It must be a very universal maxim to suit all
circumstances, and yet there is one which may be applied on all occasions—"Judge not"
is the general motto. Take the actions of our nearest friends, and how little do we
know of the hopes that instigated, or of the fears that prevailed! We sometimes
cannot avoid owning that we ourselves have committed a fault, but how we gloss it
over—how we take temperament and temptation into account, till at length it appears
to be a thing inevitable—redeemed by the regret it has occasioned, and the lesson
it
has given. Not so do we reason for others—then we look to the isolated fact, not to
the causes: the error shuts out the excuse. The truth is, we know nothing of each
other excepting by the aid of philosophy and of poetry; philosophy, that analyzes
our
thoughts, and poetry that expresses our feelings. Little of the examination of the
one, or of the tenderness of the other, enters into our daily opinions, and yet by
them we alone know the hidden heart within. "Judge not" is the first great rule of
the moral world; it is equally applicable to the literary one. Yesterday is
constantly reversing the decree of to-day; our notion of our contemporaries is
biassed in many ways—vanities, envyings, and prejudices are things All taking many shapes, and bearing many names;² space between stanzas but all alike shutting out the light. Time is the great leveller, but he is
also the sanctifier and the beautifier. If our judgement, then, of our own literature
be liable to so many objections, what must it be when we attempt to decide on that
of
a foreign nation; the maxim, "Judge not," must indeed be the first principle laid
down. No stranger can enter into one great charm thrown around the poetry of every
country—namely, that of association. Unconsciously to ourselves, we connect with our
favourite writers the emotions which first made us seek in them for expression, and
with the scenes amid which we turned their pages. Did we read them in summer, under
the silver shiver of the aspen?—they have gathered to themselves the sunshine raining
through the leaves, and the freshness on the open air. Were they our companions by
the hearth-side on a long winter evening?—they are linked with pleasant memories of
comfort and of home. It is impossible for a stranger to share these subtle
sympathies, and yet their atmosphere is around the literature of every nation. But
literary, like all other commerce, has its incalculable advantages: the merchant
brings with him not only wealth, but knowledge. Communication is in itself
civilization; we wear away our own prejudices only by contact with those of others.
We are forced into making allowances, by seeing how much we need that they should
be
made for ourselves.

Chateaubriand says, in an admirable
spirit of candour, "In living literature no person is a competent judge but of works
written in his own language. I have expressed my opinion concerning a number of
English writers; it is very possible that I may be mistaken, that my admiration and
my censure may be equally misplaced, and that my conclusions may appear impertinent
and ridiculous on the other side of the Channel."³ They can
appear neither ridiculous nor impertinent; we[Page 63] may, and we do differ from
many of these conclusions, but we feel that they have been drawn by a clever man,
and
drawn, too, in a spirit of candour. If any man be entitled to form a judgment, that
man is Chateaubriand. A poet himself,
his whole life has been a poet's education, and he has studied our literature next
to
his own. But there is something in the French and the English character so
essentially opposed, that it is impossible for them to understand each other. Now
a
nation's character is in its literature. Some writer says, "The great difference of
the two nations is, that the one lives out of doors and the other in; the one thinks
of the people that are looking at him, and the other thinks of himself."⁴ This principle will account for the frequent self-reference in
these pages, which, however, has more the appearance than the reality of vanity. An
Englishman is timid of drawing attention to himself—he is afraid of being laughed
at;
a Frenchman, on the contrary, relies on your indulgence. Chateaubriand believes that genius is a
moral problem, which it is matter of general attraction to solve; and he submits
rather than advances his pretensions to the public, with a quiet conviction of their
interest, which an English writer, however successful, would be too well aware of
his
and our national characteristics, to adventure. The style of the author of
"Atala"⁵ has no
parallel in our literature—it is what supplies in France the place of blank verse;
it
is redundant in epithet and simile, many of which appear to us grandiloquent: for
example, Shakspeare is called "the
young butcher of Strafford."⁶ Again, speaking of our writers
among the lower classes, he says, "At the present day it is a blacksmith that
shines—Vulcan was the son of Jupiter:"⁷ the illustration is rather
magnificent. By-the-by, to what blacksmith does he allude?—we must confess our
ignorance. There is a curious little instance of the mistakes inevitable to foreign
critics: Chateaubriand quotes, as a
charming specimen of our simple ballad poetry, a stanza of a song:—Where tarries my love,Where tarries my love,Where tarries my true love from me?Come hither my dove,I will write to my love,And send him a letter by thee.⁸ space between stanzas He appears perfectly ignorant that the song is a burlesque. The lover
receives the letter, but The generous youth,Full of valour and truth,Had not eated a morsel that day; So the pigeon he roasted,His true love he toasted, And mounted and gallop'd away.space between stanzas A singular sample of the tender melancholy which marks our lyrics!

