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GERMAN PLAYWRIGHTS.*

[FOREIGN REVIEW, 1829.]

In this stage of society, the playwright is as essential and acknowledged a character as the millwright, or cartwright, or any other wright whatever; neither can we see why, in general estimation, he should rank lower than these his brother artisans, except perhaps, for this one reason: that the former, working in timber and iron, for the wants of the body, produce a completely suitable machine, while the latter, working in thought and feeling, for the wants of the soul, produces a machine which is incompletely suitable. In other respects, we confess, we cannot perceive that the balance lies against him: for no candid man, as it seems to us, will doubt but the talent, which constructed a Virginius or a Pertram, might have sufficed, had it been properly directed, to make not only wheelbarrows and wagons, but even mills of considerable complicacy. However, if the public is niggardly to the playwright in one point, it must be proportionably liberal in another; according to Adam Smith's observation, that trades which are reckoned less reputable have higher money-wages. Thus, one thing compensating the other, the playwright may still realize an existence; as, in fact, we find that he does: for playwrights were, are, and probably will always be; unless, indeed, in process of years, the whole dramatic concern be finally abandoned by mankind; or, as in the case of our Punch and Mathews, every player becoming his own playwright, this trade may merge in the other and older

one.

The British nation has its own playwrights, several of them cunning men in their craft: yet here, it would seem, this sort of carpentry does not flourish; at least, not with that preeminent vigour which distinguishes most other branches of our national industry. In hardware and cotton goods, in all sorts of chemical, mechanical, or other material processes, England outstrips the world: nay, in many departments of literary manufacture also, as, for instance, in the fabrication of novels, she may safely boast herself peerless: but in this mat.er of the Drama, to whatever cause it be owing, one can claim no such superiority. In theatri

*Die Ahnfrau. (The Ancestress.) A Tragedy, in five Acts. By F. Grillparzer. Fourth Edition. Vienna, 1823. König Ottokars Glück und Ende. (King Ottocar's Fortune and End.) A Tragedy, in five Acts. By F. Grillparzer. Vienna, 1825.

Sappho. A Tragedy, in five Acts. By F. Grillparzer. 2. Faust. A Tragedy, in five Acts. By August Klingemann. Leipzig and Altenburg, 1815. Ahasuer. A Tragedy, in five Acts. By August Klingemann. Brunswick, 1827.

Third Edition. Vienna, 1822.

3 Müllner's Dramatische Werke. Erste rechtmässige, vollständige, und vom Verfasser verbesserte Gesammt-Ausgabe. (Müllner's Dramatic Works. First legal collective Edition, complete and revised by the Author.) 7 vols. Brunswiek, 1828.

cal produce she yields considerably to France; and is, out of sight, inferior to Germany. Nay, do not we English hear daily, for the last twenty years, that the Drama is dead, or in a state of suspended animation; and are not medical men sitting on the case, and propounding their remedial appliances, weekly, monthly, quarterly, to no manner of purpose?—whilst in Germany the Drama is not only, to all appearance, alive, but in the very flush and heyday of superabundant strength; indeed, as it were, still only sowing its first wild oats! For if the British Playwrights seem verging to ruin, and our Knowleses, Maturins, Shiels, and Shees stand few and comparatively forlorn, like firs on an Irish bog, the playwrights of Germany are a strong, triumphant body, so numerous that it has been calculated, in case of war, a regiment of foot might be raised, in which, from the colonel down to the drummer, every officer and private sentinel might show his drama or dramas.

To investigate the origin of so marked a superiority would lead us beyond our purpose. Doubtless the proximate cause must lie in a superior demand for the article of dramas; which superior demand again may arise either from the climate of Germany, as Montesquieu might believe; or perhaps more naturally and immediately from the political condition of that country; for man is not only a working but a talking animal, and where no Catholic Questions, and Parliamentary Reforms, and Select Vestries are given him to discuss in his leisure hours, he is glad to fall upon plays or players, or whatever comes to hand, whereby to fence himself a little against the inroads of Ennui. Of the fact, at least, that such a superior demand for dramas exists in Germany, we have only to open a newspaper to find proof. Is not every Literaturblatt and Kunstblatt stuffed to bursting, with theatricals? Nay, has not the "able Editor" established correspondents in every capital city of the civilized world, who report to him on this one matter and on no other? For, be our curiosity what it may, let us have profession of "intelligence from Munich," "intelligence from Vienna," intelligence from Berlin," is it intelligence of any thing but of greenroom controversies and nego tiations, of tragedies and operas and farces acted and to be acted? Not of men, and their doings, by hearth and hall, in the firm earth; but of mere effigies and shells of men, and their doings in the world of pasteboard, do these unhappy correspondents write. happy we call them; for, with all our toler ance of playwrights, we cannot but think that there are limits, and very strait ones, within which their activity should be restricted. Here, in England, our “theatrical reports” are

