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LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.-No. 190:- 1 JANUARY, 1848.

From Blackwood's Magazine. WORKS OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.*

and

vey;" and he has, perhaps, shown a sovereign contempt for "the bungling translator," at the very time when that discreet workman had most Ir our readers have perchance stumbled upon a displayed his skill and judgment. The idea has novel called "The Improvisatore" by one Hans sometimes occurred to us-Suppose one of these Christian Andersen, a Dane by birth, they have foreign books were suddenly proved to be of genprobably regarded it in the light merely of a for- uine home production-suppose the German, or eign importation to assist in supplying the enormous the Dane, or the Frenchman, were discovered to annual consumption of our circulating libraries, be a fictitious personage, and all the genius, or all which devour books as fast as our mills do raw the rant, to have really emanated from the English cotton;—with some difference, perhaps, in the re- gentleman, or lady, who had merely professed to sult, for the material can rarely be said to be translate-presto! how the book would instantly worked up into anything like substantial raiment change colors! What a reverse of judgment for body or mind, but seems to disappear altogether would there be! What secret misgivings would in the process. As the demand, here, exceeds all now be detected and proclaimed! What sudden ordinary means of supply, they may have been glad outpourings of epithets by no means complimento see that our trade with the north is likely to be tary! How the boldness of many a metaphor beneficial to us, in this our intellectual need. Its would be transformed into sheer impudence! How books may not be so durable as its timber, nor so the profundities would clear up, leaving only darksubstantial as its oxen, but then they are articles ness behind! They were so mysterious of faster growth, and of easier transportation. To now, throw all the light of heaven upon them, and free trade in these productions of the literary soil, there is nothing there but a blunder or a blot. not the most jealous protectionist will object; and If our readers, we say, have fallen upon this, they have, perhaps, been amused to observe how and other novels of Andersen, they have probably the mere circumstance of a foreign origin has given passed them by as things belonging to the literary a cheap repute, and the essential charm of novelty, season: they have been struck with some passages to materials which in themselves were neither good of vivid description, with touches of genuine feelnor rare. The popular prejudice deals very differ-ing, with traits of character which, though imperently with foreign oxen and foreign books; for, fectly delineated, bore the impress of truth; but whereas an Englishman has great difficulty in be- they have pronounced them, on the whole, to be lieving that good beef can possibly be produced from any pastures but his own, and the outlandish beast is always looked upon with more or less suspicion, he has, on the contrary, a highly liberal prejudice in favor of the book from foreign parts; and nonsense of many kinds, and the most tasteless extravagancies, are allowed to pass unchallenged and unreproved, by the aid of a German, or French, or Danish title-page.

unfashioned things, but half made up, constructed with no skill, informed by no clear spirit of thought, and betraying a most undisciplined taste. Such, at least, was the impression their first perusal left upon our mind. Notwithstanding the glimpses of natural feeling and of truthful portraiture which caught our eye, they were so evidently deficient in some of the higher qualities which ought to distinguish a writer, and so defaced by abortive attempts at fine writing, that they hardly appeared deserving of a very critical examination, or a very careful study. But now there has lately come into our hands the autobiography of Hans Christian Andersen, "The True Story of my Life," and this has revealed to us so curious an instance of intellectual cultivation, or rather of genius exerting itself without any cultivation at all, and has re*The Improvisatore; or, Life in Italy: from the Dan-flected back so strong a light, so vivid and so exish of Hans Christian Andersen. Translated by Mary Howitt.

Nay, the eye is sometimes tasked to discover extraordinary beauty, where there is nothing but extraordinary blemish. Where the shrewd translator had veiled some absurdity or rashness of his author, the more profound reader has been known to detect a meaning and a charm, which "the . English language had failed adequately to con

Only a Fiddler! and O. T.: or, Life in Denmark, by the Author of The Improvisatore. Translated by Mary

Howitt.

A True Story of My Life, by Hans Christian Andersen. Translated by Mary Howitt.