Chateaubriand's life has been that of a
poet; a life, however, an exception to the general rule. He has known his share of
toil and of trouble—he has been poor, proscribed, and imprisoned; still he is among
those who, All their wand'rings past, Have safe return'd to die at home at last.⁹ space between stanzas There are few, very few, whose later years of a poetical career are spent
[Page 64]under the shadow of their own laurels; yet what strange contrasts will
his memoirs present! Now a wanderer in the deserts of the East—then comparing the
empire of yesterday with the progress of to-day in the United States—now in the midst
of the classical mania which caricatured the horrors of the French revolution—next
meditating on their realities amid the ruins of Rome. First an impoverished exile
in
England, and in the course of a few years an ambassador at our Court. The genius of
Chateaubriand is best characterized
by the word—picturesque. In the North, he dwells with delight on the massive
cathedrals, where painted windows shed A dim, religious light;¹⁰ space between stanzas and on the fallen castles, where the ivy is now the only banner. In the
South, he is impressed with the cedar rising like a natural temple, and with the
stately relics of The marble wastes of Tadmor.¹¹ space between stanzas He was the first who introduced into French literature that feeling for the
beauty of nature, and that tendency to reverie, which are of Scandinavian origin.
But
we shall give the more accurate idea of a very remarkable work, by selecting portions
for examination. We shall therefore pass in review the observations on Luther, Shakspeare, Milton, Scott, and Byron.

Luther.—The characteristic of our author's mind which we have called picturesque is
essentially opposed to a just appreciation of Luther. He clings with regret to the golden chalices and fragrant incense
of Catholicism. He forms, in his mind's eye, the picture of a monk after one Guido's head, "pale, penetrating, and
spiritual;¹² " and "Christ, at once a
pontiff and a victim, lived in celibacy, and quitted the earth at the close of his
youth."¹³ Such is the ideal, but it is the
ideal only. Neither is the following image more accurate:—"Like Socrates, Protestantism may be said to have
called minds into existence; but, unfortunately, the intelligences which it has
ushered into life are only beautiful slaves."¹⁴ Are such minds as those of Bacon and of Locke only "beautiful slaves?" and can the
many channels of inquiry thrown open by the Reformation be considered other than as
conduits to truth? We are quite prepared to admit that we do not do justice to the
beneficial influence exercised by the Catholic church on the darker ages. It was the
republic of the time, supported by democratic talent. The man of ability found in
the
church his theatre of action; all other avenues to power or to distinction were
barred by the sword, which was given as a birthright to the noble. But in the ranks
of the Catholic faith the equality, or rather the superiority of intellect was
asserted; and when king and chief knelt at the chair of St. Peter, it was the triumph
of thought over strength—it was the weak mind subjugated by the strong. But, as
usual, the authority outlived its necessity—other influences began their activity;
and again, as usual, one of those men arose who embody their epoch, and carry its
spirit into action. That man was Luther.
He was an enthusiast—enthusiasm is needed for action; calculation never acts—it is
a
passive principle. He was fierce, angry, and governed by impulse; but we must
remember the old Greek proverb, "Motives are from man, but impulse is from Heaven."
These qualities only the better fitted the instrument to its purpose. It is touching
[Page 65]to note the tender feelings of the man running in a soft under-current
beneath the violence of the fanatic preacher: speaking of his children he says, "What
must have been Abraham's feelings, when he consented to sacrifice and slaughter his
only son? Assuredly he never said a word on the subject to Sarah."¹⁵

