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tion of scholars differ as much in the point of view from which they regard the works of antiquity, as poet and a geologist may in the disposition with which they look forth upon the face of nature. To the one its efflorescence is everything; the odour of a flower in spring the vivid greenness and luxuriance of a meadow in summer-the hues of the copse in autumn each perhaps awaken some sweet and beautiful association, or stir (up in his mind some exquisite poetic train of thought. Yet, he knows nothing necessarily of botany, agriculture or woodcraft. He has only a keen sympathetic appreciation of the beauty around him. Its very spirit enters into him, and when the time of utterance arrives, his whole song is redolent of it. But the other looks deeper than this. A particular vegetation on the surface will suggest to him a particular "formation" underneath. Hills and valleys and rivers carry his mind far away into antediluvian ages, or deep down into the bowels of the mysterious earth. His thoughts are of strata, varied perhaps by occasional reflections on the Mammoth and Leviathan. And so too the men of eighty years ago had, it is to be feared, but an imperfect acquaintance

with the "Indo-Germanic Group," and would have made but a poor figure by the side of such scholars as Müller and Donaldson and Bunsen. But they knew Homer and Euripides, Horace and Virgil to the backbone; had a thorough comprehension of their beauties; were thoroughly imbued with, and if we may so speak, drenched with the juice of the classics. They thus wrote the language with a geniality and a fluency wholly unattainable by us, who are too much occupied in probing among its roots to distil the honey from its flowers. Which pursuit may be the most worthy of admiration, the reader will observe it is not the business of this essay to determine. All we wish to see is a due recognition of the purely literary value of the classical languages, as opposed to the exclusive appreciation of their philological value. Philology may promote the interests of science, but the lighter scholarship of our forefathers cultivated and nourished innumerable intellects of a less severe and special character, which are now left to run riot in all the extravagancies of our contemporary literature-in which too often convulsions pass for healthy energy, egotism for earnestness, and darkness for depth.

FRENCH VERSIONS OF SHAKESPEARE.

A WRITER, whose name it is sufficient to mention in order to dispense with preliminary considerations as to her title for having undertaken such a task, George Sand, in fact, has just made an attempt to "arrange" Shakespeare's As You Like It for the Theatre Français. George Sand has herself produced many original plays, and it is not by way of disparaging this remarkable genius we venture to repeat the judgment passed by her own countrymen upon her dramatic performances, that they have, with hardly an exception, proved failures. Undeterred by want of success, she has, nevertheless, persisted, upon the sustaining conviction that it is the public who is in fault. With the view of proving how much popular taste has been perverted by false system which it is her mission to

reform, the lady of the bloomer nom de plume, has set a trap for her critics, by offering for their appreciation one of the sweetest productions of the greatest of names; as much as to say, "if you do not relish this, no wonder you should not like me." Now, the idea of Sand and Shakespeare having to sin or swim together, was no doubt consoling to wounded pride; and had George Sand simply and seriously, and in a spirit of devout reverence, applied herself to translate, instead of to arrange that work of unsurpassable beauty, we firmly believe that she would not have had to add one more, and that the most striking, to her long nomenclature of abortive experiments. Why she turned to Shakespeare in her distress, and why, having resolved to shelter her own name

under the awful majesty of the mighty Bard, she yet dared to trim, and alter, and dress him up in a fantastical garb of shreds and patches, like a milliner who invents a new fashion out of old costumes paired down to modern conveniences, why she should, like a vender of adulterated wine, take so much, and no more, of the pure spirit as should give deceptive flavour to her foreign drugs why she sanded Shakespeare to give him due weight, is what we are not left to conjecture; for we must do the "arranger" the justice to say that she has acknowledged her own misgivings, while she has attempted to shift the blame of her daring freedoms upon her audience, who would not have ladies in the forest of Arden in any other attire than crinoline and flounces.