Tales from Denmark. Translated by Charles Bonar. A Picture-book without Pictures. Translated by Meta Taylor.

The Shoes of Fortune, and other Tales.

planatory, on all his works, that what we formerly read with a very mitigated admiration, with more of censure than of praise, has been invested with quite a novel and peculiar interest. Moreover, certain tales for children have also fallen into our hands, some of which are admirable. prophesy them an immortanty in the nursery

We

A Poet's Bazaar. Translated by Charles Beckwith, which is not the worst immortality a man can win

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—and doubt not but that they have already been

read by children, or told to children, in every lan- an illustration, but a hint also to other perplexed guage of Europe. Altogether Andersen, his char- mammas, who may find themselves in the like preacter and his works, have thus appeared to us a dicament. She had argued, and of course in vain, subject worthy of some attention. against his high-flown admiration of the village We insist upon coupling them together. We belle. She was a goddess! She would become must be allowed to abate somewhat of the austerity a throne! Apparently acquiescing in his matriof criticism by a reference to the life of the author. | monial project, she now professed her willingness We cannot implicitly follow the unconditioned ad- to receive his bride-elect. Accordingly, she sent miration of Mrs. Howitt for " the beautiful thoughts her own milliner-mantua maker-what you will of Andersen," which she tells us in her preface to array her in the complete toilette of a lady to the Autobiography, "it is the most delightful of fashion. The blushing damsel appeared in the of her literary labors to translate." We must be most elegant attire, and took her place in the excused if we think that the mixture of praise and maternal drawing-room, amongst the sisters of the of puff, which the lady lavishes so indiscriminately enraptured lover. Alas! enraptured no more! upon the author whose works she translates, is The rustic beauty, where could it have flown? more likely to display her own skill and dexterity The belle of the village was transformed into a in author-craft, than permanently to enhance the very awkward young lady. Goddess!-She was fame of Andersen. In the works which Mrs. a simpleton. Become a throne!-She could not Howitt has translated, (with the exception of the sit upon a chair. The charm was broken. The Autobiography,) there is a great proportion of most application we need hardly make. There may be unquestionable trash, which, we should imagine, it certain uncultivated men of genius on whom it is must be a great affliction to render into English. possible to practise a like malicious kindness.

It is curious, and perhaps necessary, to watch this new relationship which has sprung up in the world of letters, between the original author and his translator. A reciprocity of services is always amiable, and one is glad to see society enriched by another bond of mutual amity. The translator finds a profitable commodity in the genius of his author; the author, a stanch champion in his foreign ally, who, notwithstanding his community of interest, can still praise without blushing. Many good results doubtless arise from this alliance, but an increased chance of impartial criticism is not likely to be one of them.

But

When Andersen writes for children or of childhood, he is singularly felicitous-fanciful, tender, and true to nature. This alone were sufficient to separate him from the crowd of common writers. For the rest of his works, if you will look at them kindly, and with a friendly scrutiny, you will find many a natural sentiment vividly reflected. traces of the higher operations of the intellect, of deep or subtle thought, of analytic power, of ratiocination of any kind, there is absolutely none. If, therefore, his injudicious admirers should insist, without any reference to his origin or culture, on extolling his writings as works submitted, without apology or excuse, to the mature judgment and formed taste they can only peril the reputation they seek to magnify. They will expose to ridicule and contempt one who, if you allow him a place apart by himself, becomes a subject of kindly and curious regard. If they insist upon his introduction, unprotected by the peculiar circumstances which environ him-we do not say amongst the literary magnates of his time, but even in the broad host of highly cultivated minds, we lose sight of him, or we follow him with something very much like a smile of derision.

We would rather preface our notice of the life and works of Andersen, by a motto taken from our own countryman Blake, artist and poet, and a man of somewhat kindred nature:

"Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me-
'Pipe a song about a lamb;'

So I piped with merry cheer.
Piper, pipe that song again!-'
So I piped-he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer-'
So I sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and write,

In a book that all may read.'
Then he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,

Every child may joy to hear."