Again while deploring the death of his infant daughter:—"Elizabeth, my little girl
is dead. Strange to say, her loss has left me a sick heart, a woman's heart—so
intense is my sorrow. I never could have imagined that a father could feel so much
tenderness for his child. Her features, her words, her gestures, during life and on
her death-bed, are deeply engraven in my heart. Oh, my obedient and dutiful daughter!
The very death of Christ (and what in comparison are all other deaths!) cannot, as
it
should, drive her from my memory."¹⁶

Chateaubriand appears to us to attach
too much importance to Henry
VIII. He influenced nothing but the present, of whose circumstances he was
at once the toy and the tyrant. He left nothing but a warning as to how power was
again entrusted to one hand. He was the last feudal king—and was the type of a system
that expired with himself. Brave, magnificent, and courteous, he was cruel, profuse,
and uncertain. In the meantime England was in a state of progression; then were first
sown the seeds of those great principles which led to the revolution. Henry carried the vices of
feudalism to excess, and it is the excess that leads to the remedy. The reign of
force was yielding to the reign of opinion, and to this day the struggle is carried
on by an engine thus characterized by Luther—"The press is the last and the supreme gift—the summum et postremum donum, by means of which the
Almighty promotes the things of the Gospel. It is the last blaze that bursts forth
before the extinction of the world. Thanks be to God, we at last behold its splendor."¹⁷

Shakspeare—The great fault of Chateaubriand's remarks on Shakspeare is, that they address themselves to a by-gone school of
criticism; Dr. Johnson's is very far
from being the national opinion; and the alterations and adaptations made in Charles the Second's time are
held anything but orthodox in the present day. But we shall not enter into the
question of preference between the rival queens of the French and the English stage:
the foreign critic does not and cannot understand us. But what does our author mean
by saying that "all Shakspeare's
young female characters are formed on one model?"¹⁸ He might as well say that the
rose and the violet resemble each other because they are both sweet. Take, for
example, two placed in similar situations—namely, disguised in male attire; and yet
what can be more essentially different than the characters of Rosalind and Viola? The last, whose heart Tender thought clothes like a dove,With the wings of care,¹⁹ space between stanzas dreaming, devoted, silent, but dying of her silence. The first, on the
contrary, is "a gay creature of the element;"²⁰ a coquette, who delights in teasing the
lover, whose danger yet sends the blood from her cheek—witty, sarcastic, with her
deeper feelings shrouded as it were in sunshine. What have she and Viola in common?

Sept.— Vol. xlviii. no.
clxxxix.f

[Page 66]

But Shakspeare has always been a
point for dispute between ours and foreign critics. We confess that the present
article appears to us a complete Border-land of debatable questions. But what shall
we say of the opinion on the sonnets?—"There is more of poetry, imagination and
melancholy, than sensibility, passion and depth. Shakspeare loved; but he believed no
more in love than he believed in anything else. A woman was to him a bird, a zephyr,
a flower which charms and passes away."²¹

We will not enter on the spirit of the sonnets, because this has already been done
in so masterly a manner, in the pages of this very Magazine, that we need only refer
to the articles of last year, on the 'Sonnets of Shakspeare,'—a series of papers
eloquent and complete, and bringing out the truth by the light of the imagination.²² But we protest against the light assertion
that "Shakspeare no more believed
in love than he believed in anything else!" Why, the very element of poetry is
faith—faith in the beautiful, the divine, and the true. No one was ever great in any
pursuit without earnestness,—and who can be in earnest without belief? It was from
his own heart that Shakspeare drew
his glorious and his touching creations, of which all nature attest the truth. Doubt
never was and never will be the atmosphere of genius. He had the true poet's generous
reliance on futurity when he wrote Not marble, not the gilded monumentsOf princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme.²³ space between stanzas And again, Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,My love shall in my verse live ever young.²⁴ space between stanzas

Milton.—To this subject Chateaubriand has brought all his
enthusiasm; and his estimate of Milton is
infinitely more English—we might say more true, than his estimate of Shakspeare. We should say this
arises from having no standard of comparison by which to try the merits of "Paradise
Lost." There is nothing like it in French literature, and the critic has no
preconceived notions to whose test the foreign work must submit. In speaking of the
drama, he is fettered by early associations of admiration, links as slight as those
charmed threads Monimia wound the hands of Thalaba, and as impossible to
break.²⁵ But in reading Milton, he is
"fancy free," and has to make the rules by which he judges. Moreover, Milton is less national than Shakspeare; he belongs more to that
apart world of imagination, solemn, and stately, which is to be entered by the ideal
faculty alone. Thus has been produced a fine and elaborate criticism, written in the
noblest spirit of appreciation.