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nuisance enough; and many persons who love | Constitutional History of a Rookery? Let the their life, and therefore "take care of their courteous reader take heart, then; for he is in time, which is the stuff life is made of," regu-hands that will not, nay, what is more, that larly lose several columns of their weekly cannot, do him much harm. One brief, shy newspaper in that way: but our case is pure glance into this huge bivouac of Playwrights, luxury, compared with that of the Germans, all sawing and planing with such tumult; and who, instead of a measurable and sufferable we leave it, probably for many years. spicing of theatric matter, are obliged, metaphorically speaking, to breakfast and dine on it, have in fact nothing else to live on but that highly unnutritive victual. We ourselves are occasionally readers of German newspapers, and have often, in the spirit of Christian humanity, meditated presenting to the whole body of German editors a project, which, however, must certainly have ere now occurred to themselves, and for some reason been found inapplicable; it was, to address these correspondents of theirs, all and sundry, in plain language, and put the question: whether, on studiously surveying the Universe from their several stations, there was nothing in the Heavens above, on the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth, nothing visible but this one business, or rather shadow of business, that had an interest for the minds of men? If the correspondents still answered that nothing was visible, then of course they must be left to continue in this strange state: prayers, at the same time, being put up for them in all churches.

The German Parnassus, as one of its own denizens remarks, has a rather broad summit: yet only two Dramatists are reckoned, within the last half century, to have mounted thither; -Schiller and Goethe; if we are not, on the strength of his Minna von Barnhelm and Emilie Galeotti, to account Lessing of the number. On the slope of the Mountain may be found a few stragglers of the same brotherhood; among these, Tieck and Maler Müller, firmly enough stationed at considerable elevations; while, far below, appear various honest persons climbing vehemently, but against precipices of loose sand, to whom we wish all speed. But the reader will understand that the bivouac we speak of, and are about to enter, lies not on the declivity of the Hill at all; but on the level ground close to the foot of it; the essence of a Playwright being that he works not in Poetry, but in Prose, which more or less cunningly resembles it. And here, pausing for a moment, the reader observes that he is in a civilized country; for there, on the very boundary line of Parnassus, rises a gallows with the figure of a man hung in chains! It is the figure of August von Kotzebue, and has swung there for many years, as a warning to all too audacious Playwrights, who nevertheless, as we see, pay little heed to it. Ill-fated Kotzebue, once the darling of theatrical Europe! This was the prince of all Playwrights, and could manufacture Plays with a speed and felicity surpassing even Edinburgh novels. For his muse, like other doves, hatched twins in the month; and the world gazed on them with an admiration too deep for mere words. What is all past or present popularity to this? Were not these Plays translated into almost every language of articulate-speaking men; acted, at least, we may literally say, in every theatre from Kamtschatka to Cadiz? Nay, did they not melt the most obdurate hearts in all countries; and, like the music of Orpheus, draw tears down iron cheeks? We ourselves have