Such was the form under which the muse may be said to have visited and inspired Andersen. He ought to have been exclusively the poet of children and of childhood. He ought never to have seen, or dreamed, of an Apollo six feet high, looking sublime, and sending forth dreadful arrows from the far-resounding bow; he should have looked only to that "child upon the cloud," or rather, he should have seen his little muse as she walks upon the earth-we have her in Gainsborough's picture with her tattered petticoat, and her bare feet, and her broken pitcher, but looking withal with such a sweet, sad contentedness upon the world, that surely, one thinks, she must have We remember being told of a dexterous strata-filled that pitcher and drawn the water which she gem, by which a lady cured her son of what she carries-without, however, knowing anything of deemed an unworthy passion for a rustic beauty. *See Allan Cunningham's Lives of the Painters and We tell the story-for it may not only afford us Sculptors, vol. ii., p. 150.

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the matter-from the very well where Truth lies "Bang! bang!' was heard at this moment, and several wild ducks lay dead amongst the reeds, We should like to quote at once, before pro-and the water was as red as blood. There was a ceeding further, one of Andersen's tales for chil-great shooting excursion. The sportsmen lay all round the moor; and the blue smoke floated like a dren. We will venture upon an extract. It will at all events be new to our readers, and will be more likely to interest them in the history of its author than any quotation we could make from his more ambitious works. Besides, the story we select will somewhat foreshadow the real history

which follows.

A highly respectable matronly duck introduces into the poultry-yard a brood which she has just hatched. She has had a deal of trouble with one egg, much larger than the rest, and which after all produced a very "ugly duck," who gives the name, and is the hero of the story.

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'So, we are to have this tribe, too!' said the other ducks, as if there were not enough of us already! And only look how ugly one is! we won't suffer that one here.' And immediately a duck flew at it, and bit it in the neck.

"Let it alone,' said the mother; 'it does no one any harm.'

"Yes, but it is so large and strange-looking, and therefore it must be teased.'

"These are fine children that the mother has!' said an old duck, who belonged to the noblesse, and wore a red rag round its leg. All handsome, except one; it has not turned out well. I wish she could change it.'

"That can't be done, your grace,' said the mother; besides, if it is not exactly pretty, it is a sweet child, and swims as well as the others, even a little better. I think in growing it will improve. It was long in the egg, and that's the reason it is a little awkward.'

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"The others are nice little things,' said the old ducknow make yourself quite at home here.'

"And so they did. But the poor young duck that had come last out of the shell, and looked so ugly, was bitten, and pecked, and teased by ducks and fowls. It's so large!' said they all; and the turkey-cock, that had spurs on when he came into the world, and therefore fancied himself an emperor, strutted about like a ship under full sail, went straight up to it, gobbled, and got quite red. The poor little duck hardly knew where to go, or where to stand, it was so sorrowful because it was so ugly, and the ridicule of the whole poultry-yard.

Thus passed the first day, and afterwards it grew worse and worse. The poor duck was hunted about by every one; its brothers and sisters were cross to it, and always said, 'I wish the cat would get you, you frightful creature!' and even its mother said, Would you were far from here!' And the ducks bit it, and the hens pecked at it, and the girl that fed the poultry kicked it with her foot. So it ran and flew over the hedge.

"On it ran. At last it came to a great moor where wild ducks lived; here it lay the whole night, and was so tired and melancholy. In the morning up flew the wild ducks, and saw their new comrade; Who are you?' asked they; and our little duck turned on every side, and bowed as well as it could. But you are tremendously ugly!' said the wild ducks. However, that is of no consequence to us, if you don't marry into our family.' The poor thing! It certainly never thought of marrying; it only wanted permission to lie among the reeds, and to drink the water of the marsh.

cloud through the dark trees, and sank down to the very water; and the dogs splattered about in the marsh-splash! splash! reeds and rushes were waving on all sides: it was a terrible fright for the poor duck.

did not yet dare to lift up its head; it waited many "At last all was quiet; but the poor little thing hours before it looked round, and then hastened away from the moor as quickly as possible. It ran over the fields and meadows, and there was such a wind that it could hardly get along.

