realism-should be the translator's ideal. An example of such a translation is furnished by Strodtmann's rendering of Tennyson's Bugle Song," beginning, "Es fällt der Strahl auf Burg und Thal." Longfellow, by his extensive linguistic knowledge and skill with rhyme and metres, was exceptionally well fitted for the work of translation, and he employed his gifts to such good purpose that it is not too much to say of him that, as a translator, he had no living rival.

Every one knows that it is much more difficult to translate a folk-song well than an artistic poem, and every one who is familiar with the rollicking side of German university life remembers the neverfailing "Kneiplied" of sweet "Aennchen von Tharau," and what a really large place it holds in the hearts of the students, each of whom believes in its peculiar applicability to a certain "Aennchen" of his own, present or to come. So a few stanzas from it will serve to show Longfellow's facility. He translated it directly from the Low German of its author, Simon Dach; the following German words are Herder's translation, by which it is generally known in Germany. This will explain the few discrepancies.

"Aennchen von Tharau hat wieder ihr Herz Auf mich gerichtet in Lieb und in Schmerz.

*

*

*

Krankheit, Verfolgung, Betrübniss und Pein Soll unsrer Liebe Verknotigung sein. Würdest du gleich einmal von mir getrennt, Lebtest da, wo man die Sonne kaum kennt ; Ich will dir folgen durch Wälder, durch Meer,

Eisen und Kerker und feindliches Heer.

Longfellow's great work as a translator, however, and perhaps the great work of his life, is his three splendid volumes of the "Divina Commedia." His election to the position of the first President of the Dante Society at Cambridge—a position in which Mr. James Russell Lowell has succeeded him-was a fitting recognition of this work. As early as 1839, in his "Voices of the Night," he published translations of a few of the chosen passages of the poem, but it was not until 1863, when in need of some anodyne for the shock caused by the terrible death of his wife, that he determined to attempt a version of the entire "Divine Comedy.' "Divine Comedy." The people of Florence had given notice of their approaching celebration of the sixth centenary of Dante's birth, and had invited the co-operation of all lovers of the poet, so there was a special appropriateness in the time of his work. The translation of the Inferno" was completed and sent to the printer. He then invited two of his intimate friends, Mr. Charles Eliot Norton, Professor of the History of Art, at Harvard University-the chiarissimo signore and profondo cognoscitore di Dante to whom Witte dedicated his variorum edition of the "Vita Nuova"-and Mr. Lowell, to assist him in the delicate work of final revision. Mr. Norton has given the following account of their meetings Every Wednesday evening Mr. Lowell and I met in Mr. Longfellow's study to listen while he read a canto of his translation from the proofsheet. We paused over every doubtful passage, discussed the various readings,

"

Sonn',

words and phrases, sought for the most exact equivalent of Dante's expression, objected, criticised, praised, with a freedom that was made perfect by Mr. Longfellow's absolute sweetness, simplicity, and modesty, and by the entire confidence which existed between us. Ten copies of an édition de luxe of the translation of the "Inferno" were printed, bearing the special dedication, In Commemorazione del Secentesimo Anniversario della Nascita di Dante Alighieri," and five of them were despatched to Florence as a New World contribution to the festival of May, 1865. The two remaining parts were prepared with the same care, and the three volumes of the complete translation ap

peared early in 1867. With what sympathy Longfellow performed his great task may be learned from the following extract from a private note which he wrote while at work on Dante: "How different from this gossip is the divine Dante with which I begin the morning! I write a few lines every day before breakfast. It is the first thing I do-the morning prayer, the key-note of the day.'

To give anything like an adequate account of this translation, and to cite passages for comparison with the original, would take up far too much space. For the same reason a number of eulogistic reviews which are before me must all be condensed into the statement that the work has received the commendation of almost every famous Dante scholar, and, with very few exceptions, of every literary authority. There can be no doubt that Longfellow's presentation of the "mediæval miracle of song" is by far the best that we have, and probably the best that we shall have in English, and that it will take final rank among the greatest achievements of American letters

44

To raise again here the old question of Longfellow's originality would be to depart widely from the intention of discussing only the unfamiliar aspects of his work. The best thing that has been said upon the subject, and one which contains more truth than do all the pages of literary comparisons, is the following remark of a German critic 'Besondere Originalität wird man bei Longfellow vergeblich suchen, wenn man sie nicht in seiner bezaubernden Gemüthstiefe erblicken will." "We shall look in vain for any special orginality in Longfellow, if we are not willing to perceive it in his fascinating depth of heart." This is the whole truth in the matter: Longfellow possessed an aboriginal humanity of disposition; his spirit seemed to go back from the modern complication of motives to the sources of human feeling.