In a letter to Monsieur Regnier, of the Theatre Français, intended to serve as a preface to her "Comme il vous_plaira,"* George Sand lays her finger on what she considers, not without truth, the danger which besets dramatic art by the growing substitution of mere incidents for poetry, wit, and sentiment. People go more now-a-days to see rather than to listen to be surprised rather than subdued-startled rather than gently pleased, or agreeably exhilirated. "It is certain," says our author, "that the slightest vaudeville is, as far as plot is concerned, more skilfully arranged than the most admirable drama of the masters of old. But," she adds, "the able play-wrights of the present day run the risk of falling into excess, and to habituate the public to an adroit machinery of crowded situations, without allowing breathing time for reflection-without admitting those sacrifices of its impatience, which it would be sometimes desirable to exact, for sake of forming a judgment of the characters and of becoming embued with an understanding of their action in the piece, so as, in a word, to seize the true meaning of the performance. Before this public, sated, inattentive, and actually spoiled by the superfluity of incidents with which it is overwhelmed, the condescension of

dramatic writers threatens to degenerate into culpable servility." Now, what George Sand has undertaken to do is to correct not only those modern play-wrights who have spoiled the public for her own productions, which their violent incidents have made to look monotonous, but to correct Shakespeare as well, who, "yielding to the fiery impulses, or the delicious caprices of his inspirations, trampled under foot, along with the rules of composition, certain legitimate needs of the mind, such as order, sobriety, harmony, and logic!" In order to show how George Sand has infused into As You Like It the order, sobriety, harmony, and logic of Comme il vous plaira, we shall proceed to detail the story-mind, good reader, not that delicious story which thou hast already treasured up in thy heart, as a native song of thy childhood, interwoven through all thy dearest associations, and to which, when thou art rendered impatient and irritable by modern dogmatism, paradox, distorted style, barba

rous taste, and immoderate pretension, thou turnest for attunement of thy disarranged feelings-oh no, not that story, but one as offensively differing in its sober perversion, as could the most whimsically absurd parody got up for the diversion of a minor theatre. We sat down with pencil in hand, prepared to mark what we expected to find-namely, occasional deviation from the original, with curtailments and even transmutations sparingly attempted; but we had not advanced many pages before we perceived the utter uselessness of attempting any comparison of any kind whatever. It is not an arrangement, nor even is it that pleasant joke which the author herself lets fly for sake of depriving her ready-witted countryman of a too obvious play on a word at her expense. It is not a derangement. What it is we shall not say until we have put the reader in a position to judge for himself. Here is the story, or, in more technical language, the plot.

Jacques, the melancholy Jacques, arrives with a letter from the banished Duke for his daughter Roselind, at

Comme il vous plaira. Comedie en trois actes et en prose, tirée de Shakspeare et ar ragéne par George Sand. Paris. 1856.

the very moment Orlando is in angry contestation with his brother Oliver. As soon as the latter leaves, and Orlando sits down to weep, Jacques advances and questions old Adam as to the meaning of certain preparations which attract his attention, and is told that the Duke with the lords and ladies of the court, is about to witness games of wrestling between the famous Charles and whoever shall dare to measure strength against so formidable an antagonist; whereupon Jacques, affecting to mistake the two brothers for a pair of boxers, and having his error corrected by the annoyed Orlando-whom we had better call Roland, according to the French version-replies to the latter's assurance of their being gentlemen and brothers, in this wise: "You, nobles! you, brothers! Tell that to others, my friend. You are nobles as are the bulls browsing in the field, and brothers as are the wolves who bite at one another, without regard to rela tionship." As these civilities are not taken in good part, this sententious speaker utters a good deal of sound morality, which is happily shortened by the appearance of Rosalind and Celia, followed by Pierre Touchard (Touchstone), through whose conversation is learned the affection of the two ladies for one another. Jacques advancing delivers the letter to Rosalind, and having satisfied her anxious enquiries, piques and amuses the ladies with maxims a la Rochefoucauld, and they in turn call to mind that the gentleman was once known at court for his brilliant manners and luxurious habits. Jacques promises to wait for Rosalind's letter of reply to that of her father; while she is writ ing, Celia is falling in love with one whose "eye is still bright and beautiful, but whose mouth is the tomb of a buried smile." Jacques overhears the recommendation given by Oliver to Charles not to spare his brother, makes some useless efforts to prevent that combat which is to end in the triumph of Roland and in his recovering a gold chain from the hands of Rosalind, before, accompanied by Adam, he quits a place where his life is no longer in safety. Jacques, although he has received Kosalind's letter, is still hanging about the footsteps of the ladies, with one of whom he is already smitten, when Touchard rushes in to tell how the

VOL. XLVIII.-NO. CCLXXXIV.

Duke had recognized Jacques, who had better begone, and how he had seen Rosalind give him the letter, and how he had issued a decree of banish ment against her; on which the ladies resolve to fly, under Jacques' protec tion and accompanied by Touchard, to the forest of Arden.

