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no first-rate poet, and by Dr. Mason Good, (the translator of Lucretius,) a man most extensively and deeply acquainted with modern European literature. Even more valuable perhaps than Spanish poetry, is Spanish prose, which contains an almost inexhaust ible treasure of untranslated history, abounding in stirring incidents, and rich in manly eloquence, as indeed might be expected from the chronicles of a country which has well been called the land of romance. There are besides numbers of excellent novels; some by Cervantes are yet known to the English reader, (as well as all his plays without exception); and many of Quevedo's, and others which have been Englished are out of print and unprocurable, except at extravagant prices. In every kind of imaginative literature Spain is rich, and it may therefore be easily calculated, by those who have remarked how small is the number of English books translated from that noble language, from how many sources of enjoyment we are shut out by the inactivity or carelessness of our booksellers. Spain abounds, moreover, in chivalier ballads, of these we have had more than one collection of interpreted specimens, but neither Mr. Lockhart's nor Mr. Bowring's can be recommended to the reader on the score of fidelity, a defect which is the more remarkable, as the latter gentleman loudly lays claim to it at the very moment that he is diverging most widely from his text. Altogether, Spanish literature may be said to be at the present moment completely unknown to the English public, which would certainly derive the most lively gratification from its novel and original character.

Portugal boasts few great authors. A good translation of Camoens is still wanted. Fanshaw's is antiquated Mickle's notoriously unfaithful, and Musgrave's (published a few years ago,) written in a measure (blank verse) as unfavourable as possibly can be conceived for a true and perfect rendering of his magnificent poem. SeJections from Gil Vicente and the other theatrical writers, from Saa de Miranda and the other pastoral poets, are desirable. But Portuguese prose, (we need only mention the Asia of Joao de Barros, the Life of Mafoma, &c.) is certainly more attractive, and in this department, admitting of the most

[April,

successful and easy translation, a large harvest awaits the gathering. In elegant, eloquent, and classical prose, the literature of both the Peninsular countries abounds; their languages are peculiarly suited to its composition; and their national history is singu larly adapted for its exercise. Italy itself, although it is well known how much care has been devoted by its authors to classical composition in this department, cannot produce so many nor so splendid instances of success, as Spain or Portugal.

From the language of France we have many translations-from its literature, scarcely any. Corneille. Racine, Crebillon, are still locked up to the English reader; Ozell's Moliere is not often to be met with, and is besides but a first translation, which, in the case of so distinguished an author, can hardly be imagined to have attained the requisite perfection. The poetry of France is confessedly little worthy of attention; its dramatic literature might certainly afford a number of volumes, at least engaging and instructive, if not so intensely interesting or so deeply affecting as those of Calderon and the other old Spanish dramatists. There is a vast number of amusing works which deserve translation in this language, and none perhaps more so than the unrivalled collection of Memoirs relating to French history. Many of these throw light upon our own national annals, and all richly merit to be transplanted into our language. The French press is so active, that most probably there will never be wanting a number of works worthy of being Englished; and its literature is so generally known, that it is not necessary to pursue the subject. Every reader must recollect some French work which he would like to see in his mother tongue; in every department of literature, from theCauses Celebres' in Law, to Labat's curious account of the West, Indies in Voyages and Travels. The French certainly abound in what Mr. De Quincey calls anti-literature, or the literature of matter-of-fact and amusing books; in the department to which he strictly applies the terin, their riches are more questionable.

Germany has but lately been regarded as a literary country, but it has already attained a high station, and bids fair vigorously to maintain it. Its

1829.]

authors are distinguished for a spirit of originality which renders them peculiarly worthy of translation; its language is so similar to our own as to render it comparatively easy. We have, nevertheless, very few German authors in an English dress. We have Gessner's works indeed, and so many of Schiller's lyrics are found scattered in Blackwood's and the New Monthly Magazines, in "An Autumn near the Rhine," &c., that it is probable they would, if collected, form a complete set of his poems. But where are the works of Wieland? Is Mr. Sotheby's solitary Oberon' to be all we are to possess of that original genius, in a form worthy of his spirit? Where is Burger? the translations of Lenora, and of the Wild Huntsman, &c., are only sufficient to provoke and not to sate our appetite. Where is Goethe? Lord Levison Gower's Faust, Holcroft's Herman and Dorothea, Des Voeux's Torquato Tasso, are almost all we have of a contemporary author of the highest eminence, whose works fill forty-four volumes. Of Klopstock, the only poetical translation we possess, (and a prose one is totally inadequate to convey an idea of his merits,) is an abridged one. Most of the Gerinan poets, Stolberg, Kleist, Matthias, Thummel, are to the English reader mere empty names. Of Schiller himself, the foremost in the ranks of German genius, we possess but very imperfect copies. We have two Wallensteins indeed, but not one Joan of Arc or Bride of Messina, and Willian Tell is only announced. The translation of the Robbers is wretched-that of Cabal and Love is totally unintelligible, from a mistake of sie, (they, when with a plural verb,) for sie, (she, when with a singular verb,) which runs throughout the five acts. Don Carlos is in prose, Fresco but weakly rendered. The History of the Thirty Years War has been translated three times, while the History of the Revolution in the Low Countries, has obtained that honour but once, from the pen of an obscure author, (Horne,) whose work is rarely met with. Surely if the booksellers of London were as spirited as they are said to be, we should ere now have had the whole of Schiller's works, at least, in English. While so glaring a deficiency remains in our translated literature, it would seem useless to complain of scarcity of spe

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cimens of the works of Schultze, Grillpazor, &c., &c.

