 2nd. rises in fame and court favour, becomes ambitious, scorns his early friends, aud forsakes his destined bride. Beaumarchais, Marie's brother, comes from France to revenge this insult offered to his family. The coward soul of Clavigo quails before the just indignation of the fiery youth; he consents to write an abject apology, and, moved by momentary compunction, or some return of better feeling, seeks Marie, implores, and receives her pardon, and renews his engagement. His friend Carlos meets him, ridicules his repentance, reasons with him on the folly of such conduct, points out the advantages which might accrue to him if he woed some wealthy, influential bride, and eventually persuades him once more to break off the connection. Marie, always delicate, sinks under these repeated shocks. Clavigo meets her funeral repents once more, raves over his victim, falls by the sword of her brother, and dies. The fiery young soldier-the ambitious, weak, vaccilating Clavigo-the cold, worldly-minded Carlos-the patient, loving, suffering Marie-her affectionate sister Sophie-all are life-like pictures; and we cannot but admire their fidelity of colouring, even though the grouping does not please us. "Erwin and Elmira" is a melodrama, turning chiefly on the jealousy, separation, and subsequent re-union of a pair of lovers. "Die Geschewstern" is simple in its plot, and affords a charming representation of the domestic manners of Germany. Wilhelm, a middle-aged, retired merchant, is living with his sister Marianne, who is fifteen years his junior. Fabricius, a friend of the family, makes her an offer, which she declines, pleading her attachment to her brother, and her happiness in her present position. Wilhelm then informs her that she is not his sister, but an orphan bequeathed to his care by a dying stranger; that he educated her at first as a sister, and afterwards became so much attached to her that he could not bear the thoughts of disavowing the relationship, and thus losing her society. Of course "Stella" is a domestic tragedy, the moral bearing of which is rather questionable, although the language and style are pure and chaste. Fernando, a young officer, is, early in life, united to Cecelia. He appears to have been very sincerely attached to her, but satiety, or a natural tendency to fickleness, causes him suddenly to quit her, and, for years, she is left in ignorance of his fate. Mean-Marianne accepts him, and all ends happily. while, he has encountered Stella, a lovely, innocent, enthusiastic girl, won her affections, and brought her to the secluded retreat in which we are first introduced to her. She has advertised for a companion, and Lucia, the daughter of Cecelia and Fernando, a lively, spirited girl, answers it, and comes accompanied by her mother. The parties are mutually delighted with each other, and all is harmony, until, suddenly, Fernando returns, who has been away on another of his long absences. Some very painful explanations ensue; each lady offers to resign him to the other. Fernando hesitates between his love for Stella and his sense of justice. Cecelia proposes, as a mode of solving the difficulty, that they shall all three reside together as brother and sisters; but Stella has already taken poison, and while the mother and daughter soothe her last moments with their affectionate sympathy, Fernando shoots himself. "Clavigo" is another tragedy of the same stamp. The hero of this has won the affections of a delicate, gentle girl, into whose family he was received when he was poor and friendless, and is betrothed to her. Fortune subsequently smiles on him; he "Iphigenia in Tauris" is an imitation of Greek tragedy, and is universally admitted to breathe a more truly Grecian spirit than any other work of modern times. Schlegel styles it "the echo of Greek song." When this play opens, the heroine is priestess of Diana at Tauris, a barbarous region, whither she has been conveyed by that goddess from the altar on which she was about to be sacrificed. Thoas, the sovereign of that place, woos and would wed her, but she declines his suit, and pleads her mysterious, and fatal birth as an excuse. The enraged monarch, as a punishment for her wilfulness, commands her to sacrifice two strangers who have appeared on the coast, and whose lives are forfeit according to an old and sanguinary law, which had long been suspended at her entreaties. In these persons she recognises her brother Orestes, and his friend Pylades. Influenced by their persuasions, she reluctantly agrees to fly with them, and give up to them the image of Diana, which they believe the oracle has commanded them to seek; but subsequently repenting of what appears to her rightly principled mind, to be an act of treachery towards one who |