Two days after Longfellow's death a friend of mine who knew him very well wrote to me as follows: "It is surprising how the man has taken hold of the hearts of all. I have never heard him say anything very striking, or very grand or beautiful, yet his face is always associated in my mind with qualities

66

partaking of all three. He had not a majestic presence to stir you into great feeling for himself personally, yet one could not see his face, nor see or know his daily life and ways, without being deeply inspired by the simplicity, purity, and entire unselfishness of his nature.' This is an admirable statement of the common experience. The smaller acts and sayings of his life, assumedly the best indexes of a man's character, showed the invincible sweetness" of the underlying disposition. I remember that he told me once that a Chicago lady had sent him a packet containing two hundred of her visiting-cards, with the request that he would put his autograph upon each of them, as she was about to give a reception to her friends, and wished to present them with some pleasing memento of the occasion. I expressed the hope that the lady's cards had promptly found their way to his waste basket.. Oh, no!" he said in a tone of surprise, and almost of reproach, and added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "I returned them with a note, saying that the many demands upon my time made it quite impossible for me to do as she asked.” Mr. William Winter has told us that when he once alluded to Poe's attacks upon Longfellow-mostly contemptible fabrications-the latter only said gravely, "My work seemed to give him much trouble, first and last; but Mr. Poe is dead, and I am alive, and still writing, and that is the end of the matter. Then he picked up a volume of Poe, and particularly commended certain pieces. And one who knew Longfellow intimately all his life has just said, "Nothing human that I ever saw exceeded the tenacity of his friendship." In the light of these anecdotes it is not surprising to learn of the universal affection that was felt for him, or to find one reviewer saying, How like a benediction on our homes his music falls !"

66

All this bears testimony to the correctness of the German critic in attributing Longfellow's originality to his Gemüthstiefe, or depth of heart; and to those who hold with Lotze and his school that the choicest parts of our experience are those that come to us from the Gemüth, this originality will seem one of no mean order.

In conclusion, setting aside for the moment what it has been the special object of this study to show, namely, that, besides writing a quantity of commonplace verse, Longfellow has done really first-rate work in several fields, and that he is, therefore, entitled to a higher rank than that to which the critics have customarily assigned him; and admitting all that any one wishes about art for its own sake, we must still recognize and honor his position as a teacher of the people. It is certain that multitudes of people have received direct help from Longfellow's poetry-their lives have gained new sentiment, their sorrows have been made less dismal, they have been strengthened in their efforts to live decently.

Longfellow preserved to the end the vigorous and cheery tone of his song;

not even such a subject as "Morituri Salutamus" could dampen it. While some men of genius in their worship at what one of their own number has called the "altar to the unknown god of unachieved desire," are writhing in their efforts to parade all the sensuousness of which human nature is capable, this simple man with his sweetness of life--a sweetness as of home-made bread must not be allowed to pass away without our reverent recognition. His was not the gift of song which shall spur you to soar, but we may be confident that whenever the army of true bards is mustered, the suffrage of future ages will not grudge him the fulfilment of his modest hope-" to have my place preserved among the rest."-Fortnightly Review.

EUROPE at the present hour is full of signs and premonitions of a coming crisis. Visibly she is drifting upon another of those cataracts of event which break the course of History: each of them a series of rapids, down which the Past has descended into the Present, and the Present will plunge into the new Future. Far be it from us to seek to dispel the comforting dream of that "millennial" time when the nations will rest in amity, cultivating the arts of war no more. Doubtless it will come; but the world is a long way yet from that happy goal. Every European Settlement is still but a temporary arrangement; partly arbitrary or artificial even when made, and destined to be outgrown and thrust aside as inadequate, or even (to some) as hateful, as time rolls on—as new growths of power disturb the political equilibrium, or the nations awake to new objects and desires, which did not exist, and therefore could not be taken into account, when the existent Settlement was arrived at. Indeed a cynic might be prone to say that each of the great Treaty-settlements of Europe has simply been a compulsory truce. Nations cannot go on fighting ceaselessly (although certainly they sometimes do wonders toward the attainment of such a miracle of belligerence); and empty exchequers