"Towards evening, the duck reached a little hut. Here dwelt an old woman with her tom-cat and her hen; and the cat could put up its back and purr, and the hen could lay eggs, and the old woman loved them both as her very children. For certain reasons of her own, she let the duck in to live with them.

"Now the tom-cat was master in the house, and the hen was mistress; and they always said, 'We and the world.' That the duck should have any opinion of its own, they never would allow. "Can you lay eggs?' asked the hen. 666 No!

"Well, then, hold your tongue.'

"Can you put up your back and purr?' said the tom-cat.

"No.'

"Well, then, you ought to have no opinion of your own; where sensible people are speaking.'

"And the duck sat in the corner, and was very sad; when suddenly it took it into its head to think of the fresh air and the sunshine; and it had such an inordinate longing to swim on the water, that it could not help telling the hen of it.

"What next, I wonder!' said the hen, 'you have nothing to do, and so you sit brooding over such fancies. Lay eggs, or purr, and you'll forget them.'

"But it is so delightful to swim on the water!' said the duck-' so delightful when it dashes over one's head, and one dives down to the very bottom.'

"Well, that must be a fine pleasure!' said the hen. You are crazy, I think. Ask the cat, who is the cleverest man I know, if he would like to swim on the water, or perhaps to dive, to say nothing of myself. Ask our mistress, the old lady, and there is no one in the world cleverer than she is; do you think that she would much like to swim on the water, and for the water to dash over her head?'

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You don't understand me,' said the duck. "Understand, indeed! If we don't understand you, who should? I suppose you won't pretend to be cleverer than the tom-cat, or our mistress, to say nothing of myself? Don't behave in that way, child; but be thankful for all the kindness that has been shown you. Have you not got into a warm room, and have you not the society of persons from whom something is to be learnt? But you are a blockhead, and it is tiresome to have to do with you. You may believe what I say; I am well disposed towards you; I tell you what is disagreeable, and it is by that one recognizes one's true friends.'

"I think I shall go into the wide world,' said the duckling.

"Well then, go!' answered the hen. "And so the duck went. It swam on the water,

it dived down; but was disregarded by every animal on account of its ugliness.

It is not only in writing for children that our author succeeds; but whenever childhood crosses his path, it calls up a true pathos, and the playful tenderness of his nature. The commencement of his serious novels, where he treats of the infancy and boyhood of his heroes, is always interesting. Amongst the translated works of Andersen is one entitled "A Picture-Book without Pictures." The author describes himself as inhabiting a soli

"One evening-the sun was setting most magnificently-there came a whole flock of large, beautiful birds out of the bushes; never had the duck seen anything so beautiful. They were of a brilliant white, with long slender necks: they were swans. They uttered a strange note, spread their superb long wings, and flew away from the cold countries (for the winter was setting in) to warmer lands and unfrozen lakes. They mounted so high, so very high! The little ugly duck felt indescribatary garret in a large town, where no one knew bly-it turned round in the water like a mill-wheel, stretched out its neck towards them, and uttered a cry so loud and strange that it was afraid even of itself. Oh, the beautiful birds! the happy birds! it could not forget them; and when it could see them no longer, it dived down to the very bottom of the water; and when it came up again it was quite beside itself.