We are accustomed to hear German literature spoken of as something worthy of study and admiration, although but of such recent growth. That of Holland, which dates back more than two hundred years at least, is by us, as indeed by most other nations, spoken of with a contempt which may be considered more as a proof of our own ignorance, than of its demerits. It would indeed be a strange anomaly, if the country which has produced so many excellent writers in Latin, should be so shamefully deficient, as we are too apt to imagine, in authors of merit in their mother-tongue. The Batavian Anthology, published a few years ago, has done something towards removing the contemptuous idea formerly entertained of Dutch literature; good translations of a few of their best poets would perhaps raise our idea of its merits still higher. A volume of the masterpieces of Vondel, their Shakspeare, containing his Palamedes, his Lucifer (said to bear a striking resemblance to Paradise Lost, which it preceded in date of publication), and his Gysbrecht van Arnstel (invariably acted at every Dutch theatre, on Christmas Eve), would certainly form an acceptable present to the English public. Some specimens of the works of Hooft, and of Ansloo, among the ancient writers, and of Bilderdyk among the modern ones, might convey a good general idea of the properties of the literature of Holland."

That of Denmark is perhaps still more deserving of attention. It boasts a comic writer of the most distinguished merit, Lewis Holberg, the Voltaire of his country, as he has been called from writing on almost every subject in the whole compass of literature, both in Danish and Latin. His plays are said to be models of true huniour, and have been found, when translated, to excite the most hearty laughter. The only specimen of them (it is believed) which the English language contains, is "the Babbling Barber," in the second volume of "Tales and Legends," by some young ladies who are well acquainted with the Danish. Judging from that specimen, they are certainly highly worthy of translation into every tongue. His countrymen are also loud in their praises of Samsoe, the author of the tragedy of Dyveke,

The literature of Sweden is perhaps rather inferior to that of Denmark, at present; but the activity and success with which it has been cultivated of late years, bid fair to place it very soon on a level with, if not above it. The poems of Leopold would seem to deserve notice, but much more so those of Franzen, and more so still of Stagnelius and Tegner. As might be expected, the literature of Scandinavia cannot, as yet, be put into competition with those of the more favoured countries of the south; but a greater degree of interest is often excited, by beholding the birth and progress of an infant literature, than the maturity of a full grown one, although of course much less admiration. It is, besides, undeniable that much less attention has been paid to these literatures than they themselves intrinsically deserve. It is time to repair this neglect.

The literature of Russia will very probably, in thirty or forty years, be what that of Germany is now. It is certainly advancing with rapid strides, and upon excellent principles. Karamsin's History has laid the foundation of a good prose style, if indeed it was not already done by the Sermons of Prokopovitch, Metropolitan of Novgorod. Lomonosov, Derzhavin, Batiushkov are poets of distinguished merit, and latterly Pouschkin has acquired a fame hitherto unrivalled in Russia. This infant literature seems to be the most vigorous of all, and bids fair to attain to a speedy and beautiful youth. We have not even an abridgment of Karamsin, a translation of whom is already possessed by the French and Germans.

Poland has of late produced a great number of writers, amongst whom Niemcewicz, who spent several years of his life in North America, and is well acquainted with the English language and literature, claims the foremost place. Some of his works, especially those which aim to sketch the manners and feelings of the Poles, are certainly worthy of being transplanted. The general fault of the Polish writers scems to be a proneness to imitation,

resulting no doubt from the extensive acquaintance they generally possess with the literature of other countries.

The Servians are rich in ballads, which seem worthy of taking their place with our own Minstrelsies, and those of Spain and Scandinavia. Their whole readable literature might be soon transferred to our own language by two or three hearty labourers at the task.

There are many more languages than these in Europe. Amongst them the Icelandic, the Bohemian, and the Hungarian, perhaps stand out foremost. A good history of the literature of each, in a few octavo volumes, with selected and translated specimens, would be sufficient to give an idea of them. The Frieslandic might be treated in the same way, but in a more summary manner. The Celtic literatures, that of Wales, &c. are also worthy of some attention, and learned natives would be able to write the best histories of them.

All the literatures of Europe have now been glanced at, great and small, and it has, it is imagined, been sufficiently shown, that there is not one of them which does not possess productions worthy of our notice, but hitherto inaccessible to the English reader. It has also been clearly enough demonstrated by that great teacher Experience, that we may wait in vain, as the literary Republic is at present constituted, for any translation of these productions, and that even if, contrary to expectation, any do chance to ap pear, they will in all probability be executed in a slovenly and inadequate

manner.

The only remedy for these evils, seems to be the establishment of a Society, founded partly on the model of the Oriental Translation Fund, and partly on that of the great commercial establishment at Weimar, known by the name of the Landes Industrie Comptoir. Like the former, it should not entirely depend for support on the favour of the public, which must be admitted to be occasionally capacious and unstable. A handsome sum would certainly be subscribed, were the plan fairly brought forward, to create the establishment, and to support it for a year or two, by which time it might fairly be expected its efficacy and use would be apparent.

A few general superintendents, men