have done more than the skill of diplomatists toward the attainment of those successive Settlements which have given epochs of peace to this smallest but most restless and powerful of continents. Yet, no! even when, through the almost complete recognition of nationalityleaving each people free in its own territory-we are visibly approaching a time when there may be settled peace within Europe herself, the far-reaching conquests of the Aryan nations are bringing them more and more into close contact and more strenuous rivalry in other parts of the world; and Europe will pay penalty for her power and greatness by a crop of wars reflected back upon her from the other continents!

With matters which are distant, whether in place or in time, it is needless to expect perception and attention from the masses of mankind. But, speaking of the thoughtful classes, it is no exaggeration to say that over all Europe there is a sensation of disquietude, rising in some quarters into anxiety and serious apprehension. In national as well as individual life, a vague and blind presentiment of evil has at times portended a disastrous convulsion; but at present the presentiment is not blind. There are visible grounds for the disquietude; yet no man can tell the exact shape which

the peril will assume; still less-and this is the worst part of the disquietude what will be its magnitude, or where it will end. That danger is ahead-danger to the peace of Europe, or more-hardly any intelligent reader of the newspapers can doubt. The more sanguine and the less provident or prescient, doubtless, will as usual take the easy-going course of "hoping the best" (the cheapest means, be it noted, of winning the applause of the ignorant)-and, looking back upon the comparatively long period of peace which Europe at large has enjoyed since the fall of Napoleon the Great, the public are loath to regard as possible the recurrence of a great war such as our grandsires so gallantly fought through. In these days, is not the thought too shocking to be entertained that, despite all our progress and muchvaunted civilization, the closing years of the century may yet witness as bloody and momentous a military contest as that by which the century was ushered in? Is it not too startling to be told that Europe is waiting for another Waterloo, ere it can hope to re-attain a new epoch of equilibrium and peace? Nay, more, how bitter and humiliating to practical philanthropists-to the number of good and self-denying men (whose name nowadays is Legion) who devote alike mind and money, time and strength, to the amelioration of human ills and misfortunes; how humiliating, too, to the vanity of harder-hearted statesmanship, is the thought that, after all, and when (as it may seem) we have all but perfected Law, Government, and Society, the dangerous classes and "dissolving forces" are becoming more formidable than ever; and that the "social revolution" - atheistic Communism and Nihilism-may yet shake to its foundations the entire system of civilization which modern Europe has been slowly perfecting as the highest product of the Aryan community of nations?

It is the former of these two dangers -namely, international conflict-which the more readily awakens the apprehensions of a generation which is especially peace-loving. War, too, is one of those things which, like Fire, challenges general attention, even by its premonitory sparks. Blood and fire, indeed, are its essential accompaniments; and even the

dullest mind is quickened into outlook and anxiety at the very sound of its name. Naturally, therefore, the prevalent disquietude takes most prominently a military complexion. True, this apprehension is as yet but little apparent in our own country. In these Isles of the Blessed "-penitus toto orbe divisos-War has not the name of terror which it bears in the ofttimes war-swept countries of the Continent; yet the suspicion with which our people regard the proposed Channel Tunnel shows that we are by no means blind to the mercies we have enjoyed from our geographical insulation. But on the Continent, it is no exaggeration to say that there is not a Cabinet, nor even a Parliament, which does not sniff gun-powder in the air, or does not quake somewhat at the thought of secret plans and machinations of statecraft which are believed to be at work in the dark, slowly or swiftly working toward an explosion. Governments are quietly but eagerly keeping watch upon each other, and tread warily, as if upon ground which they suspect is undermined.

