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Till now, I ever saw the mother of God;
In the Madonna from the hand of Raphael,
I only could conceive of her as that,
Here is she very different, yet no less
Is she Maria !—more, the loving woman,
The tender mother, than the Queen of Heaven.
By Raphael has the earthly been uplifted
With solemn gladness to the might of Heaven ;
You have beguiled with childlike love, the heavenly

Into a union with earthly life.
ANTONIO, (regarding him for a moment with joyful surprise, and then

speaking with dejection and doubt.)
Do you perceive no fault, then, in this picture ?
JUL. What fault? Where is such affluence of beauty

Is nothing wanting. *
ANT. You do not know how happy you would make me

If you would show me faults.
JUL.

He who can merely draw, has this and that

To say against your picture.
ANT.

For example ?
JUL. That arm's foreshortening is not quite correct;

Methinks too that the child's leg is too plump,

It fails in outline.
ANT. Once more, Sir: it is like new life to me!

How does it strike you, the Madonna's smile ?

And the babe's smile ?
JUL.

Peculiar both—but lovely!
ANT. Nothing disgusting in them nothing mawkish ?
JUL. So should I fancy that the angels smiled.
ANT. (naïvely.) O God! and so indeed I thought myself.

Here now,

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And what amazes me is the true judgment
With which you have discerned these various faults.
You are quite right; but you use gentle terms
And wish to spare my feelings ; and, in fact,
All your remarks, so full of truth and knowledge,
Would please me beyond words, did I not know
(So much the worse, I heard it first to-day)
That my work is but poor and without value.
And who has told you so ?

JUL.

ANT.

The greatest artist
Of our time, nay, perhaps of any time.
JUL. Ha !-Michael Angelo ?
ANT.

You speak his name.
JUL. That is just like him. The broken carriage wheel

Runs round still in his head.
ANT. I, in the first place, thoughtlessly, unwillingly

Offended him.-The landlord, who lives here,
A strange man, and who hates me, came to me
And told me that the guest who there sate drinking,
Within his house was but a colourman,
An ignorant and an unmannered fellow,
Who censured everything and yet knew nothing.
Hence was it that I did not meet him with
The reverence which in truth was but his due.
He came, and spoke to me in jesting manner,
And I returned a jest for my reply.
He became angry, said I was a bungler,
Who never, merely by a sense of colour,
Could rise up to the height of real greatness,

To spiritual beauty.
JUL.

And therein he was right;
You will not do it, 'tis already done,

And far above the very Sistine chapel !
Ant. (with a good-natured dissent). Ah, dear friend !
JUL.

You think that I am speaking
Like a blind man, of colour ? You are wrong.
If not a Michael-not an Angelo,
Yet I'm a human being-am a Roman ;
If not a Cæsar, yet a Julius !
I also have been taught what painting is ;
The noble Raphael Sanzio was my master,
His mighty spirit yet floats over me.

I am a member of the guild, like you.
ANT. St. Joseph! You are Julio Romano !
JUL. I am he !
ANT.

Are
you

Julio Romano ?
That great master! Raphael Sanzio's favourite ?
JUL. So was I.
ANT.

And you say I am a painter ?

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JUL. I

say, that since the death of Raphael Sanzio Our Italy has had no greater painter

Than you, Anton Allegri da Correggio !
ANT. (seating himself). Forgive me, Sir. Ha ! my head turns

round;
I never have experienced aught like this.

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That surely is noble poetry, full of the truest feeling, the most beautiful impersonation.

The scene in which Michael Angelo returns to Correggio's hut, to make amends for his former wounding remarks, and takes his little boy Giovanni on his knee, is admirable. Weare glad to see, from Oehlenschläger's own statement, that the public, at the time Correggio appeared, were fully sensible of its exquisite beauty.

"Hakon Jarl,'” he says, “ had reawoke the feeling for the ancient North, so Correggio awoke a feeling for art, and was perhaps one of the first incentives to its zealous study in the fatherland, which has since borne such abundant fruit.”

