29. _Poetry._—The transition from population to poetry is not so abrupt as might at first appear; for although we may have population without poetry, we shall rarely have poetry without population. Looking at the _words_ of the German language, a stranger to that language would be apt to conclude that it must be as difficult to mould them into music or poetry, as to convert hob-nails into ivory teeth—the bristles of a boar into the ermine of a judge—or the rocks of Iona into columns of crystal. Yet nothing would be a more erroneous prejudice than this conclusion. The German, like the English language, is so rich in _synonimes_, as to afford every facility for the intonations of the musician, and variety of expression of the poet. The poverty of the French language in this respect, presents a remarkable contrast to the German and English. French poetry must have the jingle of rhyme to make it bearable by the ear. A French poem in blank verse, would be like a monkey striding along on huge stilts, exciting roars of laughter from the spectators. But this poverty in synonims, renders the French language more precise, and the individual words less equivocal than in any other. Hence its universal advantages in diplomatic communications, where the synonims of other tongues would give rise to perpetual ambiguity and quibble. A curious, not to say ludicrous, attempt has lately been made by an American author to transplant the poetry of Goethe and Schiller into English by _literal_ translation, the said author maintaining that poetry _will_ be poetry _still_; and that the more close and servile the traduction, the better will the spirit of the original poetry be preserved! The following rather favourable specimen of this attempt to clothe German ideas in English words, is quite a “curiosity of literature,” and worth preserving. “TO A NATURALIST. “‘_What Nature hides within_’— O thou Philistine!— ‘_No finite mind can know._’ My friend, of this thing We think thou needest not So oft remind us: We fancy: Spot for spot _Within_ we find us. ‘_Happy who her doth win_ _The outmost shell to show!_’ Now that these sixty years I’ve heard repeated, And, oft as heard, with silent curses greeted. I whisper o’er and o’er this truth eternal:— Freely doth nature all things tell; Nature hath neither shell Nor kernel; Whole every where, at each point thou canst learn all. Only examine thine own heart. Whether _thou_ shell or kernel art.”[98] Now if any Transatlantic Philistine can crack the shell of this German nut, and extract an eatable kernel, he must possess a MANDUCATOR pretty considerably stronger than that with which SAMPSON cracked the skulls of the ancient Philistines in the Holy Land—the jaw-bone of an ass. FOOTNOTES [1] The following is a rough attempt at a free translation of the above celebrated passage in Horace.