The second act discovers the exiled Duke and his friends, who are pre paring for a collation in a spot where Jacques, when he returns with the letter, will know where to find the anxious father. The Duke's suspense is soon relieved by Jacques, who pre sents a young gentleman whose feel ings will not permit of his long guarding his incognito, and with a cry of Ah! mon pere! c'est moi, Rosalind is in her father's arms, whom she assures that she had put on male attire from fear of the effect of too sudden a surprise, and so she wished to break her arrival by little and little. As the appearance of Rosalind in male attire delights the Duke, by re minding him of a son he had lost, nothing remains but to begin the feast, which is interrupted by the ar rival of Roland with poor old Adam hungry and exhausted. A mutual recognition takes place between Roland and Rosalind, who soon drop together out of view, in order to allow the true hero and heroine of the piece, the lovers Jacques and Celia, to absorb the attention of the au dience. Here Madame Sand takes leave of Shakespeare altogether. The scene is her own, and so characteris tically her own, as to make us fancy we are reading a chapter of one of her own novels-her "Jacques" for instance, in which a young man fallen into premature old age from wither ing experience of the world, is gently softened and allured back to feelings more in accordance with his time of life, by the subtle artifices of love.. We are not done yet with the famous wrestler Charles, who, arrived with a warrant from her father, comes at the head of a troop of soldiers to seize her and put her into a convent. Jacques draws his sword against Charles, when Roland rushes between them, and the wrestler, recognising. the man who alone of all the world had the honour to conquer him, addresses to him a heroic speech and takes his leave, and Jacques undertakes to escort Celia home.

Touchard and Audrey enliven tho

opening of the third act, which is soon darkened by the entry of Jacques, who by this time has become jealous of Roland. The two gentlemen are entangled in the usual mesh of dramatic equivoque, to the particular annoyance of Jacques, whose ill humour is not improved by the entry of Celia in a merry mood at finding Sir Roland with the "governor of her castle," and she utters many pleasant jests about the luxuries of her ducal palace, as she calls her hermitage amongst the rocks and woods. Jacques, who is in no jesting humour, allows his jealousy to get the better of his breeding, and he draws his sword on Roland; but, yielding to the remonstrances of Celia, lays it at her feet; and Rosalind, entering on the instant, Roland receives in like manner her lover's sword. We are now of course hurried to the close. Touchard arrives with news of the abdication of the usurping Duke, and the restoration of Rosalind's father to his rights. The curtain does not yet drop. Oliver, insatiable in his thirst of vengeance, enters at the head of his myrmidons, dragging old Adam, whose arms they have bound. The Duke orders the prisoner to be released, but Oliver charges him with robbery, and his brother Roland with having attempted his life. Jacques, however, who had witnessed the quarrel between the brothers, offers his testimony in favour of Roland; and the Duke, in the plentitude of his restored power, orders Oliver to be thrown from the top of a rock; but at the entreaties of Roland spares his life; and the curtain drops as Jacques is on his knees to Celia, uttering the most fervid declaration of love.

In making the forest of Arden a scene of violent incidents, George Sand has completely missed the spirit which pervades the play of "As you like it." That forest, in which the banished Duke discovers the uses of adversity; where moralises the melancholy Jacques; which resounds with the love songs of Orlando, and in which Rosalind and Celia pour forth their exuberant notes of mirth and affection; where Touchstone plays the merry magpie, and shepherdesses and swains warble the pastoral poetry of fabled ages of purity, that Arden was sacred ground. No wicked passions could enter there. Anger

and vengeance fell away from whoever entered the sweet and solemn sanctuary of that wood. No one but a poet most sensitively alive to the influences of the woods and fields could have so conceived of the humanising and all harmonising spirit of nature, as enjoyed in solitude. Shakespeare did not, in cold imitation of the ancients, people the scene with Dryads and Hamadryads--he drew a charmed circle, within which all was gentle contentment, tender melancholy, soft love, and innocent gaiety. To George Sand the idea that Oliver should be wedded to Celia is shocking and intolerable. But Oliver in Arden is no longer the barbarous brother. The spirit of the place falls on him, and he is full of contrition. He is thrown not from the Tarpeian rock, but into his brother's forgiving arms. Penitence is made to absolve crime, and the purification is completed by the giving the hand of Oliver to the sister by adoption of Orlando's bride. Take again the example of the usurping Duke, who:

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Here, where George Sand sees a hurried and inartificial termination of a drama without any plan, the student of Shakespeare discovers the complete elucidation of a beautiful idea. The voice of a holy man uttered from the wild wood was enough to work a more remarkable conversion than that of the other brother, saved from the lion by the exalted generosity of the injured Orlando.

