12 MAY 1860, Page 18

NEW NOVELS. * Goethe in Strasburg, Mr. Humphreys' dramatic nouvelette, has

reminded us of a story told of the late Baron Dupuytren, the Napoleon of French surgery, as it pleased him to be styled. How i much truth or falsehood there is n the story, we know not ; we can only state that it was current and uncontradicted at the Ecole de Medecine in the Baron's lifetime. Dupuytren, so runs the tale, was engaged to be married to the daughter of an eminent professional rival—Dubois, if we remember rightly. The wed- ding procession actually arrived at the doors of Notre Dame. There Dupuytren called a halt, made a short speech to the effect that for the glory of France he must have no other wife than his Art ; turned on his heel, and vanished for ever from his bride's sight within the portals of the adjacent Hotel Dieu, the field of his professional fame. Goethe, not being a Frenchman, was less melodramatic than Dupuytren in his perfidy, but he practised it as relentlessly and upon a much more extensive scale. It was his theory that, for the glory of German literature and his own, he ought to hold himself free from the restraints and encum- brances of marriage-; but that for the same all-sufficient reason he was privileged to win hearts and cast them away, for sake of the knowledge he might acquire in the process. We confess that, with all our admiration for his genius, we are not much moved to pity, by the just retribution that befell this cold-blooded coxcomb, when in midclle life he became linked for years to no more congenial a companion than a female sot. If Goethe had married Frederik& Brion, the pastor's daughter of Sesenheim, the story of whose abused affections is one of the most painful episodes in his career, he would probably have been no worse a poet, and would certainly have been more worthy of honour as a man. This, however, is by no means the opinion of his German idolaters, one of whom declares it to be anything but evident to him "that infidelity to his genius would not have been a greater crime in Goethe than infidelity to his mistress." Mr. Humphreys does not formally profess this monstrous doctrine; but it is only too plain that he tacitly accepts it, and that it underlies the whole structure of his nouvelette. This is the radical defect of the volume, a taint of original sin incapable of redemption by any degree of merit in ,,,the execution of the author's design. The book is also open to Van objection of minor importance which the author himself has 45/anticipated, and for which we will allow him to apologize in his Town words :— " In thus telling over again the love-tale of 'Goethe and Frederika,' npplying, as I have fancied them, the events, impulses, and sentiments which seem necessary to complete it, consistently with the characters of the actors, I have not thought it any presumption to assign imaginary guage to Goethe. It is not pretended that the language so imagined is, bor could be, even from a much abler pen than mine, such as Goethe would ; above used under the same circumstances. It is simply my own language ; , eand merely pretends to express what I, individually, imagine may have been the tone of his thought, under peculiar influences. I believe such an 'apology for making Goethe speak imaginary language was not necessary, -.,"um the face of the numerous precedents, both ancient and modern, in which tearious authors have made, not only poets, heroes, and philosophers, but 'Sven the gods themselves, hold lengthened discourses on a great variety of lesubjects. Nevertheless, I could not conclude my explanatory introduc- tien without putting in a disclaimer, to meet any possible accusation of

_ i presumption n assigning thoughts and language to Goethe."

15 We cannot say that we are quite satisfied with this apology., .ftainit valeat quantum. The book is written with a neatness and Tiffective finish which we regret to see wasted on one that should - not have been written at all.

The workings of an agile fancy, and a flow of picturesque lan- guage which is far too little restrained within the bounds of ar- tistic propriety, are the most striking features of the romance of Sir Rohan's Ghost. If it were fair to judge positively of the quality of an author's mind from the evidence afforded by a single work, we should say of the writer of this romance that fancy pre- dominates over imagination in his constitution to a degree which better fits him for success in other modes of art than that which he has now attempted. Whether it be from the defect of the one faculty, or from the aberrations into which he has been betrayed by the excess of the other, or from the poverty of his plot, our nerves remain unmoved by the ghastly horrors he labours to por- tray, his characters appeal in vain to our sympathies, for in truth we are not penetrated with a very lively faith of their flesh and blood reiaity, and we arrive in a tolerably disinterested frame of mind at the Jong foreseen denouement of the story. We have found our pleasure -on the way to this bourne not in the essential • Goebel:a Strasburg : a Dramatic Nouvelette; By n:-Frael- ujpphreys, Au- thor of Stories by an Archeologist." Published by Saunders and Otte flir Bohan's Ghost. A Romance. Published by Tritbaer and 0o. details of the stor,y, but in the accessories with which the acithot- discursive fancy has overlaid them—such for instance as the old butler's poetic raptures as he describes the qualities of his pre- eious wines, and the impromptu essay on the character of Queen Guinever spoken by the maiden heroine of the romance. The lady and Sir Rohan are standing on the summit of T3rntagel, and have summoned up before their mind's eye the shadows of King Arthur and his court. The lady names them as they pass: "And who," she says :— " 'And who this bright, willowy shape, all wrapped in gleaming lawns, an April face of smiles and tears, glancing askance at Lancelot already here ? '

"Or perhaps Guinever is in a sadder mood—chilled in the atmosphere of the King—pale, white, sorrowful,' interposed Sir Bohan. " Hush ! It wouldn't be Guinever. Don't you see personality? Trig- tram's lady may know sorrow ; Marc's, repentance ; but Lancelot's, only love. The others might question of right or wrong, but it was a part of Guinevees self to love Lancelot and not the King, and conscience never stings her. Very wicked, indeed, Sir Rohan ! But then what a pretty picture Guinever always is ! A lawless, soulless, wanton witching, lovely thing, without a moral perception, changing and beautiaas a shower with broken bits of rainbow in the clouds. And her queendom and all her gorgeous accessories shrine her fitly, and heighten her charms. 'Who blames Lancelot ? She must be queen, not because Arthur is ring and mates among his peers, but because she is Guinever. Everything she touches gains in splendour. Lancelot might be a clown—who knows ?—if Guinever did not love him. Does not a fresher green burgeon on the forest -shawes as they ride beneath ? Aren't her falcons, snarling at their bells and jesses, transformed Genii ? Does she toss a flower to a knight in tourney—it is a rain of unknown petals. I wonder how he conquered, for the sun must always have been in his face ! And it is the same Guinever who tries on the magic belt. See, it was a narrow golden band when one by one the faithless ladies tried to clasp it. Guinever takes it; the King is angry-eyed, perhaps —there is a flush on Lancelot's cheek—none on hers. Laughing, bright- eyed, dimpled, she reaches it, brings it round the slender waist, essays with taper fingers to shut the buckle. Of course, it is in vain of course, the gap yawns finger-wide ; but where is the narrow golden liand ? Beneath her touch, what miracles of chasing, wroughtwork, fluting, have blossomed ! It hangs unclasped and heavy with jewelry, dripping with chain, filigmne, and aiglet. What loops and fringes of sparkling costliness, strings threaded with precious ransom-holding beads, festoons and tassels of gems, brilliant with every tint, a sun inside them all, and defying the wondrous work of the King's hilt ! Nine years it took for that—for this an instant. And when she looks up with that radiant laugh, I suspect the King had rather see it than the shut buckle. As a piece of art, she is faultless ; her beauty is her virtue—a perfect, splendid creature, in her way. Let her go.'"