dialogue be still further removed from the discourse of ordinary life, by having its structure changed and its idiom perverted. It is thus, we imagine, that they justify to themselves the licenses they assume in transposing words, and in disregarding and violating, in every possible manner, the commonest proprieties of English speech. "Here are we, they have no doubt thought, obliged to make our characters converse and soliloquize in rhyme -a most unreal and unnatural practice do what we will. What can it matter, then, though we go a step further than this; and, for the sake of hitching in a rhyme, place a verb for instance at the end of a line, when in the natural order of oral language it ought to stand at the beginning of it -or before a noun, when in ordinary conversation it would be placed afterit?" Now we can assure our translators that it matters a very great deal: and if they imagine that because their work is in rhyme, therefore the reader will consent to a still further deviation from common speech than rhyme in itself is; and for the sake of the symphonious endings of their lines, will reconcile himself to an inverted construction of sentences, or the introduction of language not used in actual life between man and man-we conceive they will find themselves mistaken. On the contrary, we think they will find that the very fact of their composition being in rhyme, naturally, and as we shall show quite properly, disposes the reader to make less allowance for grammatical inversions, and other violations of real conversational language, than he might have done had they been writing in prose.

An author composing in prose, or even in blank verse, stands within the pale of customary human speech. He is dealing with language very much as his neighbours deal with it in the ordinary intercourse of life; he is affecting no peculiarities, at least no obtrusive peculiarities of speech, - no phraseology which may not be heard any day falling from the lips of those around him; and therefore he need not be very solicitous to bear testimony to the truth and reality of his language, by adhering to an extreme integrity of idiom, or a scrupulously natural succession of words. If he should occasionally deviate into a con.. torted period, or other verbal impro.

priety, the offence is comparatively venial; because we feel that he has no object to gain by this departure from the common forms of oral syntax; that he has not been forced into it by the poverty of his resources; and last and most important of all, that there is no unnatural element in his style requiring to be compensated by a more studied naturalness of composition in other respects. In prose, therefore, we are of opinion that the usual forms of prose may occasionally, and to a certain extent, be departed from, without giving any great offence to the reader.

Not so, however, in rhyming poetry - and, above all, not so in that species of it we are now writing about, the rhymed drama. None of the prose proprieties of language can be dispensed with here. Going a step beyond Mr Wordsworth, who has told us that the language of poetry is or ought to be the same as that of prose, we venture to maintain that in this kind of composition, not only ought there to be no difference between the language of prose and the language of poetry, but that its character is such as to require that it should adopt the order and idiom of prose, even more strictly than prose itself is bound to do; and that it can with much less safety deviate from this standard. We ground our opinion upon the three following reasons: - In the first place, a dramatic writer in rhyme, already, and from the very character of his composition, stands in a false and unnatural position. He has to describe the thoughts and passions of real men, and to do this successfully he must employ the language of actual life; but at the same time there is an element in the kind of composition he has chosen, which, in the first instance, necessarily and conspicuously takes his dialect out of the pale of nature, or from under the category of ordinary discourse we mean the element of rhyme. Here, then, at the very outset, is a bar placed between him and his readers or hearers, which, at first sight, must naturally and powerfully revolt them, inasmuch as it apparently deprives the dialogue of its character of reality and of the colour of living speech. He is therefore called upon, the first thing he does, to exert himself to remove this bar, and to reconcile us to the peculiarity of his style. And how is this to be effected; how are we to be brought to believe and feel that the unreal language before us is the discourse "really used by men?" We answer; only by the most rigid adherence, on the part of the author, to the common forms and dramatic usages of his living spoken tongue in every other respect.

