was actually reversed: and not to be a middling poet was held to be an absolute affront by the "genus irritabile" of bards and aristarchs. But this taste is worn out, notwithstanding the cant about " good old

schools.'

an ignorance of one of the mastersecrets of dramatic illusion, which Shakspeare possessed by a sort of intuition: the design which the author had in view is thus misunderstood; and so much of the reality of life is subtracted from the scene. Another impediment to the introduction of Shakspeare, in all his native strength, on the stage of France, is the necessity of the poet being always in the view of the audience; who desire to see all the springs of his machinery, as if a conjuror were to explain the method of his playing the cups and balls, and who expect to have an epic representation before them cast into scenes, the dialogue tagged with rich rhymes, and every thing, even to the gallery which leads to a queen's bed-chamber, exprest noblement: short natural expressions, or interrupted sentences, are too much in common life: everything must "come mended from the tongue' "of the player; and the most sudden thought, or most hurried ejaculation, must evince the poet's mastery over his metre, and his skill in elevating his phrase to the decorous height of faultless tragedy. It is needless to point out how much of Shakspeare's truth of imitation must be sacrificed in this mechanical and unnatural process of accommodation. The French, however, have caught an insight into the advantage of occasionally brief and broken dialogue; and it is an auspicious circumstance, that they begin half to suspect the anti-dramatic character of their immeasurable lengths of declamation. In the Macbeth of Ducis we cordially hail this step in advance towards a more natural tragic style.

A re-action has been produced on
the literature of France by the ge-
nius of foreign poetry, and particu-
larly by that of England. The
strokes have been long, slow, and
reiterated, but the impulse has been
not less powerful; and the barbarian
literature has awakened by little and
little the spirit of jealous imitation.
It is amusing to observe the more
intelligent and less prejudiced of their
men of letters, coquetting with Shak-
speare. The attempt, to be sure,
resembles the trimming a noble cedar
into the form of a peacock, but it
is praise-worthy and politic. The
mere contact must have done good.
We, who, with our national rever-
ence of established abuses, patronise
Tate's Frenchified alterations of Lear,
have no right to be affronted with
Ducis, that he has re-cast some of
Shakspeare's principal tragedies, and
new-modelled the fable, manners,
and characters, after the standard of
his country's drama. On the con-
trary we should allow his merit
handsomely, and congratulate the
Parisians on their language receiving
a considerable infusion of the pas-
sion of Shakspeare's scene. To be
sure, narration, as might have been
anticipated, is too much substituted
for action, and the plays are so far
undramatised. The philosophy of
Shakspeare is also misunderstood:
the translator has fixed his eye chief-
ly on his poetry, which he is ambi-
tious to correct-and on the progress
of the action, which he is sensible
teems with interest, but which he
thinks he can improve in its unity,
by making prominent characters and
incidents which Shakspeare has kept
in the back ground; but Shakspeare's
knowledge of scenic effect is too
pro-
found, and his calculations of results
too accurate, to allow of his manage-
ment of what is called the business
of the tragedy being safely called in
question. The unfortunate offici-
ousness, also, in making out every
thing plain, and leaving nothing to
the guess of the imagination, betrays Voici l'instant Macbeth!

Frédegonde.
Puis-je le croire ?
Il reste peu d'espace entre le trone et vous.
Macbeth. Sortons-mon sang se glace.
Fréd. Eh bien! que craignez-vous?
Macb. Ils dorment.

Le

Fréd. Nous veillons et la nuit est profonde. songe-tu m'entends

Macb.

Fréd.

Macb.

Oui.

Macbeth!
Frédegonde!
Fréd. Duncan pres de Glamis repose en
ce palais.
Quand s'eveilleront-ils ?

Macb.

Fréd.

Avec le jour.

Jamais!

say which.

a

It is entertaining to see how the Levant ks yeux au ciel avec la passion poor Frenchman puzzles himself d'une crainte douloureuses) about the witches; they are “ furies

Dieux vengeurs ! or sorceresses ; he cannot exactly (Elle s'assied ; pose le flambeau sur une 66 Les trois furies ou ma

table, remet le poignard dans son fourreau.)

