is intelligible, being a Roman; but that Odoardo should slay his daughter, and that, too, at her own bidding, to save her from the peril of dishonour, seems neither credible nor within the range of our sympathy. No Christian daughter could bid her father do so. She might kill herself; she would never bid her father stain his hands with her blood. In one word, the dénouement of Emilia Galotti does not, to us, seem justified by modern feelings. In making these objections, we are far from meaning to imply that Emilia Galotti is an indifferent play; it is only not a great one. Judging it according to the tragedies which figure on the German stage, it may, however, be called great; so admirably are the characters presented. The weak, vacillating prince, eager to profit by the villanies of Marinelli, but not daring to face the consequences-prone to crime, but always throwing the blame of it on others-utterly unprincipled-destitute even of the energy to be consistently base-signing a death-warrant with the same levity as a billet-doux-may be pronounced so far one of the best creations of the drama. Almost as good, in its way, is the handling of that curious figure the Countess Orsina, with her mixture of frivolity and intensity, of voluptuousness and fiery passion. She is the prototype of Schiller's Julia, Princess Von Eboli, and Lady Milford; but Schiller has fallen many degrees short of his model. Marinelli, the supple courtier and smooth-faced villain, is drawn with effect. Odoardo is a more ambitious, but less successful sketch. Frederick Schlegel, in a very offensive critique in the Charakteristiken, abuses other critics for not having viewed Lessing ' in his totality;' and, if we remember rightly, only furnishes a few fragmentary remarks himself. He there examines Emilia Galotti, and insists on ranking it as the finest production of its author. The result of his examination may be thus summed up: Lessing confessed that he was not a poet; that he owed all to criticism; but, as his criticism was narrow and imperfect, (i. e. was not founded on romantic principles,')_ so were his plays necessarily indifferent. The conceit of this Essay is most offensive. It is an indirect eulogy on the New School,' as it was called ;-the school, namely, which, disdaining Lessing's clear and positive knowledge of art as cold and ungenial, launched into those extravagances which it christened Romanticism. Lessing had no tendencies that way; he was therefore pronounced an indifferent critic by the Romanticists. It is very true, he did not entertain any of their celebrated principles;' he loved the light, and shunned the twilight. The bats pronounced the eagle blind! He, the clearest of thinkers, whose constant aim was to define the boundaries of each art, who 6 demanded precision as a primary condition of all literature, could never have fallen into the rash generalizations and misty ambiguities of the romantic school. In general, it is very unfair to judge of a man's criticism by his own productions; but it is surely fair to judge of the comparative value of two opposite systems of criticism, when shown in two similar attempts; and we may therefore compare the Emilia Galotti of Lessing with the Alarcos of Schlegel. Lessing's play has defects, but it has great and positive merits: hence it keeps possession of the stage. Schlegel's play is utterly without character-ambitious and vague -a forcible feeble'-which has long since ceased to excite any curiosity whatever. Nathan der Weise is a work which still excites the deepest admiration in Germany; in fact, if you mention Lessing to a German, the chances are, that he will at once refer to Nathan for a proof of his genius, as he would to the Faust of Göthe for a proof of his. Nathan has not been a favourite elsewhere; and this difference in judgment would show that the work had some charm peculiarly national. In the dearth of great poems, Nathan is doubtless ranked high; for, as the Spaniards say, en regno del ciegos el tuerto es Rey (in the land of the blind the one-eyed is King.) Perhaps also the nature of the subject, the fine and weighty yaua scattered through it, the grand and beautiful spirit of tolerance which pervades it, may cause the Germans to forgive its want of poetry. It is undoubtedly a charming work; but not a fine poem. Its conception is philosophical, its execution epigrammatic and polemical. A. W. Schlegel, who always speaks of Lessing with quiet malice, says of Nathan that it is curious, as being the only drama not written for the stage; and therefore, being uninfluenced by his critical principles, is more conformable to the genuine rules of Art." What those genuine rules are, we should be happy to learn: he does not explain; and how Lessing could have written any drama without being influenced by his critical principles, we are at a loss to conceive. We notice the passage as a specimen of what Boileau calls médire avec art, C'est avec respect enfoncer le poignard. Lessing had avowed himself no poet, and made his critical principles the stronghold of his fame. Whereupon one of the Schlegels asserts that his plays have no poetry; another asserts that he only wrote well, when writing uninfluenced by his critical principles. One told him that he was lame; the other told him, that nevertheless he walked better without crutches. Nathan der Weise is not a great poem; it is nevertheless a very remarkable work, imbued with deep and generous feeling, and full of profound thought. It is a work that exercises a strong influence on the reader; a work which, though polemical, is nevertheless so tolerant-because indeed it only contends for tolerance, and contends generously-that all classes, however diversified their opinions, must unite in admiration of it. The leading design is to inculcate tolerance of the opinions of others: not by destroying the groundwork of all belief-(which is too often the method of those who preach tolerance)-but by showing that all creeds, if sincere, and accompanied by benevolence, are to be honoured; because although each cannot be the true creed, yet each will, in that way, fulfil the object of all religion. This is the moral of that beautiful story of the three rings, which Lessing has taken from Boccaccio: this moral is further developed by the whole piece. The dénouement-where Recha and the Templar are discovered to be brother and sister, Saladin their uncle, and Nathan their spiritual father, the three families united into one family-is a type of the three religions, Christianity, Judaism, and Mahometanism, harmoniously united ;-of unity of purpose, not excluding diversity of character. This tolerance doubtless springs from a