prose; but no rebellion, conscious or unconscious, against the theory of composition which he found in the ascendant when he entered the world of letters.

dantly supplied by an age of revolution to retaliate on society. He will always be a grand figure in the literary group who stand in the portals of the nineteenth century. He took up the romantic vein of poetry which Scott had opened, and struck

even the author of the "Lay " had then reached. But he wants the singlemindedness of either Wordsworth or Shelley, and has left fewer marks behind him on our poetry than either Keats or Scott.

The danger of the transition period lay, no doubt, in its disdain of form. But this was happily surmounted. Leigh Hunt and Keats were sinners in this respect, and in his early days Mr. Tennyson showed the same weakness; but he very soon outgrew it, and now to find his equal as a literary artist we must go back to Gray. We find, in fact, in the Laureate a combination of the virtues of both systems: the elegance and finish of the Twickenham school, with the deeper insight, higher aspirations, and more subtle sympathies of the Lake school of poetry.

Of Burns, perhaps, one could not say quite so much; yet even in Burns we see little signs of anything but a determina-out a higher flight of imagination than tion to go his own way. Of any suspicion that the dominant literary school stood in need of radical reform he seems wholly innocent. Wordsworth and his party went deliberately to work, as deliberately as any political or ecclesiastical reformers ever did, to overthrow what they believed to be falsehood and superstition and, in a measure, tyranny. There can be no doubt at all of their position. But Burns is a more complex study. His poetry is so closely intertwined with the lore of his native land that it is difficult to say how much of it sprung from a purely national inspiration, and how much from those more general causes which are the proper subject of this article. Burns, we are told, did for the songs of Scotland what Scott did for the ballads: yet we can hardly attribute the literary excavavations which Scott carried on among the Border valleys to any impatience of the literary form which reigned supreme in the metropolis. His motives in the first instance were antiquarian and patriotic, rather than literary; and we should be disposed to say the same, and to say it more exclusively, of Burns. But if Burns was not one of the conscious authors and founders of the new system, he must be placed very high among its representatives. In him we see what we do not see in Cowperthe highest play of imagination. He belongs to the "Restoration" in virtue of this test quality. With that crusade against poetic diction which was the early work of Wordsworth, we cannot see that he had anything in common. But he was one of the first, if not the very first, to feel the breath of the returning deity as she descended once more —

Mille trahens varios adverso sole colores, and his song rose up to meet her like the skylark's.

Byron, again, was a poet who was rather a child of the reaction than a parent. He would never have created the change if he had not found it in existence. His sympathies were with the old school. We all know what he thought of Pope; but, like Sir Bedivere in "King Arthur,' "his own thoughts drove him like a goad." Society, as he supposed, had injured him; and he made use of the materials so abun

As the faculty of imagination enters less into prose composition than it does into verse, we have naturally less to say of the former than we have of the latter in dealing with the revival of it. At the same time, as Wordsworth points out, the proper antithesis of prose is not poetry, but verse; and as far as prose is imaginative, it partakes of the nature of poetry, and comes within the scope of our inquiry. The Waverley novels are of course the illustration par excellence of our meaning; and we have already said all that is necessary of their rise and their influence. But before them in order of time, and close to them in order of merit, stand the writings of Burke, whose imag ination was kindled into fury by the French Revolution and the havoc which it wrought among all his favorite idols. Macaulay, perhaps, was the first to see what was to be gained by the use of the imagination in history; but though we cannot exclude him from the list of imag. inative writers who owe their fame to the Renaissance, yet it cannot be said that he has reached the same level as either Carlyle or Mr. Froude, while in imaginative prose not employed on history, De Quincey, and perhaps Mr. Ruskin, are above them all. There are parts of the English Opium-Eater," of the " Flight of the Calmuck Tartars," and of the "Traditions of the Rabbis," which are not to be distinguished from poetry of the high

est order. Mr. Carlyle's death-bed of Louis XV., if compared with Macaulay's Charles II., will show the incontestable superiority of the former.

-

ment all previously existing conceptions of life and work, and gave us the galaxy of great writers and thinkers who adorn the epoch Burns, Wordsworth, and The transition period, however, shows Coleridge, Shelley, Byron, and Keats, Do revolt against the prose diction of the Edmund Burke, and Walter Scott. The eighteenth century as it does against its long peace, the political changes which poetic diction. Macaulay jeers at John- occurred in 1832, the rise of the economic son, yet his own style is based on John- age -the age of Birmingham and Manson; and the review of Robert Montgom- chester which did, after an interval, ery and the critique of Gray's poetry succeed to the heroic age the age of might have been written by either. Of Trafalgar and Waterloo the progress other departments of prose literature of ideas favorable to a social revolution much the same may be said. Miss Aus- which, whatever its countervailing advanten, incomparable as she is, differs in no tages, must necessarily rob life of much essential respect from Miss Burney; the of its picturesqueness, of many of its richprose of Hallam is the prose of Black- est colors, and of some, perhaps, of its stone; and what is perhaps better worth noblest motives, have worked a change mentioning, is that Wordsworth's prose in England during the last fifty years en irely corresponds with these remarks. which might have been expected to maIn his preface to the "Lyrical Ballads "terialize literature and bring it down to a we see as much " elegance," as much at tention to the forms and ceremonies of style as we should find in any earlier writer. The truth is that in prose composition the eighteenth century was at home, was on its own ground, and, doing what it thoroughly understood, did it thoroughly well. Consequently, its prose style survived the ordeal of the Revolution while its metrical style did not. We can hardly bestow greater praise on a prose writer of the present day than to say that he writes like Junius; and what thoroughly accomplished man of letters, if asked which he thought the greater compliment, to be called equal in style to Lord Macaulay or equal in style to Gibbon, would hesitate to choose the lat