Sevar. (Bas.) Un forfait la poursuit. giciennes sont cacheés derrière les

Ecoutons. rochers.” He is half inclined to let

Fréd. (Avec joie, et un air de mystère.) them stay there. Indeed, though

Ce grand coup fut caché dans la nuit. they make a rather poetical figure in La couronne est à nous. Macbeth, poura long narrative speech of Macbeth

quoi la rendre ? to his wife, Ducis evidently meant (Avec le geste d'une femme qui porte pluto blink altogether their personal ap- sieurs coups de poignard dans les ténèbres.) pearance ; but his heart misgave Sur le fils à son tour him: and accordingly he brings them

Sevar. Ciel! que viens-je entendre ? in by way of an optional appendix to

Fréd. (En s'applaudissant, et avec la the first act:

joie de l'ambition satisfaite.) “ Nota. On peut finir cet acte en y

Oui, tout est consommé, mes enfans re

gneront. ajoutant la scène suivante, qui servi

(Avec la complaisance et le plaisir de la rait peut-être à augmenter la terreur tendresse maternelle.) du sujet :” and he accordingly lets his “furies or sorceresses” play at Que j'essaye, O mon fils! ce bandeau sur

ton front. bo-peep with the spectators from be

(Tachant de rappeler un souvenir vague hind the rocks.

à sa mémoire.)

Qui m'a donc dit ces mots ? “ Va, le ciel te La Magicienne, qui tient un poignard.

fit mère."(Avec serrement de cæur.) Le charme a réussi ; S'ils éprouvaient les coups d'une main Le sang coule: on combat: resterons nous meurtrière ! (Très tendrement.) ici ?

O ciel ! La Magicienne, qui tient un sceptre. (Portant sa main à son nez avec répugnuncc.) Non, je cours de ce pas éblouir ma victime. Toujours ce sang!(Très tendrement.) La Magicienne, qui tient un poignard.

Je verrais leur trépas ! Et moi frapper la mienne.

(Avec larmes.)

Moi, leur mère !
La Magicienne, qui tient un serpent.
Et moi venger ton crime.

(Avec terreur, se grattant la main.) La Première. Du sang !

Ce sang ne s'effacera pas ! La Seconde. Du sang!

(Avec la plus grande douleur.) La Troisième.

Du sang! O Dieux!

(En se grattant la main vivement.)

Disparais donc, misérable vestige! (Elles sortent toutes ensemble du milieu

(Avec la plus tendre compassion.) des rochers, et ne se laissent apperçevoir Mon fils ! mon cher enfant ! gu’un moment; ou même elles peuvent (Se grattant la main plus vivement encore.) s'echapper sans etre vues du spectateur.)

Disparais donc, te dis-je!

(Se grattant la main avec un dépit furicur.) So, after venturing on the expe- Jamais-jamais-jamais ! riment of smuggling the Scottish (Comme si elle sentait un poignard dans witches into the French theatre, un- son sien.) der a masquerade dress, something

Mon cæur est déchiré. between Lucan's Erichtho and the (Avec de longs soupirs les plus douleuEumenides of Æschylus, he thinks, reux, et tirés du plus profond de son cæur.) upon the whole, that the better way Oh! oh! oh! is not to let them be seen at all! (Son front s'eclaircit par degrés, et

How Ducis has contrived to render passe insensiblement de la plus profonde Shakspeare more intelligible, will ap- doulcur à la joie et à la plus vive espérance) pear from the celebrated sleep-walk- Quel espoir dans mon sein est rentré ? ing scene; which is doubly curious, (Tout bas, comme appelant Macbeth as this French version of English pendant la nuit, et lui montrant le lit de tragedy is propped by the marginal Malcome qu'elle croit voir.) sublime of the German drama.

Macbeth! Malcome est là. (Avec ardeur.)

Viens.
Frédegonde.