profound scepticism; but a scepticism which has nothing sneering or disparaging in it; -scepticism as to the possibility of man's ever attaining absolute truth; not scepticism as to the virtue of the endeavour. Truth can only be sought, not found; indeed, in a memorable passage, Lessing declares that if the choice were offered him, he should prefer the search after truth to the attainment of truth; *—thus, according to him, the aims of action are but the fitting stimulants to action, and not otherwise very desirable. In the search of truth he spent his life. In Nathan he teaches us to do the same. Believe sincerely and act uprightly, then no creed will be foolishness. Such was his belief. Connected with this idea, there is another equally needful to be adverted to we mean the independence of morality on religion. In many passages has Lessing enforced this; in none more openly than in the following: 'Go; but remember How easier far devout enthusiasm is * Plato, in his dialogue of the Rivals—if it be his—seems to have entertained a similar idea. See p. 134. Nathan the Wise; translated by W. Taylor. The character of Nathan himself, is by critics considered at masterpiece. He certainly rivets attention, and retains our sympathies. He is a fine philosophical figure, whose wisdom and tolerance endow him with a dignity which strongly impresses the reader. But it seems to us that there is a fundamental error in the conception. Nathan is meant for a Jew, he is always called a Jew, but he is only a Jew in name. His sentiments and his religion are not those of a Jew; it was therefore worse than superfluous to give him the name. For let us distinctly understand Lessing's object. Toleration was to be taught. Christian intolerance was to be shamed by contrast with Judaic tolerance. The force of the contrast was artistically conceived, but it was in a great degree obliterated by the conception of Nathan's character; because, by that conception, he was exalted from out the sphere of Judaism, into that of Philosophy. If Nathan has none of the bigotry of his race, he cannot be a perfect type of that race. If he can regard Christianity with forbearance, he is no longer a Jew; and if he is no longer a Jew, the lesson meant to be conveyed is rendered inept. All know that Philosophy can be tolerant. Lessing is constantly applauded for having chosen a representative of the most exclusive and fiercely bigoted of all races, as the exemplar of tolerance; but this is surely either inconsistent or erroneous. Nathan is an exemplar of tolerance; but assuredly his tolerance is not that of a Jew He would be denounced on all sides by his race; he would be hated by them as a heretic. The very qualities which make him fit to teach intolerant Christians a lesson, are those which separate him from the Jews. That which is great in Nathan, is not Jewish; it has grown up in his large soul in spite of Judaism. We are quite aware that Lessing is said to have copied his Nathan from Spinoza and Moses Mendelssohn; but we are also aware that, in respect of mental characteristics, no two men could with less propriety be styled Jews. Lessing's contrast, therefore, is not a new one; it is the old antagonism of philosophy and bigotry. It is curious to turn from the calm and far-reaching tolerance of Nathan der Weise, to the impetuous onset upon existing tastes in the Hamburgische Dramaturgie-the work which, of all critical works ever published, perhaps achieved the most instantaneous victory. It is difficult to appreciate the 'sensation' this work caused, now that its fundamental ideas have been long popularised in all shapes. But on a slight examination of the state of public opinion at the time that Lessing wrote, the importance of his views will only appear equalled by their audacity. The German stage willingly, serlively, submitted to the yoke of France. Voltaire was not only the favourite of Frederick, he was the Dictator of literature. His tragedies were thought perfect. Zaïre was dictated by love itself.' Semiramis was the consummation of tragic taste-the highest flight of dramatic imagination. Voltaire's reign was undisputed. But at length a critic, with as much wit as audacity, and more sound judgment than wit or courage, raised his potent voice. With an eye to see, and courage to proclaim what he saw, Lessing undertook to examine the chefs-d'œuvre of the French stage. Great was the astonishment of the prince of wits,' the 'great master ' of ridicule,' to find himself the object of ridicule as sharp and cutting as his own. Great was the astonishment of the public. It is pleasant to introduce Herr Voltaire to the reader,' said his critic: there is always something to be learned from him, if not from what he says, then from what he should have 'said. I know of no writer from whom one could better ascer'tain whether one has reached the first stage of wisdom-falsa intelligere—as from Voltaire; but also of no writer from whom ' one could gain so little assistance in attaining the second stage, vera cognoscere.' In this strain did he banter the great Poet; but the bantering was the smallest part of his polemics. Perhaps no man, except the late admirable and excellent Sydney Smith, ever bantered so much, who did not confine himself merely to banter. With him it was nothing but the pleasantry of argument; never did it stand in place of argument. The grand tragedy of Semiramis did not escape his searching criticism; he stripped it of its tinsel of mock grandeur, and exposed it to the derision of all Germany. Voltaire had imitated Shakspeare in this play; at least he said so. Lessing took him at his word,— contrasted Shakspeare's ghost with that of Voltaire; demonstrated the perfect artistic propriety of the one, and the absurdity of the other; and thus not only shattered the credit of Voltaire, but turned the eyes of his countrymen towards Shakspeare-a boon they are thankful for. In the same spirit he contrasted Othello with Zaïre; and the Merope of Maffei with the Merope of Voltaire. The victory was triumphant. Lessing hit hard blows, and they fell where his antagonist was weakest. How different from the attack of Voltaire upon Shakspeare! Lessing's criticism was not only witty, but destructive. Voltaire's might indeed excite a laugh, but would not stand an examination. Lessing did not confine himself to Voltaire; Corneille was also his object. Rodogune, which was then held to be the masterpiece of its author, was mercilessly handled. By rigid logic, and cutting ridicule, did Lessing show his countrymen that Rodogune was not only many degrees from a masterpiece, but was a most pernicious model. From that day the reign of French taste ended. |