hat is more, declare it. Nothing displeases
me more than to see people assenting to everything that they hear said; I
at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there
is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, whom I have not
read for thirty years, is he not rather given to bombast, 'crackling
bombast,' as I think I have said in one of my essays?"

"I dare say he is," said the youth; "but I can't help thinking him the
greatest of all poets, not even excepting Homer. I would sooner have
written that series of plays, founded on the fortunes of the House of
Lancaster, than the Iliad itself. The events described are as lofty as
those sung by Homer in his great work, and the characters brought upon
the stage still more interesting. I think Hotspur as much of a hero as
Hector, and young Henry more of a man than Achilles; and then there is
the fat knight, the quintessence of fun, wit, and rascality. Falstaff is
a creation beyond the genius even of Homer."

"You almost tempt me to read Shakespeare again--but the Germans?"

"I don't admire the Germans," said the youth, somewhat excited. "I don't
admire them in any point of view. I have heard my father say that,
though good sharpshooters, they can't be much depended upon as soldiers;
and that old Sergeant Meredith told him that Minden would never have been
won but for the two English regiments, who charged the French with fixed
bayonets, and sent them to the right-about in double-quick time. With
respect to poetry, setting Shakespeare and the English altogether aside,
I think there is another Gothic nation, at least, entitled to dispute
with them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry
contained in the old Danish book which I came so strangely by, than has
been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen lay to the
present."

"Ah, the Koempe Viser?" said the elderly individual, breathing forth an
immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during the
declamation of his young companion. "There are singular things in that
book, I must confess; and I thank you for showing it to me, or rather
your attempt at translation. I was struck with that ballad of Orm
Ungarswayne, who goes by night to the grave-hill of his father to seek
for counsel. And then, again, that strange melancholy Swayne Vonved, who
roams about the world propounding people riddles; slaying those who
cannot answer, and rewarding