ter?

To sum up, the leading and distinctive characteristic of the period which may fairly be said to begin with the death of Dr. Johnson and end with the death of Walter Scott, was the restoration of the imaginative element to both literature and religion. Banished by the English Revolution, she was restored to us, qua minime serio, by the French, and produced two classes of worshippers, those whose enthusiasm led them forward to the glories of the future, and those whom it led in a contrary direction towards the romance and beauty of the past. The eighteenth-century men had few or none of these feelings. As George Eliot puts it, with great truth and humor, "They cared not for inquiring into the cause of things, being satisfied with the things themselves." From this pleasant but inglorious repose they were wakened by a thunder-clap, which transformed in a mo

lower ebb than it had reached a hundred years ago. Such, however, has not been the case. Imagination has held her own against all the rival forces in the field. The strength of the great reaction, some features of which we have here endeavored to recall, has not yet spent itself. George Eliot, writing forty years afterwards, is the natural exponent, in fiction, of one branch of it, as Scott was of the other. Froude, Carlyle, and Tennyson have maintained the protest protest of Wordsworth, of Burke, and of Scott-the protest which it is the priv ilege of literature, and should be its chief glory, to hand down-against utilitarianism, optimism, and epicureanism. This is matter for pride, and perhaps also it is ground for hope.

the

From Macmillan's Magazine. THE BARONESS HELENA VON SAARFELD.

TRAVELLING in Germany, on one occasion, I passed the evening at a small inn among some mountains, with a middleaged man whom I soon discovered to have been an actor. In the course of the evening he told me the outlines of the following story, together with much interesting detail relating to an actor's life. I have endeavored to work into the story what I could recollect of his observations, but not being able to take notes at the time, and having little intimate knowledge of German life, I have lost much of the local coloring and graphic detail which interested me so much at the time. short introduction will suffice.

This

The ducal Schloss rose directly above the tall houses of the superior quarter of the town, the backs of which looked out upon forest trees which had been planted, and had grown to great size, upon the steep mountain slope upon which the Schloss was built. My father, taking me by the hand, led me up the winding road, defended at the angles by neglected towers, which led to the castle gardens. On the way he never ceased to impress upon me the misery of an actor's life.

In a considerable town in Germany and of humor, was not re-acted even on (said the actor), there have been for sev- this partial stage oftener than it was, and, eral generations a succession of dukes still more so, that, in all the theatres of who have patronized the German theatre Germany where I have played my part, I and devoted the principal part of their never once saw it performed, nor even revenue to its support. In this city I so much as heard it mentioned; so diffiwas born. My grandfather had been an cult of recognition is merit in my profesactor of some repute, whose acting in sion. some of his principal characters Schiller is said greatly to have admired. His son, however, did not follow in his father's art, but degenerated, as most would call it, into a stage-carpenter and inferior scene-painter. He was, however, a man of considerable reading, and of a certain humor, which mostly took the form of bitter sarcasm, and dislike of the theatrical profession. From my birth he formed a determination to bring me up as a printer, for besides that his fondness for reading naturally caused him to admire "The poorest handicraft," he said, "by the art by which books are produced, he which a man can earn his crust of bread believed that education would make gigan-in quiet is preferable to this gaudy imtic steps within a few years, and that in consequence printers would never want for occupation. In this expectation, at any rate in one respect, he was mistaken. Upon the production of a new piece which the reigning duke had himself written, the juvenile actor who was to have taken a boy's part sickened and died, and the company did not at the moment possess any child who was fitted to take his place. My father was requested, or rather commanded, to allow me to learn the few words attached to the part. He was extremely averse to the proposal, but was compelled to consent, the matter appearing so trifling. The play was very successful. The applause was unanimous, and indeed was so enthusiastic that, not satisfied with lauding the talent of the noble author and with praising the intelligence of the chief actors who had so readily grasped the intentions of genius, it had some encomiums left for We were passed on from one gorgeous the child actor, and discovered a pro- domestic to another until at last we found found meaning in the few words the duke ourselves before the chasseur, a magnifihad put into my mouth, which it asserted cent man of gigantic height, but with an I had clearly and intelligently rendered. expression of face perfectly gentle and The duke, pleased at finding himself so beautiful. I had often noticed this man much cleverer than even he had ever sus- in the theatre, and had always thought pected, joined in the applause. He never that he would be admirably fitted to repfailed to testify his approbation at the resent St. Christopher, a picture of whom way in which I piped out the very ordi- hung in my mother's room. He surveyed nary words of my single line, and finally, us courteously and kindly, and informed when the play was withdrawn for a time, us that the duke was taking his wine with he sent an order to my father to repair a friend on one of the terraces on the one summer afternoon to the ducal farther side of the hill. Thither he led Schloss which overlooked the town. I have since sometimes thought that it was curious that this play, so full of genius