him, and no friendly face greeted him. One evening, however, he stands at the open casement, and It was suddenly beholds "the face of an old friend-a round, kind face, looking down on him. the moon-the dear old moon! with the same unaltered gleam, just as she appeared when, through the branches of the willows, she used to shine upon him as he sat on the mossy bank beside "And now it became so cold! But it would be too sad to relate all the suffering and misery which the river." The moon becomes very sociable, and the duckling had to endure through the hard win-breaks that long silence which poets have so often ter. It lay on the moor in the rushes. But when celebrated-breaks it, we must confess, to very "Sketch what I relate to you,' the sun began to shine again more warmly, when little purpose. " and will have a pretty picthe larks sang, and the lovely spring was come, then, all at once, it spread out its wings, and rose And accordingly, every visit, she in the air. They made a rushing noise louder than formerly, and bore it onwards more vigorously; and tells him "of one thing or another that she has seen during the past night." One would think before it was well aware of it, it found itself in a garden, where the apple-trees were in blossom, and that such a sketch-book, or album, as we have where the syringas sent forth their fragrance, and here, might easily have been put together without their long green branches hung down in the clear calling in the aid of so sublime a personage. But stream. Just then three beautiful white swans amongst the pictures that are presented to us, two came out of the thicket. They rustled their or three, where the moon has had her eye upon feathers, and swam on the water so lightly-oh! children in their sports or their distresses, took so very lightly! The duckling knew the superb creatures, and was seized with a strange feeling of hold of our fancy. Here Andersen is immediately at home. We give one short extract. sadness.

"To them will I fly!' said it, 'to the royal birds. Though they kill me, I must fly to them!' And it flew into the water, and swam to the magnificent birds, that looked at, and with rustling plumes, sailed towards it.

the moon,
says
ture-book."

you

"It was but yesternight (said the moon) that I peeped into a small court-yard, enclosed by houses: there was a hen with eleven chickens. A pretty little girl was skipping about. The hen chicked, and, affrighted, spread out her wings over her little ones. Then came the maiden's father, and chid the child; and I passed on, without thinking more of it at the moment.

"Kill me!' said the poor creature, and bowed down its head to the water, and awaited death. But what did it see in the water? It saw beneath it its own likeness; but no longer that of an awkward "This evening-but a few minutes ago-I again grayish bird, ugly and displeasing-it was the fig-peeped into the same yard. All was silent; but soon the little maiden came. She crept cautiously "It is of no consequence being born in a farm-to the hen-house, lifted the latch, and stole gently yard, if only it is in a swan's egg.

ure of a swan.

"The large swans swam beside it, and stroked it with their bills. There were little children running about in the garden; they threw bread into the water, and the youngest cried out,There is a new one! And the other children shouted too! 'Yes, a new one is come!'-and they clapped their hands and danced, and ran to tell their father and mother. And they threw bread and cake into the water; and every one said, The new one is the best! so young, and so beautiful!'

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"Then the young one felt quite ashamed, and hid its head under its wing; it knew not what to do it was too happy, but yet not proud-for a good heart is never proud. It remembered how it had been persecuted and derided, and now it heard all say it was the most beautiful of birds. And the syringas bent down their branches to it in the water, and the sun shone so lovely and so warm. shook its plumes, the slender neck was lifted up, and, from its very heart, it cried rejoicingly-Never dreamed I of such happiness when I was the little ugly duck!'

Then it

up to the hen and the chickens. The hen chicked
aloud, and they all ran fluttering about: the little
girl ran after them. I saw it plainly, for I peeped
in through a chink in the wall. I was vexed with
the naughty child, and was glad that the father
came and scolded her still more than yesterday, and
She bent her head back;
seized her by the arm.
She wept. 'I
big tears stood in her blue eyes.
wanted to go in and kiss the hen, and beg her to
forgive me for yesterday. But I could not tell it
you.' And the father kissed the brow of the inno-
cent child; and I kissed her eyes and her lips."

Our poet-we call him such, though we know
nothing of his verses, for whatever there is of
merit in his writings is of the nature of poetry-
our poet of childhood and of poverty, was born at
Odense, a town of Funen, one of the green, beech-
covered islands of Denmark. It bears the name
of the Scandinavian hero, or demigod, Odin;
The parents of
Tradition says he lived there.
Andersen were so poor that when they married

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