He

must not sacrifice one jot or one tittle of the common structure and natural conversational flow of language: otherwise the bar we have spoken of falls at once down between him and his readers, and it is vain for him and them to attempt to shake hands across it. The illusion is at an end; we feel that we are no longer reading or listening to the language which men really speak. Now, when composing in prose, an author need not, as we have said, be so particular; because there is no such preliminary obstacle cleaving to the character of his style, and rising up between him and those whom he addresses. In the second place, the writer in rhyme has an object of his own to gain by perverting language from its natural spoken course; to wit, he obtains his rhymes more easily by doing so. But the reader's object is quite different from this. It is no object of his that the author should obtain his rhymes easily. On the contrary, his object is to derive enjoyment from feeling consciously or unconsciously that the rhymes are obtained by a fair encounter with all the difficulties of the case, and by a triumph over them; the difficulty of preserving the common construction and all the usual proprieties of oral speech, being here the chief or rather the only obstacle to be surmounted. When, therefore, he finds the author evading this difficulty by sacrificing these proprieties; that is, by transposing words out of their natural order, or interpolating unnecessary ones for the sake of his rhymes, he immediately concludes that he is merely anxious about working out his own ends and not about promoting his, (the reader's,) and he is according ly very properly revolted and repelled by his work. Now, in prose even, though an author should wander considerably from ordinary syntax, we feel that he has no personal and private end to gain by this-that he is not led to do so by a preference of his own object to that of his readers and therefore his deviations are much less offensive, and much more easily forgiven. And in

NO, CCXCII. VOL. XLVII.

the third place, what we desire to be made to feel to a great extent in every work of art, is the power of the artist. We behold nothing worth looking at, unless we behold him exercising a triumphant mastery over untractable and refractory materials. Like Van Amburgh with his tigers, he must make language lie down at his feet, kiss his hands, and follow him whithersoever he will. But when we find him permitting his verse to interfere with the natural idiom and arrangement of his speech, we behold this exhibition reversed; the language has here got the upper hand of the artist, and we are made sensible of nothing but his weakness-an unpleasing object of contemplation at all times. In prose, again, this helplessness never becomes so palpably conspicuous, even though the writer should be unable to direct his language perfectly straight in the paths of correct conversational idiom.

These,

This conclusion will, no doubt, be unpalatable to many of our English versifiers; and cannot but be peculiarly nauseous to the translators whose merits we are canvassing. and many other people besides them, we believe, have got a silly crotchet into their heads that rhyme is in itself a beauty or merit in composition-and that for the sake of this extra charm the critic will, and ought in some degree, to forego the usual stirct ness with which he sits in judg ment upon the style of authors whose works are without the" accomplishment of verse." We have already stated how diametrically we dissent from this doctrine; and now we beg to add further, for the benefit of all versifiers, past, present, and to come, that rhyme in itself, that is, taken independently of other considerations, is one of the greatest blemishes with which language can be afflicted. When we repeat what we have already said, that it is an unnatural appendage to speech_that the tongues of men in real life are not hung with the bells of rhyme, we have said quite enough to vindicate and establish the truth of this assertion. Therefore any appeal made to our critical clemency in behalf of inverted constructions, or other imperfections of language, not usually met with in prose or conversation-made, we say, on the score that they are to a certain extent compensated by the extra pleasure, forsooth, communicated

P

to us by the rhymes-will be made in vain; rhyme being in our opinion only an aggravation of the offenceno compensating source of pleasure, but on the contrary the surest method by which bad can be made worse.

But if such be the quality of rhyme, it may here be very naturally asked, why does any author ever make use of it at all? If at the outset it places him in a false and disadvantageous position, removing him from the sympathy of those whom he addresses, why does he ever consent in any case to attach it to his language? As an immediate answer to this question we reply, that though rhyme can compensate nothing, can atone for nothing, and can reconcile us to nothing in the shape of vicious or unidiomatic diction, yet there are ways and means by which it may be compensated and atoned for; and these are, as we have said, a more than usually inflexible observance of the common flow and proprieties of our vernacular tongue in all other respects. But this only brings the poet up to a level with the good prose writer. It merely reconciles us to his rhymes. It therefore does not answer fully the question just stated, the purport of which is this- how does rhyme, besides being merely tolerated, ever come to captivate us as beautiful, and to be looked upon as a source of positive pleasure? As the answer to this question involves the consideration of what it is that renders man an artist in the highest sense of the word, we must take some pains with our reply..

The man who expresses his own feelings and passions strongly is not a poet; but only the man who can portray vividly and forcibly the passions of other men. Now there is this great difference between being able to depict one's own passions, and being able to depict the passions of others, that in the former case nature does the whole business for us, but not so in the latter. The expression of our own passions is involuntary and spontane. ous; whereas, in delineating the feelings or passions of others, we must passthem through our own minds by a strong effort of the will. Pure natural passion, then, is not poetry, but only passion combined with volition; and the latter element it is-and not the former as usually supposed-which constitutes the differential quality of poetry, being the feature which dis

tinguishes it from the spontaneous and effortless overflowings of the heart.