However, leaving every able Editor to fight his own battle, we address ourselves to the task in hand: meaning here to inquire a very little into the actual state of the dramatic trade in Germany, and exhibit some detached features of it to the consideration of our readers. For, seriously speaking, low as this province may be, it is a real, active, and ever-enduring province of the literary republic; nor can the pursuit of many men, even though it be a profitless and foolish pursuit, ever be without claim to some attention from us, either in the way of furtherance or of censure and correction. Our avowed object is to promote the sound study of foreign literature; which study, like all other earthly undertakings, has its negative as well as its positive side. We have already, as occasion served, borne testimony to the merits of various German poets, and must now say a word on certain German poetasters; hoping that it may be chiefly a re-known the flintiest men, who professed to have gard to the former which has made us take wept over them, for the first time in their lives. even this slight notice of the latter: for the bad So was it twenty years ago; how stands it tois in itself of no value, and only worth de- day? Kotzebue, lifted up on the hollow balscribing lest it be mistaken for the good. At loon of popular applause, thought wings had the same time, let no reader tremble, as if we been given him that he might ascend to the meant to overwhelm him, on this occasion, Immortals: gay he rose, soaring, sailing, as with a whole mountain of dramatic lumber, with supreme dominion; but in the rarer azure! poured forth in torrents, like shot-rubbish, deep, his windbag burst asunder, or the arrows from the play-house-garrets, where it is mould- of keen archers pierced it; and so at last we ering and evaporating into nothing, silently find him a compound-pendulum, vibrating in and without harm to any one. Far be this the character of scarecrow, to guard from for. from us! Nay, our own knowledge of this bidden fruit! O ye Playwrights, and literary subject is in the highest degree limited; and, quacks of every feather, weep over Kotzebue. indeed, to exhaust it, or attempt discussing it and over yourselves! Know that the loudest with scientific precision, would be an impos-roar of the million is not fame; that the windsible enterprise. What man is there that could assort the whole furniture of Milton's Limbo of Vanity; or where is the Hallam that would think it worth his while to write us the

bag, are ye mad enough to mount it, will burst, or be shot through with arrows, and your bones too shall act as scarecrows.

But, quitting this idle allegorical vein, let us

at length proceed in plain English, and as beseems mere prose Reviewers, to the work laid out for us. Among the hundreds of German dramatists, as they are called, three individuals, already known to some British readers, and prominent from all the rest in Germany, may fitly enough stand here as representatives of the whole Playwright class; whose various craft and produce the procedure of these three may in some small degree serve to illustrate. Of Grillparzer, therefore, and Klingemann, and Mülner, in their order.

to which he belongs in the genus Playwright, But it is a universal feature of him that he attempts, by prosaic, and as it were mechanical means, to accomplish an end which, except by poetical genius, is absolutely not to be accomplished. For the most part, he has some knack, or trick of the trade, which by close inspection can be detected, and so the heart of his mystery be seen into. He may have one trick, or many; and the more cunningly he can disguise these, the more perfect is he as a craftsman; for were the public once to penetrate into this his slight of hand, it were all over with him,-Othello's occupation were gone. No conjuror, when we once understand his method of fire-eating, can any longer pass for a true thaumaturgist, or even entertain us in his proper character of quack, though he should eat Mount Vesuvius itself. But happily for Playwrights and others, the Public is a dim-eyed animal; gullible to almost all lengths,-nay, which often seems to prefer being gulled.

Franz Grillparzer seems to be an Austrian; which country is reckoned nowise fertile in poets; a circumstance that may perhaps have contributed a little to his own rather rapid celebrity. Our more special acquaintance with Grillparzer is of very recent date; though his name and samples of his ware have for some time been hung out, in many British and foreign Magazines, often with testimonials which might have beguiled less timeworn customers. Neither, after all, have we found there testimonials falser than other such are, Of Grillparzer's peculiar knack, and recipe but rather not so false; for, indeed, Grillparzer for play-making, there is not very much to be is a most inoffensive man, nay positively said. He seems to have tried various kinds. rather meritorious; nor is it without reluctance of recipes, in his time; and, to his credit be it that we name him under this head of Play-spoken, seems little contented with any of wrights, and not under that of Dramatists, them. By much the worst Play of his, that we which he aspires to. Had the law with regard to mediocre poets relaxed itself since Horace's time, all had been well with Grillparzer; for undoubtedly there is a small vein of tenderness | and grace running through him, a seeming modesty also, and real love of his art, which gives promise of better things. But gods and men and columns are still equally rigid in that unhappy particular of mediocrity,-even pleasing mediocrity; and no scene or line is yet known to us of Grillparzer's which exhibits any thing more. Non concessere, therefore, is his sentence for the present; and the louder his well-meaning admirers extol him, the more emphatically should it be pronounced and repeated. Nevertheless Grillparzer's claim to the title of Playwright is perhaps more his misfortune than his crime. Living in a country where the Drama engrosses so much attention, he has been led into attempting it, without any decisive qualification for such an enterprise; and so his allotment of talent, which might have done good service in some prose department, or even in the sonnet, elegy, song, or other outlying province of Poetry, is driven, as it were, in spite of fate, to write Plays, which, though regularly divided into scenes and separate speeches, are essentially monological; and though swarming with characters, too often express only one character, and that no very extraordinary one, the character of Franz Grillparzer himself. What is an increase of misfortune, too, he has met with applause in this career, which therefore

