Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ the British consul at Otaheite shows a spirit which must be summarily extinguished, or the preservation of peace will be impossible. In the mean time, we hear from France nothing but a cry for steam-ships, and threats of invasion. We ask, what has England done? Nothing to offend or injure: there is not even an allegation of any thing of the kind. But if war must come, woe be to those by whom it is begun! The history of all the wars of England with France, is one of French defeat. We have beaten the French by land, we have beaten them by sea; and, with the blessing of Heaven on the righteous cause and our own stout hands, we shall always beat them. We have beaten them on the soil of the stranger—we have beaten them on their own. From the fourteenth century, when English soldiers were masters of the half of France, down to Waterloo, we have always beaten France; and if we beat her under Napoleon, there can be no fear of our not beating her under a race so palpably his inferiors. All England deprecates war as useless, unnatural, and criminal. But the crime is solely on the head of the aggressor. Woe to those who begin the next war! It may be final.

      The late visit of the Emperor of Russia to this country, which so much perplexed the political circles of both France and England, now probably admits of elucidation. The emperor’s visit has been followed by that of the ablest and most powerful diplomatist in his dominions, the Count Nesselrode, his foreign minister. For this visit, too, a speedy elucidation may be found. The visits of the King of Saxony, and the Princes of Prussia and Holland, also have their importance in this point of view; and the malignant insults of the French journals may have had a very influential share in contributing to the increased closeness of our connexion with the sovereignties of Germany and Russia. The maxim of Fox, that the northern alliances are the true policy of England, is as sound as ever. Still, we deprecate war—all rational men deprecate war; and we speak in a feeling which we fully believe to be universal in England, that nothing would be a higher source of rejoicing in Great Britain, than a safe peace with France, and harmony with all the nations of the world.

      POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE

      No. II

      Goethe’s love for the Fine Arts amounted almost to a passion. In his earlier years, he performed the painter’s customary pilgrimage through Italy, and not merely surveyed, but studied with intense anxiety, the works of the great modern masters. A poet, if he understands the theory of his own calling, may learn much from pictures; for the analogy between the sister arts is very strong. The secret of preserving richness without glare, fulness without pruriency, and strength without exaggeration, must be attained alike by poet and painter, before either of them can take their rank among the chosen children of immortality. It is a common but most erroneous idea, that an artist is more indebted for success to inspiration, than to severe study. Unquestionably he must possess some portion of the former—that is, he must have within him the power to imagine and to create; for if he has not that, the fundamental faculty is wanting. But how different are the crude shapeless fancies, how meagre and uncertain the outlines of the mental sketch, from the warm, vivid, and glowing perfection of the matured and finished work! It is in the strange and indescribable process of moulding the rude idea, of giving due proportion to each individual part, and combining the whole into symmetry, that the test of excellence lies. There inspiration will help but little; and labour, the common doom of man in the loftiest as well as the lowest walks of life, is requisite to consummate the triumph.

      No man better understood, or more thoroughly acted upon the knowledge of this analogy, than Goethe. He wrought rigidly by the rule of the artist. Not one poem, however trifling might be the subject, did he suffer to escape from his hands, until it had received the final touches, and undergone the most thorough revision. So far did he carry this principle, that many of his lesser works seem absolutely mere transcripts or descriptions of pictures, where the sentiment is rather inferred than expressed; and in some, for example that which we are about to quote, he even brings before the reader what may be called the process of mental painting.

      Cupid As a Landscape Painter

      Once I sate upon a mountain,

      Gazing on the mist before me;

      Like a great grey sheet of canvass,

      Shrouding all things in its cover,

      Did it float ’twixt earth and heaven.

      Then a child appear’d beside me;

      Saying, “Friend, it is not seemly,

      Thus to gaze in idle wonder,

      With that noble breadth before thee.

      Hast thou lost thine inspiration?

      Hath the spirit of the painter

      Died within thee utterly?”

      But I turn’d and look’d upon him,

      Speaking not, but thinking inly,

      “Will he read a lesson now!”

      “Folded hands,” pursued the infant,

      “Never yet have won a triumph.

      Look! I’ll paint for thee a picture

      Such as none have seen before.”

      And he pointed with his finger,

      Which like any rose was ruddy,

      And upon the breadth of vapour

      With that finger ’gan to draw.

      First a glorious sun he painted,

      Dazzling when I look’d upon it;

      And he made the inner border

      Of the clouds around it golden,

      With the light rays through the masses

      Pouring down in streams of splendour.

      Then the tender taper summits

      Of the trees, all leaf and glitter,

      Started from the sullen void;

      And the slopes behind them rising,

      Graceful-lined in undulation,

      Glided backwards one by one.

      Underneath, be sure, was water;

      And the stream was drawn so truly

      That it seem’d to break and shimmer,

      That it seem’d as if cascading

      From the lofty rolling wheel.

      There were flowers beside the brooklet;

      There were colours on the meadow—

      Gold and azure, green and purple,

      Emerald and bright carbuncle.

      Clear and pure he work’d the ether

      As with lapis-lazuli,

      And the mountains in the distance

      Stretching blue and far away—

      All so well, that I, in rapture

      At this second revelation,

      Turn’d to gaze upon the painter

      From the picture which he drew.

      “Have I not,” he said, “convinced thee

      That I know the painter’s secret?

      Yet the greatest is to come.”

      Then he drew with gentle finger,

      Still more delicately pointed,

      In the wood, about its margin,

      Where the sun within the water

      Glanced as from the clearest mirror,

      Such a maiden’s form!

      Perfect shape in perfect raiment,

      Fair young cheeks ’neath glossy ringlets,

      And the cheeks were of the colour

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