By what misconception could Charles the wrestler be introduced at the head of a band of armed police, to seize the Duke's daughter, "and bring her dead or alive," while the melancholy Jacques is made to draw his sword again and again, as anger or jealousy happen to predominate, is a question which directed to a fine genius, we must utter with sorrow and amaze

ment. A mistake, however lamentable, does not fall within the category of wilful profanation. If George Sand failed to perceive that Shakespeare meant to invest the scene of his drama with a spirit and purpose above a mere arbitrary selection of place, so indifferently chosen that any other place might have done as well, the worst we might say is, that her understanding has been at fault; but when we come to deal with her treatment of characters about whom there could be no mistake, we have serious charges indeed to prefer, and which we may do the more readily and boldly, as she has, in the published preface to which we have already referred, proved that she has not sinned in ignorance, but that she has wilfully and deliberately laid her hand upon the ark.

It is (writes George Sand) upon the most pleasing of Shakespeare's romantic dramas that I have dared to lay my hand. There appeared in it few expressions of a nature to require being suppressed, nor were the situations overstrained; but the irregularity of the design, or rather say, the almost total absence of plan, fully authorised some sort of arrangement. After a first act full of movement, after the exposition of an artlessly interesting subject, in which characters marked by life, grace, wickedness, or depth, are traced with the hand of a master, the story takes the form of an idyl, becomes altogether fantastic, and dissolves into gentle reveries, whimsical melodies, into almost fairy-like adventures; in conversations, sometimes sentimental, sometimes burlesque or jestingthen into love-teasings, or lyrical contests, until the time comes for Rosalind to embrace her father, and for Roland to recognise Rosalind under her disguise, and for Oliver to fall asleep under a palm tree in this fantastical forest, in which a lion--yes, a real lion straying in the Arden-is going to devour him, until at length it pleases the god Hymen in person to appear from the trunk of a tree, to marry them all, and some of them for the worse: the gentle Audrey with the smutty (grivois) Touchstone, and the faithfully devoted Celia with the detestable Oliver.

It has seemed good to Shakespeare to proceed after this fashion, and I freely confess that for serious minds, as well as for thorough enthusiasts, who are perhaps the only just judges of so mighty a genius, the arrangement I have taken the liberty to make is nothing but a useless d'erangem nt. I do not allow myself any illusion as to the little value of any plastering up of this kind, and I should have been much better pleased not to have been obliged to have need of it. But

not being able to render by a literal translation, for none such in our modern tongue gives the true color of the master, the beauties of this entrancing and trailing vision, I have, I trust, succeeded at least in rendering the little poem which traverses it accessible to the reason that French reason of which we are so vain, and which deprives us of so many original things not less precious. However that may be, I have been able to save the finest parts of the work from complete oblivion, and flittingly to seize the masterly figure of Jacques, so soberly sketched; this Alceste of the renaissance, who after mur. muring some doleful words in the ear of Shakspeare, appeared once more to reveal all his sufferings to the ear of Moliere. I had tenderly loved this Jacques, less real and more poetical than our own misanthrope. I have taken the great liberty of bringing him back to love, fancying to myself that I saw in him the same person who left Célimène, to live in the solitude of the forest, there to find a Celia worthy of curing his wound. This is my romance by the side of that of Shakspeare, and which is not more improbable than the sudden conversion of the traitor Oliver. Let those censure it who may. I allow them free scope. If in other respects I have been able to give an idea of this sweet pastoral, mixed up of philosophy, gaiety, poetry, heroism and love, I shall have attained my object, which was to prove that which I laid down at the beginning of this letter, viz. that to aim exclusively at surprising and fascinating the public by great cleverness of plot, does not fulfil the requirements of the theatre; and that independently of all these means acquired by modern art, authors may charm the heart and the imagination by simple and tranquil beauty, if the words heart and imagination be not a dead letter in these our times.

According to this curious passage, George Sand, in order to fit Shakespeare for the strictly logical character of the French mind, undertook to compound his genius with that of Moliere and her own. The process was easy and obvious. The melancholy Jacques of Shakespeare is found to be the ancestor of Moliere's Alceste, neither of whom would seem to have done justice to a hero, who, in Shakespeare's hands, is but a sober sketch-one who merely utters some sad words before revealing his depth of suffering to Moliere. But where does George Sand find that Jacques is a sufferer? He is, on the contrary, a man of enjoyment after his own fashion. He loves the pleasures of memory. He has passed through the world, and out of its

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