(Croyant le voir hésiter et levant les (Elle entre endormie, un poignard dans épaules de pitié.) la main droite, et un flambeau dans la main

Comme il s'intimide! gauche. Elle s'approche d'un fauteuil,

(Decidée à agir seule.) Allons. (Avec joie.)

c'est Pope," was pronounced with Il dort. (Avec lu confiance de la certi. the usual French air of a decision tude, et dans le plus profond sommeil.) without appeal, by a Parisian gen

Je veille~(Elle regarde le flam- tleman at the whist table, in refebeau d'un ail fixe: elle le prend, et se lève.) rence to a conversation that was be

Et ce flambeau me guide! ing agitated behind his back, in (Elle marche vers le côté du théatre par which an Englishman took part: he lequel elle doit sortir. S'arrêtant tout à then added, after a pause of recolcoup avec l'air du desir et de l'impatience, lection, “ et vous avez aussi Thomcroyant entendre sonner l'heure.)

son.” This was till almost recently Sa mort sonne.

the ultima Thule of English poetical (Avec la plus grand attention, immobile, erudition at Paris. “ The range of le bras droit étendu, et marquant chaque knowledge could no farther go.” The heure avec ses doigts.)

romans poetiques de Scott, rival de Une-deux

Lord Byron, comme poete, et le pre(Croyant marcher droit au lit de Malcome.)

mier de tous les romanciers modernes," C'est l'instant de frapper. (Elle tire son poignard et se rétire, toue of his translated works : those of

now make a part of a new edition jours dormant, sous l'une des voútes.)

Byron, translated by Nodier, have When it is recollected that these attained a fourth edition : and seveparenthetical indications (for which, ral of their poets have applied themÍ doubt not, Mademoiselle Georges selves to the imitation of his single would feel grateful) are suggested pieces; while others, in their laudable to the tremblingly anxious translator, zeal to reclaim him from his appaby the cunning of Shakspeare's scene, rent misanthropy, and his insinuated it must be apparent, that the French atheism, have thus announced their can no longer be reproached with familiarity with his poetry, and that insensibility to bis resistless mastery strong impression which it has left over the passions and affections. on their feelings and their imagina

I have selected the Shakspeare of tion. All this is of good augury. One Ducis, as exemplifying most concise- of those who have transferred into ly and strikingly the change which their poems occasional passages from English genius is silently operating Byron's poetry, is Chênedolle. in France. The accommodation of He is the author of a poem on the Lear, Hamlet, Othello, Romeo and “Genius of Man.” Didactic poems Juliet, and Macbeth, was better fitted do not furnish the best criterion of to conciliate French prejudice, and poetic genius, nor afford the widest affords clearer evidence of the ground scope for its exercise. They show which Shakspeare has gained in more of study than inspiration. They, France, than the regular translations however, square exceedingly well of Letourneur. An improved and with the French talent for system and unmutilated version of Shakspeare, classification. The poem of Chêneon the basis of the latter, has been dollé is at all events respectable. produced by Guizot. * Further, the. There is nothing puerile, or effemiFrench begin to entertain a curiosity nale, or common-place, in its details about our living poets; and the cele- and objects. He does not descend brity which some of them have ob- to tell us how boys trundle a hoop tained among us, aided, perhaps, when they are well; take rhubarb by certain stimulating circumstances when they have over-eat themselves of literary mystery, and personal ec- in the plum-season; grow up to be centricity of character, has echoed men, marry and “have brats,” are to the saloons of Paris. Of our con- buried and epitaphed. “ There is temporary poets the French till late- no such stuff in his thoughts.” On ly were as ignorant as we of theirs. the contrary he treats of subjects Of those, indeed, who are emeriti, and which are, perhaps, a little too abwho have long taken their rank as struse for the poet's handling; the classics in our language, their heavens, earth, man, and society : knowledge was limited beyond be- though Lucretius obliges us to be lief. “Le premier de vos poetes diffident on this head, and though

This includes Pericles, and the Venus and Adonis. The dramatic works of Schiller are also translated by M. de Barante, a peer of France.

some of Pope's brightest passages

are are usually agreeable, and occasionfound in his “ Essay on Man." Che- ally forcible. He is probably a good nedollé looks moral evil in the face, Catholic (for the French are either and untwists the knotty questions of that or philosophers); and from his materialism and philosophical liber- ode on Milton, and a passage in his ty. In his argument for the neces- “ Genius of Man,” (chap. 3,) he is sity of religion, and his justification evidently a good royalist: but he of Providence, he is not very unlike leaves an impression, that he is betPrudentius. He has published a vo- ter than either—a sincerely pious and lume of minor poems, under the title a worthy man. of Poetical Studies or Sketches. They

TRANSLATIONS FROM MODERN FRENCH POETS.