Indeed, what more striking instance of such apprehension has Europe ever seen than that recently displayed by France, which draws back from concerted action in Egypt rather than risk exposing herself to some deadly thrust which she suspects may be suddenly dealt to her? What bait so alluring to Gallican ambition than Egypt? What more pleasing to her traditional sentiment than that the Tricolor of France should wave anew upon the banks of the Nile, and within sight of the Pyramids, from whose summit "forty centuries looked down" upon the victories of Napoleon the Great? Yet this very circumstance-the knowledge that other Powers might reckon upon her taking the bait, sufficed to cause France to recoil. What is especially noticeable, as showing the prevailing disquietude, is that this reculade is not primarily the work, freak, or mistake of diplomatists and statesmen, but a popular stampede-a spontaneous energetic decision of the national representatives; and with which the Government promptly acquiesced. And so, France, scenting danger, resolves to stand on defence, keeping her forces at home, resolved to engage in no sally which might expose her to attack in flank from

a lurking foe. It is true that no foe is in sight; and if there be a danger, it is veiled and invisible, like the sword of Harmodius of old, concealed in flowers till the moment of striking. But if so, what grounds for apprehension must there not be when popular suspicion is so keen-scented, and when statesmen see daggers in the air where none are present to the bodily sense? The oft-quoted line of the poet seems plain as a matter of prose at the present moment, for rarely is it seen so plainly that “ coming events cast their shadows before.

Before dealing with some of the signs of the day which directly betoken the approach of international conflict-signs little resembling in character those fiery meteors of the sky which were regarded as war-portents of old; but terrestrial, tangible, and sensible, like to the progressive wearing-down of rocky lakebarriers, such as at some distant yet almost calculable date will produce a Deluge over the whole valley of the St. Lawrence-let us first ask the reader to consider some of the surroundings of his daily life-circumstances highly ominous; all the more so, indeed, from the duration and commonness which, by sheer familiarity, blind men to their true significance. While Peace was never before so prized and preached, have we not for years past come to live in an atmosphere of War? While the Scriptural phrase of turning swords into ploughshares has been regarded as the peculiar aim of national industry and of human aspirations, has there not for half a lifetime been quite an opposite current of thought underlying it all, and cropping up in various forms around us-somewhat like to those jets and veins of firerock which we see permeating the sedimentary strata which form the present cool and quiet surface of earth, and telling of the igneous forces which lurk unseen below? Only, these signs of old terrestrial convulsion are relics of the past; whereas the moral or mental phenomena of which we speak, and which so visibly surround us, are not relics but portents not consequences of a troubled Past, but preparations against a Future which we distrust. Playing at soldiers' was the mild and half-contemptuous phrase with which men first spoke of the Volunteer movement.

But we

do not so speak of it now; every passing year we attach to it a greater importance-expressing satisfaction and deriving comfort as we see that this play" is converting our youth into belligerents of no mean order. Look, too, even at our learned societies, and observe how belligerent Science has become of late years. Enter hall or lecture-room, and you may find the élite of Science investigating the "initial velocity" of projectiles-the strain which iron in its newer forms is capable of bearing under the shock of explosives

the propelling power of gunpowder in large cubes instead of in grains-torpedoes, monster cannon, and the best means or material for resisting the impact of those destructive thunderbolts of human war. Chemistry triumphs in the discovery of new explosives. Is not the old unquenchable "Greek fire" now replaced among the enginery of war; and are not dynamite and nitro-glycerine, not to speak of the more diabolical picric acid, now included in the

resources of civilization ?" Is all this a mere love of Science? Is it as an academic pursuit-in pure search or thirst for knowledge, that learned men thus study the arts and enginery of destruction? And is the Kriegspiel a mere amusement, prized as a novelty, to while away the tedium of barrack-life in the place of nap or loo?

Sweet illusions of this kind will hardly bear a moment's consideration, if we lift our eyes and look upon the world around

us.

To any Rip van Winkle who went asleep thirty years ago, the Europe of to-day would be unrecognizable. Nations have become armies; each country is a camp. The awakening sleeper might, in his blank bewilderment, for a moment believe that he was still dreaming-some troubled dream of the Middle Ages, when War was the main business of States, and fighting in all shapes the chief excitement and popular amusement. But apart from the sight of Krupp and Armstrong artillery, of Minié Minié and Remington rifles, and other overt signs of the military Present, a moment's reflection would suffice to show that it is not the Europe of any past age which is before his eyes; but one which for half a century has been framing for itself new