This element, therefore, must find a representative in language. Besides representing feelings and passions to us, the poetical artist must make us sensible of his own volition; namely, of that act of mastery by which he was enabled to pass these through the alembic of his own heart. When they issue forth, they must come out transfigured and tinged with the life-blood of that strong act. We must see, we say, not only the passion, but combined with it we must also see the volition of the artist.

Now this volition is an element not supplied by nature. Nature supplies the passion and the feeling, but not the will which would grasp, contemplate, and comprehend them, and realize them where they are not spontaneously given. The human will, upon the wings of which man soars out of his own mechanism, and looks down upon his natural self, receives no countenance or encouragement from her. In a word, the will and the passion are ever at variance with each other-nature doing all she can to bring forward the latter, and to keep the former aloof. But will is, as we have said, an essential element of the poet's genius; and therefore it must be manifested in spite and defiance of nature. Thus, at his very first step, we find the poet necessarily thwarting and deserting nature.

His next step is to embody his genius in language. But here he finds that, as nature did not provide him with his volition, so now the language of nature will not supply it with a representative. Nature gives a voice merely to the spontaneous feelings, passions, and other instincts of her creatures. But the poet's passions, &c., though real, are not spontaneous, but are got up through the mediation of the will. If, therefore, he were to employ merely natural language, he would leave unexpressed an authentic ingredient of his genius. Therefore he must find, in some way or other, a voice for this mediation of his will. Since, however, it cannot be represented by natural language, he must invent an exponent of it for himself. Accordingly, he breaks up the language of nature, and when he comes before us in his complete panoply, and in every respect true to his calling, we find that he brings with him a new element which he has worked out for himself proprio Marte, and introduced into language as the proper representative of his peculiar poweran element which in all ages has been that in which poets have lived, and breathed, and had their being; we mean the element of metre, an element which, in a language like ours, assumes, as its truest and most expressive shape, the form of rhyme.

Metre, therefore, and more parti cularly and properly rhyme, is introduced into language for the purpose of representing that which ought to pervade and be made visible in all good poetry-the will of the artist. It is used, not because the natural passions and feelings of the human heart are best and most truly depicted in this form of style, (for this is by no means the case,) but because it brings palpably before us the active power which the artist exercises over these materials. It affords the most striking and definite form in which that active power can be exhibited. But here we must pause, to consider the situation of the reader or hearer.

No

doubt, at first sight the great and only end of poetry appears to be, to delineate man's passions, feelings, &c., exactly as they exist in nature. At first sight, therefore, the reader, expecting these to be represented identically as they are, and in the very language in which nature would utter them, is naturally revolted by rhyme, regarding it as an element which represents no authentic or even existing constituent in man-an uncalled-for impertinence-an unnecessary irrelevancy-a gratuitous appendage grafted by the artist upon the proper ma terials of poetry, and having no business there. But this is the case with the reader only at first sight, and when he judges without any degree of reflection. By-and-by he comes to see, that grounded in our very constitution as human beings, there is and ought necessarily to be a great difference between our expression of our own passions, &c., as nature provides us with them, and our expression of the passions, &c., of other men, inasmuch as in the latter case volition must be present, though not in the former; and then he discovers that it is not the end of poetry to represent man's passions and feeling feelings exactly as they are. Because, if poetry merely

did this, it would omit one of its own proper elements it would give voice merely to our own passions as nature supplies them, (an utterance never held to be poetry,) but it would leave unexpressed the volition which always is and must be present when the passions of others are to be depicted. The reader, therefore, is brought to admit that the poet has a real authentic element which he is called upon to represent, besides the more obvious materials of his art-the passions and feelings of human nature-he has, namely, his own will. The reader is further brought, by a very moderate share of reflection, to admit that the language of nature merely enables us to express our instincts, passions, &c., exactly as they are, and that for any thing over and above this, she is dumb: and thereupon he is carried a step still further, namely, to the admission that the artist is not only entitled, but is under a positive obligation, to do violence to the language of nature, in order that he may be enabled to introduce into it a certain kind of voice or utterance by which that real and peculiar element of his power-viz. his will may be expressed; and thus the reader is brought to admit that, upon second thoughts, rhyme may be at least tolerated.