CHARLES DE CHÊNEDOLLÉ.

Etudes Poetiques.

ODE TO THE SEA.

At length I look on thee again,
Abyss of azure! thou vast main,
Long by my verse implored in vain,

Alone inspired by thee;
The magic of thy sounds alone
Can raise the transports I have known,
My harp is mute unless its tone

Be waked beside the sea.
The heights of Blanc have fired mine eyes,
Those three bare mounts that touch the skies;
I loved the terror of their brow,
I loved their diadem of snow,
But O, thou wild and awful sea,

More dear to me
Thy threatening drear immensity!
Dread ocean! burst upon me with thy shores:

Fling wide thy waters—where the storms bear sway;
Thy bosom opens to a thousand prores;

Yet fleets, with idle daring, breast thy spray ;
Ripple with arrow's track thy closing plain,
And graze the surface of thy deep domain.
Man dares not tread thy liquid way,
Thou spurn'st that despot of a day,
Tost like a snow-flake or the spray

From storm-gulphs to the skies ;
He breathes and reigns on solid land,
And ruins mark his tyrant hand,
Thou bid'st him in that circle stand,

Thy reign his rage defies;
Or should he force his passage there,
Thou risest, mocking his despair ;
The shipwreck humbles all his pride,
He sinks within the darksome tide :
The surge's vast unfathom'd gloom

His catacomb;
Without a name, without a tomb.
Thy banks are kingdoms, where the shrine, the throne,

The pomp of human things are changed and past;
The people--they were phantoms—they are flown ;

Time has avenged thee on their strength at last:
Thy billows idly rest on Sidon's shore,
And her bold pilots wound thy pride no more.

a

Rome Athens-Carthage-what are they?
Spoil'd heritage, successive prey;
New nations force their onward way
And grasp disputed reign ;

Thou changest not: thy waters pour
The same wild waves against the shore,
Where liberty had breath'd before,
And slavery hugs his chain.

States bow; Time's sceptre presses still
On Apennine's subsiding hill;
The steps of ages, crumbling slow,
Are stamp'd upon his arid brow;
No trace of Time is left on thee
Unchanging sea!

Created thus, and still to be.

Sea! of almightiness itself th' immense

And glorious mirror! how thy azure face Renews the heavens in their magnificence!

What awful grandeur rounds thy heaving space! Thy surge two worlds eternal-warring sweeps, And God's throne rests on thy majestic deeps.

THE YOUNG MATRON AMONG THE RUINS OF ROME.

Through Rome's green plains with silent tread
I wander'd, and on every side
O'er all the glorious soil I read
The nothingness of human pride.

Where rear'd the Capitol its brow,

Entranced I gazed on desart glades;

And saw the tangled herbage grow,

And brambles crawl o'er crush'd arcades.

Beneath a portal half-disclosed,

By its own ruins earthward prest,

A young Italian wife reposed,

Mild, blooming, with her babe at breast.

O'er that drear scene she breath'd a grace,
And near her I inquiring drew;

And ask'd her of that lonely place,

The old traditions that she knew.

"Stranger!" she softly said, "I grieve
Thy question must unanswer'd be ;
These ruins-I should but deceive
Did I rehearse their history.

Some defter tongue, some wiser head,
May know, and can instruct thee right;

I thought not whither I was led,

And scarce the pile had caught my sight."

Thus, wrapt in tenderness alone,

Joy's innocence becalm'd her brow; She loved!-no other knowledge known, She lived not in the past, but now.

REGRETS.

Where are my days of youth? those fairy days, Breathing of life and "strangers yet to pain?"

When inspiration kindled to a blaze

The rapture of the heart and brain?