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rightly understood. Lerminier thinks a moral philosophy far superior to the Bible and more likely to effect his end; and to this he seeks to win the Romish renegade :

"The true La Mennais in my eyes is not a marshalled democrat, who writes useful things doubtless, but which others could write like him. He is that extraordinary and fatal man that ancient Catholicism has lost, and philosophical genius must pervade more and more. He is that ultramontane theologian half-converted, whom I described in 1832. He is the revolutionary, whom I defended in 1834 against his adversaries, and whom I called with reason the only priest of Europe, (for he was still a priest,) daring to rise against the rulers and even disowning the power of the Pope. Finally, he is the author of the Book of the People, who strips off before him Catholicism as an encumbering vestment, who notwithstanding still calls himself a Christian, and from whom I think it fair to demand what is his Christianity."

A home question: and we think it only right to state that the Christianity of the Abbé differs from any other. The Philosopher after this withering question goes on to develope that the philosophy which the Abbé ought to teach should be quite clear of the duties of existence. Different from the glorious son of Sophroniscus and our own Paley, this Philosopher counts morality a dead letter as well as religion :

"M. La Mennais shows himself in the Livre du Peuple' a democrat Christian; he has (quel horreur!) if I may use the expression, stitched together a page of the catechism with a shred from the Contrat Social' of Rousseau. Is this association just? Does not the last portion of the work (the moral duties) destroy the first?

We presume this is what La Mennais means, though he says the reverse. To exculpate M. L'Abbé from this weighty charge, we make an extract in order to prove to the philosopher's satisfaction that La Mennais is not so deeply attached to the duties of life as he supposes. Satan-for whose society the Abbé manifests considerable predilection, and who figures away in vision upon vision:-(We observe by the bye that a vision is most convenient for representing matters in that confusion and mist which distinguish the Abbé; and we have at least six rivalling even the Prophet of Mecca :)-Satan counsels the kings of the earth to arm men against their parents and brethren. "I will make them two idols, Honour and Fidelity, and a law which they shall call Passive Obedience." After honour and fidelity are thus disposed of, together with the obedience of the subject, and assigned as the Devil's deed, we think the philosopher must indeed be acerb who can blame the Abbé as too rigorously insisting on the moral duties.

Let no one think the Abbé a common personage. We point

him fearlessly as a singular phenomenon, and we shall not feel surprised at a few more phases being yet apparent over this lunatic luminary. The ultra-Abbé has an Ate still stirring him to further strife, a deluding demon of a philosopher, a Mephistopheles urging on our aged Faustus to more mysticism and deeper blasphemy. Madame Dudevant is indignant with the unfortunate Abbé because his Christianity is not sufficiently Pantheistic; the philosopher, that he has not gone deeper into his mysteries. The juste milieu the poor Abbé cannot attain. Again, the lady and the philosopher differ in their definition of the word People. The philosopher excludes the labouring classes from the implication, including the Bourgeoisie within the general term. The lady is for throwing these last entirely out of the question, and the philosopher then contends that the title of the Abbé's book should be altered to the "Livre du Pauvre ou du Proletaire." We are impartial, and must say that the lady, if left to herself, would succeed in doing as much mischief as the other two. She speaks mighty slightingly of the value of philosophy.

"You tell us that philosophy is on good terms with herself, and does not much interest herself in mankind, who are not sufficiently philosophical to feel as she does. We wish to know what this modern philosophy is, of which we here suspected the existence, and in the participation of whose benefits we should feel a degree of jealousy."

The philosopher blames the Abbé for inculcating a foi personelle without any definitions, and reasonably. The Abbé demands more of his disciples than Rome or Protestantism attempts to exact. They have each their formulary, but the Abbé does not excel in definitions. Awful bodements to the Abbé-neophyte may also be gathered from his already quoted address. "Since the Abbé has withdrawn himself from Catholicism, he fatally pertains to philosophy, but this fatality, glorious for him, must gain ampler development."-i. e. revolution!

We must now sum up our estimate of M. La Mennais. With much apparent earnestness but no sincerity; much of display but little sound learning; dogmatory without knowledge, declamatory without zeal, and copious and fluent without real eloquence or vital warmth: assuming, insidious, superficial, ill-judging, inconsiderate, interested, and vain: a mere dreamer in action, and opposed to society simply because unpurchased by it :-the Abbé is neither worth buying over, nor converting, nor answering—for he misleads, misapprehends, misapplies everything. Common sense would extinguish, and only idiots meddle with, this lighted firebrand, courting a purchaser. His admirers, in or out of St. Luke's, may well deem him invaluable; for, in truth,--What is he worth?

ART. VIII.—1. Waldemar den Store og hans Maend. Et episk Digt. (Waldemar the Great and his Men. An Epic Poem.) By B. S. Ingemann. 8vo. Kjöbenhavn. 1824.

2. Valdemar Seier. En Historisk Roman. (Waldemar the Victorious. An Historical Novel.) By B. S. Ingemann. 3 vols. 8vo. Kjöbenhavn. 1826.