Scott.—We confess that we are not surprised to find that Chateaubriand does not appreciate Walter Scott. Never were two minds more
dissimilar. But the reason that he gives is very strange:—"I speak on this subject
with some vexation, because I, who have described, loved, sung, and extolled so much
the old Christian temples, am dying of spleen from hearing them so constantly
depreciated. There was left me a last illusion—a cathedral: it has been taken from
me
by storm."²⁶

This seems a most extraordinary complaint to make against the [Page 67]poet of Melrose Abbey;²⁷ but we may safely leave Scott's reputation to its own security. As was said of the royal power, in
the celebrated vote of the Commons in George the Third's time—"It
has increased, is increasing, and will increase."

Byron.—Little is said about the author of "Lara,"
excepting Chateaubriand's surprise that
he should not ever have been mentioned by the English poet. We do not remember any
French writer named by Byron but Madame de Stael, and that was the
result of personal acquaintance. Byron
wanted one element of greatness—that of appreciation. We refer this to his social
education; and there never was a period of worse taste, of falser affectations, and
of less generous feeling, than the epoch to which he belonged. But to discuss the
influence of society on Byron's genius
would be too complicated a subject. We must bring our observations to a close with
the most remarkable page in Chateaubriand's two volumes. The following is an encouraging literary
picture:—

Calamities of Genius.—"Milton, proscribed and poor, descended in
utter blindness to the tomb. Dryden,
towards the close of his life, was compelled to sell his talents piece-meal to
support existence. 'Little cause have I,' said he, 'to bless my stars for being born
an Englishman. It is quite enough for one century, that it should have neglected a
Cowley, and seen a Butler starved to death.' Otway, at a later period, choked himself
with a piece of bread thrown to him to relieve his hunger. What were not the
sufferings of Savage, composing at
street corners, writing his verses on scraps of paper picked out of the kennel,
expiring in a prison, and leaving his corpse to the pity of a gaoler, who defrayed
the expense of his interment! Chatterton, after being many days without food, destroyed himself by poison."²⁸

No one can deny—no one would think of denying—the vast benefit which literature has
conferred on mankind; and with what ingratitude has it ever been received! "The late
remorse of love,"²⁹ the monody and the monument have been,
and still are, it guerdon. The most successful author pays too dear a price for
success. We do not believe, in the present day, that there is a single popular writer
who does not bitterly regret the hour he took pen in hand. The fame is far off, and
like sunshine seen in the distance, while only the cold wind is felt on the actual
path. The wider circle think but little of all you have done for their gratification,
until it is too late to think at all. The nearer circle of intimates and
acquaintances never forgive the distinction which separates you from themselves. But
genius will at last learn the bitter lesson of all experience: like everything else
in the present day, it will be taught to calculate. Its gifted ones will at length
compressThe god within them!³⁰ space between stanzas

Fame is but a beautiful classic delusion. The inspiration of the poet is like the
inspiration of the Delphic oracles: what was once held divine is now confessed the
promptings of an evil spirit mocking the votaries of whom it made victims. We firmly
believe that the time is fast approaching when no more books will be written. The
once writers will say—"Why should we sacrifice our whole existence to obtain a vain
praise, which, after all, never comes sufficiently home to us to be enjoyed? Why
should we devote, to this most barren pursuit, industry
f 2[Page 68] and talent, which in any other line, would be certain of that worldly
success, which, as we live in the world, is the only success to be desired?" Even
poets must at last learn wisdom. The bitterness and hollowness of praise will be
perceived; and then who will be at the trouble of writing a book? Again we repeat,
the time is fast approaching when no more books will be written.

Note.—The list of "literary calamities" is far from
being exhausted even in the present day. We quote the following letter addressed by
Comte D'Orsay to the "Court
Journal,"³¹ as
a practical illustration of the above theory:—

This letter is written in a generous and enlightened spirit: its appeal is made in
behalf of poverty and talent. In our time, can such appeal be made in vain?

L.E.L.