have seen, is the Ahnfrau (Ancestress); a deep tragedy of the Castle Spectre sort; the whole mechanism of which was discernible and condemnable at a single glance. It is nothing but the old Story of Fate; an invisible Nemesis, visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation; a method almost as common and sovereign in German Art, at this day, as the method of steam is in British mechanics; and of which we shall anon have more occasion to speak. In his Preface, Grillparzer endeavours to palliate or deny the fact of his being a Schicksal-Dichter (Fate-Tragedian); but to no purpose; for it is a fact grounded on the testimony of the seven senses: however, we are glad to observe that, with this one trial, he seems to have abandoned the Fate-line, and taken into better, at least into different ones. With regard to the Ahnfrau itself, we may remark that few things struck us so much as this little observation of Count Borotins, occurring, in the middle of the dismalest night-thoughts, so unexpectedly as follows:

BERTHA.

Und der Himmel, sternelos,
Starrt aus leeren Augenhöhlen
In das ungeheure Grab
Schwarz herab

GRAF.
Wie sich doch die Stunden dehnen!
Was ist wohl die Glocke, Bertka?

he is likely to follow farther and farther, let BERTHA (is just condoling with him, in these words) —

nature and his stars say to it what they will.

The characteristic of a Playwright is that he writes in Prose, which Prose he palms, probably, first on himself, and then on the simpler part of the public, for Poetry: and the manner, in which he effects this legerdemain, constitutes his specific distinction, fixes the species

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And the welkin, starless,

Glares from empty eye-holes,
Black down on that boundless grave!

COUNT.

How the hours do linger!
What o'clock is't, prithee, Bertha

shrewish queens; the whole set off by a proper intermixture of coronation ceremonies, Hungarian dresses, whiskered halberdiers, alarms of battle, and the pomp and circumstance of glorious war. There is even some attempt at delineating character in this play; certain of the dramatis persona are evidently meant to differ from certain others, not in dress and name only, but in nature and mode of being; so much indeed they repeatedly assert, or hint, and do their best to make good,-unfortunately, however, with very indifferent success. In fact these dramatis persone are rubrics and titles rather than persons; for most part, mere theatrical automata, with only a mechanical existence. The truth of the matter is, Grillparzer cannot communicate a poetic life to any character or object; and in this, were it in no other way, he evinces the intrinsically prosaic nature of his talent. These personages of his have, in some instances, a certain degree of metaphysical truth; that is to say, one portion of their structure, psychologically viewed, corresponds with the other; so far all is well enough: but to unite these merely scientific and inanimate qualities into a living man is work not for a Playwright, but for a Dramatist. Nevertheless, König Ottokar is comparatively a harmless tragedy. It is full of action, striking enough, though without any discernible coherence; and with so much both of flirting, and fighting, with so many weddings, funerals, processions, encampments, it must be, we should think, if the tailor and decorationist do their duty, a very comfortable piece to see acted, especially on the Vienna boards, where it has a national interest, Rodolph of Hapsburg being a main personage in it.