3. Masaniello. Et Sörgespil. (A Tragedy.) By B. S. Ingemann. 8vo. Kjöbenhavn.

4. Procne. En Samling af Digte. (Progne. A Collection of Poems.) By B. S. Ingemann. 8vo. Kjöbenhavn.

Or the living poets of Denmark, perhaps of Scandinavia, Oehlenschläger enjoys the highest and widest spread European reputation; and for this he is, we apprehend, very much indebted to his mastery of the German language. Other Danish, as also many Swedish poets, are sufficiently admired to have been translated into that kindred and better known tongue; but they have been thus rendered more generally accessible by inferior writers, since it is seldom that genius will condescend to translation: consequently their works are, if not absolutely disfigured, yet disadvantageously presented to foreigners; whilst Oehlenschläger, being his own translator, appears to nearly equal advantage in both languages.

Next to Oehlenschläger ranks Ingemann; like him a poet, a dramatist, and an historical novelist; nor are we disposed to admit any great difference between their respective stations on Parnassus. Much as Oehlenschläger is extolled by continental readers and critics, his prose is tedious, and his tragedies are dramatic poems, not plays; but we must nevertheless confess that, in every thing we have seen of his, there is a delightful simplicity and a truth to nature, which always wins irresistibly, without however blinding us to the faults of his effusions as works of art.

But it is not of Oehlenschläger that we are here to speak; our chief object in naming him being at once to remind our readers that Denmark has, and ever has had, poets, and to prepare them for the description of poet now to be introduced. We do not consider Ingemann as an imitator of Oehlenschläger: he differs from him in many respects, and in some advantageously; he is more spirited and less wearisome: but nevertheless a sort of affinity, rather perhaps than similarity, exists between them. Whether this be ascribed to their common national idiosyncrasy, or to the effect produced upon both by the passion for Scandinavian antiquities, legends, poems, &c., now prevalent in Denmark, we

will not at this moment take upon us to decide; but proceed to exhibit the present character of Danish literature, as it appears in those works of Ingemann which we have specified at the head of this article.

Of these four, the best as also the most considerable are the first and second; namely, the epic poem, for which the modest epithet of narrative would be more appropriate, and the historic novel. Both are sketches from the history of Denmark in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; and as we began each respectively, we fancied that we had a poem and an historic novel of the genuine Scott school. We quickly discovered the error; though it is by no means unlikely that the vivid pictures of past times, original from the pen of Sir Walter, may have inspired these sketches. Ingemann's works are different in conception and structure; his Waldemars, the Great and the Victorious, the father and the son, have much more of history, and much less of adventitious story and interest than the tales, in prose or rhyme, of our own mighty master. Neither poem nor novel pretends to hurry us on with a breathless sympathy in the feelings and fate of its personages; but they set before us striking passages in the history of the two monarchs, and superadd a few extraordinary incidents, likely enough to have happened in those times: unfolding the characters and single scenes, if not with all the force to which we have been habituated, yet graphically and with an air of simple truth.

We commence with the poem inasmuch as, in Waldemar the Great and his Men, not only is the earlier period of time celebrated but some of its principal personages either re-appear or are referred to in the historic novel: and we preface our critique with a notice of the state of Denmark about the middle of the twelfth century. That kingdom was then divided between two sovereigns, King Swend of Zealand, and King Knud Magnusson (Anglice, Canute the son of Magnus) of Jutland. These potentates were at war with each other, and at the same time constantly engaged, Swend particularly, in defending the coasts against the piratical hostilities of the heathen Vends. Prince Magnus, the father of King Knud, had murdered Duke Knud Lavard of the Skioldung race, from whence the kings of Denmark were usually, not to say hereditarily, elected; and the young Duke Waldemar, posthumous son of the murdered Knud, ranked with all his personal friends and adherents amongst the supporters of King Swend, although the sovereign of Zealand was in every respect the worse of the rivals. The poem opens with the arrival in Denmark of Waldemar's friend Axel Hwide, recalled from his studies in more civilized lands by the tidings of domestic and foreign war.

We

give the description of his progress, adhering in our translation as closely as needful to the metre of the original.

""Tis Epiphany night, and echoes a sound

In Haraldsted Wood from the hard frozen ground.
Loud snort three steeds in the wintry blast-
While under their hoof-dint the snow crackles fast.
On his neighing charger, with shield and sword,
Is mounted a valiant and lofty lord;

A clerk and a squire his steps attend,

And their course towards Roskild the travellers bend:
But distant is Denmark's morning!

"Silent the leader of the band

Rides, sorrowing, thro' his native land.
Skjalm Hwide's grandson, bold and true,
No more his studies shall pursue
In foreign university.

Of wit and lore the guerdon high
No longer can he proudly gain;
Needs must he home, the loyal Dane,
For distant is Denmark's morning!

"A learned man Sir Axel was thought;

But he dropped his book and his sword he caught
When tidings arrived from Denmark's strand
That the wolves of discord devoured the land.
Two monarchs are battling there for the realm,
And Danish victories Danes o'erwhelm.
On Slangerup lea, and on Thorstrup hill
Two summers the ravens have eaten their fill;
And on Viborg plain, over belt, over bay,
Loud screaming on Danish dead they prey:

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King Knud to his aid summons Saxon men;
In Roskild King Swend is arming again;

And proudly amidst his Zealand hosts

Of Asbioru Snare and Duke Waldemar boasts;

Thither his banner bears Axel Hwide,

His two-handed sword belted fast at his side;

On his breast the cuirass of steel shines bright,

And his grey Danish steed bears him glad for the fight.

His ermined cloak falls wide and low,

His battle-axe hangs at his saddle bow,

The twin-brother of Axel Hwide.

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