But the bargain between the reader and the poet is not yet fairly ratified and brought to a conclusion. The reader has been brought to bear with what originally and naturally repelled him-the rhymes of the artist. But whether he will continue to practise this toleration, and moreover to derive positive gratification from their presence, yet remains to be seen, and depends upon circumstances-which circumstances are, that the rhymes shall be found to represent fairly, faithfully, and completely, that which they were brought forward to representnamely, the will of the poet. Now, will, unless it exhibit itself in triumph, is not will at all. Will defeated is will non-existent, and this certainly is not entitled to any representative in language. But we can only determine whether the artist's will has been triumphant or defeated, by looking to its visible exponent-rhyme-and seeing whether this is victorious over the difficulties of its position, or the reverse. If, then, we find any of the other proprieties of language sacrificed on its account, or any unnatural arrangement of words laid before us, we immediately hold that the rhyme is miserably beaten ; consequently that the artist's will is a baffled nonentity that the rhyme, instead of standing forth as the representative of his will, victorious in the midst of all obstacles, does, in fact, represent nothing whatsoever; but hangs as a clog upon his composition, lending to it additional disfigurement. In this case the reader is at once off from the bargain. The artist's work is hateful to him, and his rhymes make it only still more detestable.

Woe, therefore, to the poet who, in the exercise of his vocation, invades the sequence in which words naturally arrange themselves in his vernacular tongue, or violates in any other way the correct conversational usages of speech. When we consented to to.. lerate his rhymes, we understood him to come under a contract to exhibit to us the element for the sake of which

we agreed to put up with them, and moreover to exhibit it to us faithfully. But will can only be exhibited to us faithfully, or as a real existence, when we see it exercising a consummate mastery over all its materials, the feelings, the passions, and above all the language of humanity-voluntarily, and for the sake of declaringits own reality, multiplying the difficulties ofthelatter, and at the same time preserving all its proper usages entire. But now, in perverting the idiom of speech, the artist has broken through this contract. Woe, therefore, to him; for from henceforth he is a literary outcast. Poetry casts him off, and plain prose turns her back upon the rhyming drudge.

On the other hand, whenever we find any real ingredient of humanity fairly and fully represented in lan. guage, our gratification is extreme. When, therefore, the artist proves the reality and supremacy of his will, and represents this in true and bright colours, by introducing rhyme into language without violating any correct customary norma loquendi, any rule of pure idiomatic discourse-running along the whole compass of speech-in no respect altering its natural tenor, but tipping its points with emphasis and fire; then, but only then, do we hail his performances with delight. He has now put forward his volition as a real permanent and victorious existence he has faith

fully represented that which, as we have already said, is the differential or peculiar ingredient of poetical genius. Having deserted nature' for the purpose of finding an articulate voice for an element not supplied by nature, and for which her language afforded no utterance-to wit, his own will-he has again returned into the bosom of nature with his found treasure, (rhyme, namely,) and he will violate her prerogatives no more. On the contrary, glorying and proud in the freedom of his self-imposed fetters, he will prove his mastery over her language by walking in all its usual ordinances more strictly and blamelessly than before. He, and he alone, who conceives his vocation in this spirit, is the true poetical artist. And now we have answered, as far as our present limits permit, the question we have been engaged upon, and have shown how and why rhyme ever comes to give us pleasure.

We must now turn to the translations before us. If tried by the principles we have been contending for, we think that there is hardly a page in any one of them that could for a moment stand-so barbarous and often so ludicrous are the stratagems they play off upon language, and also upon thought, for the sake of hitching in their rhymes. Perhaps we have been uttering hard sayings-perhaps it may be thought that a poetical translation of any work upon the terms we propose, is altogether an impossible achievement. Perhaps it may be; but if it is, then we think it better that there should be no poetical translations, than that they should be obtained at the sacrifice of the conditions we have stated; for, if purchased at this price, they can never be any thing but burdens and encumbrances upon the literature of the country which importsthem. To make amends, however, for our strictness on this point, and by way of encouraging future translators of "Faust," or any similar work, we may add, that we are inclined to accord to them much greater latitude in translating than they are generally supposed entitled to exercise. There are occasions upon which they cannot adhere too closely to the text of their author; but in general we should allow them to take what liberties they pleased with his mere words, and to deviate from him as widely as they chose, provided they