We must now hasten more rapidly over the life of Oehlenschläger. He had reached the climax of his fame, and the numerous works which he continued to produce, even to his old age, though they added to the wonder of the prolific strength and variety of his powers, could not give greater evidence of the intensity of his genius. On his return homeward in 1810, he made a détour to visit Goethe once more in Weimar, but the great poet had just then got a fit of his Privy Councillor dignity upon him, and received Oehlenschläger coldly. Probably the old man had felt himself a little bored by Oehlenschläger's reading his manuscripts to him, a habit to which Northern authors appear addicted, and which is as useless as it is often annoying; for no author can calculate on obtaining

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a faithful opinion of his work under such circumstances : the only way being to throw it into the hands of the public, where he is sure to hear sooner or later the truth. Whatever was the cause, however, Oehlenschläger was deeply wounded, and from that time he never addressed another letter to Goethe, though he continued to honour to the utmost his genius, and called his eldest son after him.

At home his reception was enthusiastic in the highest degree. “ Hakon Jarl ” had won an extraordinary popularity. It was the first delineation of the ancient pagan heroic life, founded on history, which had been brought upon the stage. The success of “Palnatoké” had been less from the cause mentioned ; but“ Axel and Valborg," a story of love from beginning to end, based on one of their most beautiful and admired “Kämpe-Viser," had more than effaced the transient effect of “ Palnatoké.” Rahbek, in a fit of vexation, had some time before thrown up his post as Professor of Esthetics in the University of Copenhagen, and this was now, at the instance of the Duke of Augustenborg, conferred on Oehlenschläger. On the 17th of May, 1810, the poet was married to his fair bethrothed, Christiana Heger, and they passed the summer at the charming seat of Christiansholm, which was placed at their service by Oehlenschläger's great patron, Count Schimmelmann.

During the next five years, Oehlenschläger wrote and published “Faruk," an opera for Weyse ; the beautiful Eastern story, “Aly and Gulhyndy;" “ Harald Hyldetand,” a collection of poems and stories ; the tragedy of “Stärkodder,” in 1811; the “Canary Bird,” “Honour Lasts Longest,

“Hugo von Rheinberg," in 1813, an excellent acting tragedy; the “ Robbers' Castle,” and " Ludlam's Cave,” a drama curiously constructed from

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two English legends, 1814 ; a dramatic tale, the “ Fisherman,” “Hagbarth and Signé,” also a tragedy founded on one of the Northern most favourite ballad sagas. In 1815, he wrote “ Helge,” and “ Hroar’s Saga.'

It was on the publication of the “ Robbers' Castle” and “Ludlam's Cave,” that Baggesen commenced that furious attack upon Oehlenschläger, which he pursued during the greater part of the remainder of his life, with a bitterness which testified too plainly that mortified vanity was at the bottom of it. We have seen with what passionate emotion Baggesen responded to the honour done him by the youthful and then little known poet at Dreier's Club, on Baggesen's leaving Denmark, under circumstances of most popular dissatisfaction. When Oehlenschläger was afterwards in Paris, Baggesen called on him, and though. Oehlenschläger had then had intimation of Baggesen's incipient hostility, and received him coldly, Baggesen broke through it, with tears and embraces, exclaiming in return of Oehlenschläger's formal address of " Mr. Professor Baggesen :” “No, not so! Thou ! thou !"

, Their daily intercourse was restored, and when Oehlenschläger afterwards read his “Palnatoké” to him, he flung himself at his feet in transports of admiration.

But when this strangely excitable genius came home, and found the whole nation resounding with Oehlenschläger's praise, he seemed seized with an agony of jealousy, and began that unhappy onslaught which, alas ! is only too well known to all Danes, and which they wish it were possible to bury in eternal oblivion. The criticisms on the works of Oehlenschläger may, many of them, be seen in Baggesen's works, and though they abound with the most sparkling wit, it cannot hide the venom that exists in them. The fame of Oehlenschläger was not purchased without the usual quantity of vinegar and gall. Tieck,

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