A more delicate turn we venture to say, is rarely to be met with in tragic dialogue. As to the story of the Infrau, it is, naturally enough, of the most heart-rending description. This Ancestress is a lady, or rather the ghost of a lady, for she has been defunct some centuries, who in life had committed what we call an "indiscretion;" which indiscretion the unpolite husband punished, one would have thought sufficiently, by running her through the body. However, the Schicksal of Grillparzer does not think it sufficient; but farther dooms the fair penitent to walk as goblin, till the last branch of her family be extinct. Accordingly she is heard, from time to time, slamming doors and the like, and now and then seen with dreadful goggle-eyes and other ghost appurtenances, to the terror not only of servant people, but of old Count Borotin, her now sole male descendant, whose afternoon nap she, on one occasion, cruelly disturbs. This Count Borotin is really a worthy, prosing old gentleman; only he had a son long ago drowned in a fish-pond (body not found); and has still a highly accomplished daughter, whom there is none offering to wed, except one Jaromir, a person of unknown extraction, and to all appearance, of the lightest purse; nay, as it turns out afterwards, actually the head of a Banditti establishment, which had long infested the neighbouring forests. However, a Captain of foot arrives, at this juncture, utterly to root out these Robbers; and now the strangest things come to light. For who should this Jaromir prove to be but poor old Borotin's drowned son, not drowned, but stolen and bred up by these Outlaws; the brother, therefore, of his intended; a most truculent fellow, who fighting for his life unwittingly The model of this Ottokar we imagine to kills his own father, and drives his bride to have been Schiller's Piccolomini; a poem of poison herself; in which wise, as was also similar materials and object; but differing Giles Scroggins' case, he "cannot get married." from it as a living rose from a mass of dead The reader sees all this is not to be accom-rose-leaves, or even of broken Italian gumplished without some jarring and tumult. In flowers. It seems as though Grillparzer had fact, there is a frightful uproar everywhere hoped to subdue us by a sufficient multitude throughout that night; robbers dying, mus- of wonderful scenes and circumstances, withquetry discharging, women shrieking, men out inquiring, with any painful solicitude, swearing, and the Ahnfrau herself emerging whether the soul and meaning of them were at intervals, as the genius of the whole dis- presented to us or not. Herein truly, we becord. But time and hours bring relief, as they lieve, lies the peculiar knack or playwrightalways do. Jaromir, in the long run, likewise, mystery of Ottokar; that its effect is calculated succeeds in dying; whereupon the Borotin to depend chiefly on its quantity: on the mere lineage having gone to the Devil, the Ances- number of astonishments, and joyful or de tress also retires thither, at least makes the plorable adventures there brought to light; upper world rid of her presence, and the abundance in superficial contents compensatpiece ends in deep stillness. Of this poor An- ing the absence of callida junctura. Which cestress we shall only say farther: wherever second method of tragic manufacture we hold she be, requiescat! requiescat! to be better than the first, but still far from As we mentioned above, the Fate method good. At the same time, it is a very common of manufacturing tragic emotion seems to have method, both in Tragedy and elsewhere; nay, yielded Grillparzer himself little contentment; we hear persons whose trade it is to write for after this Ahnfrau, we hear no more of it. metre, or be otherwise "imaginative," proHis König Ottokars Glück und Ende (King Ot- fessing it openly as the best they know. Do tokar's Fortune and End) is a much more not these men go about collecting "features" innocent piece, and proceeds in quite a dif- ferreting out strange incidents, murders, duels, ferent strain; aiming to subdue us not by old ghost-apparitions, over the habitable globe; of women's fables of Destiny, but by the accu- which features and incidents, when they have mulated splendour of thrones and principali- gathered a sufficient stock, nothing more is ties, the cruel or magnanimous pride of Aus- needed than that they be ample enough, hightrian Emperors and Bohemian conquerors, the coloured enough, though huddled into any case wit of chivalrous courtiers, and beautiful but|(Novel, Tragedy, or Metrical Romance) that

will hold it all? Nevertheless this is agglomeration, not creation; and avails little in Literature. Quantity, it is a certain fact, will not make up for defect of quality; nor are the gayest hues of any service, unless there be a likeness painted from them. Better were it for König Ottokar had the story been twice as short, and twice as expressive. For it is still true, as in Cervantes' time, nunca lo bueno fue mucho. What avails the dram of brandy while it swims chemically united with its barrel of wort? Let the distiller pass it and repass it through his limbecs; for it is the drops of pure alcohol that we want, not the gallons of water, which may be had in every ditch.

On the whole, however, we remember König Ottokar without animosity; and to prove that Grillparzer, if he could not make it poetical, might have made it less prosaic, and has in fact something better in him than is here manifested, we shall quote one passage, which strikes us as really rather sweet and natural. King Ottokar is in the last of his fields, no prospect before him but death or captivity: and soliloquizing on his past misdeeds :

I have not borne me wisely in thy World,
Thou great, all judging God! Like storm and tempest,
I traversed thy fair garden, wasting it:

"T is thine to waste, for thou alone canst heal.
Was evil not my aim, yet how did I,
Poor worm, presume to ape the Lord of Worlds,
And through the Bad seek out a way to the Good!