posture which fools think so attractive. In other trades a man is very often his own master, in this he has so many that he does not even know which to obey. In other trades a man has some inducement to do his best, in this to excel is in most cases to starve. The moment an actor ceases to assist the self-love of his fellow-actor, or to minister to the worst passions of his auditors, he is hated or despised. He works harder than the simplest journeyman for poorer pay, he is exposed to greater risk of accident, and the necessities of his part require such a delicacy of organization that the least accident ruins it." The great trunks of the trees were throwing a fitful shadow over the steep walks as my father, still holding me by the hand, poured these dolorous opinions into my ears, and we reached the long terraces of the ducal gardens.

us, and we found the duke seated at a small table in front of a stone alcove ornamented with theatrical carvings in

|

My father looked very downcast, and the gentleman who sat by the duke, with a kindliness of demeanor which has en-residence of importance; when we climbed deared him to me forever, said, "But this good man seems to have decided views about his own son."

was decided that night that I should be | systematically to secondary parts, but I

an actor.

My son," said my father, some time afterwards, as he took me to the lodgings of an actor who had promised to teach me to repeat some famous parts, "my son, I have not been able to train thee to the occupation which I should have desired. I pray God to assist thee in that which fate has selected. I have one piece of advice which I will give thee now, though I hope I shall be able to repeat it often. Never aspire to excellence; select the secondary parts, and any fine strokes of acting which you may acquire throw into these parts. In this way you will escape the vindictive jealousy of your fellows; but if unavoidably you should attract such ill feeling, leave the theatre at once, travel as much as possible, act on as many boards as you can. You will achieve in this way the character of a useful player who is never in the way. In this way, and in this only, you probably will never want bread; more than this I cannot hope for."

watched carefully the acting of the great players, and endeavored to lead up to their best effects, and to respond to the emotions they sought to awaken. By this means became a great favorite among the best players, for it is surprising what an assistance the responsive action of a fellow-actor is in obtaining an effect, while on the other hand it is very unlikely that the attention of the audience should be diverted from the principal actor by what tends indeed to increase the impression he makes. Several of the greatest actors then in Germany often refused parts unless I played the secondary character. I was not particular. I would take any part, however unimportant, provided my salary was not reduced in consequence, and I endeavored to throw all my knowledge and training into any part I undertook; by this means I became a great favorite with authors, who, if they are worth anything, endeavor to distribute their genius equally among their characters, and whom nothing irritates so much as to see everything sacrificed to promote the applause and vainglory of a single performer. I grew up, much to the surprise of all who knew me, a very handsome young man, and I generally took the parts of lovers, when these were not of the first importance, such, for instance, as the part of Romeo, which, true to the rule I had adopted, I never attempted. In this way I had visited most of the cities of Germany, and was well known in all of them, when, at the request of one of the chief actors of the day, who studied the parts of the great tragedies which he undertook with the most conscientious care, I accepted an engagement at the theatre of one of the great cities of the empire, to which he had also engaged himself for a considerable time.

I shall not weary you by relating the story of my education as an actor; it will suffice to say that I found neither my father's estimate of the profession, nor that of the duke, to be precisely correct. If on the one hand I have found littleness and jealousy to exist among players, on the other I have seen numberless acts of unpretending and self-denying kindness. It must be remembered that the actor's life is a most exciting and wearing one, and most certain to affect the nerves and make a man irritable and suspicious. His reputation and his means of existence are dependent upon the voice of popular àpplause an applause which may be affected by the slightest misunderstanding or error. It is no wonder therefore that he is apt to take alarm at trifles, or to resent with too much quickness what seems to be a slight or an unfairness. With regard to the duke's ideal view of the profession, I did not find this even altogether without foundation in fact. I found, amidst all its trivialities and vexations, the player's training to give an insight into human life in all its forms, and to encourage the study and observation of the varieties of The German stage, as you are aware, is city existence more than perhaps any different from your own in England, in other training does. I studied the works that it does not present such marked conof the great dramatists and novelists with trasts. There is a great gulf, as I underattention, not only for my own parts, but stand, between your highest actors and that I might understand the parts of your pantomime players; but this is not others. I followed my father's advice the case in Germany. As far as I can throughout my life. I confined myself understand, we have nothing resembling

The theatre was a large one, and the company numerous and varied. I might occupy you for a long time with divers descriptions of character and with the relation of many curious and moving incidents, but I do not wish to make this a long story, and I will therefore confine myself to the chief events.