My fellow man, sent thither for his joy,
An end, a Self, within thy World a World,-
For thou hast fashion'd him a marvellous work,
With lofty brow, erect in look, strange sense,
And clothed him in the garment of thy Beauty,
And wondrously encircled him with wonders;
He hears, and sees, and feels, has pain and pleasure:
He takes him food, and cunning powers come forth,
And work and work, within their secret chambers,
And build him up his House: no royal Palace
Is comparable to the frame of Man!

And I have cast them from me by thousands,
For whims, as men throw rubbish from their door.

And none of all these slain but had a Mother
Who, as she bore him in sore travail,
Had clasped him fondly to her fostering breast;
A father who had bless'd him as his pride,
And nurturing, wat h'd over him long years;
If he but hurt the skin upon his finger,
There would they run, with anxious look, to bind it,
And tend it, cheering him, until it heal'd;
And it was but a finger, the skin o' the finger!
And I have trod men down in heaps and squadrons,
For the stern iron open'd out a way
To their warm living hearts.-O God!
Wilt thou go into judgment with me, spare
My suffering people.

König Ottokar, 180-1.

Passages of this sort, scattered here and there over Grillparzer's Plays, and evincing at least an amiable tenderness of natural disposition, make us regret the more to condemn him. In fact, we have hopes that he is not born to be for ever a Playwright. A true though feeble vein of poetic talent he really seems to possess; and such purity of heart as may yet, with assiduous study, lead him into his proper field. For we do reckon him a Conscientious man, and honest lover of Art: say this incessant fluctuation in his dramatic

schemes is itself a good omen. Besides this Ahnfrau and Ottokar, he has written two Dramas, Sappho, and Der Goldene Vliess, (The Golden Fleece,) on quite another principle; aiming apparently at some Classic model, or at least at some French reflect of such a model. Sappho, which we are sorry to learn is not his last piece, but his second, appears to us very considerably the most faultless production of his we are yet acquainted with. There is a degree of grace and simplicity in it, a softness, polish, and general good taste, little to be ex pected from the Author of the Ahnfrou: if he cannot bring out the full tragic meaning of Sappho's situation, he contrives, with laudable dexterity, to avoid the ridicule that lies within a single step of it; his Drama is weak and thin, but innocent, lovable;-nay, the last scene strikes us as even poetically meritorious. His Goldene Vliess we suspect to be of similar character, but have not yet found time and patience to study it. We repeat our hope of one day meeting Grillparzer in a more honourable calling than this of Playwright, or even fourth-rate Dramatist; which titles, as was said above, we have not given him without regret; and shall be truly glad to cancel for whatever better one he may yet chance to merit.

But if we felt a certain reluctance in classing Grillparzer among the Playwrights, no such feeling can have place with regard to the second name on our list, that of Doctor August Klingemann. Dr. Klingemann is one of the most indisputable Playwrights now extant: nay so superlative is his vigour in this department, we might even designate him the Playwright. His manner of proceeding is quite different from Grillparzer's; not a wavering overcharged method, or combination of methods, as the other's was; but a fixed principle of action, which he follows with unflinching courage; his own mind being, to all appearance, highly satisfied with it. If Grillparzer attempted to overpower us now by the method of Fate, now by that of pompous action, and grandiloquent or lachrymose sentiment, heaped on us in too rich abundance, Klingemann, without neglecting any of these resources, seems to place his chief dependence on a surer and readier stay: on his magazines of rosin, oilpaper, vizards, scarlet-drapery, and gunpowder. What thunder and lightning, magic-lantern transparencies, death's-heads, fire-showers, and plush cloaks can do,-is here done. Abundance of churchyard and chapel scenes, in most tempestuous weather; to say nothing of battlefields, gleams of scoured arms here and there in the wood, and even occasional shots heard in the distance. Then there are such scowls and malignant side-glances, ashy paleness, stampings, and hysterics, as might, one would think, wring the toughest bosom into drops of pity. For not only are the looks and gestures of these people of the most heart-rending description, but their words and feelings also (for Klingemann is no half-artist) are of a piece with them; gorgeous inflations, the purest innocence, highest magnanimity; godlike sentiment of all sorts; everywhere the finest tragic humour. The moral too is genuine; there is the most anxious re

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