labors in vain to produce immortal eloquence and
song. And, indeed, had he been blessed with more imagination, wit, and
fertility of thought than he appears to have had, he would still have
been subject to one great disadvantage, which would, in all probability,
have forever prevented him from taking a high place among men of
letters. He had not the full command of any language. There was no
machine of thought which he could employ with perfect ease, confidence,
and freedom. He had German enough to scold his servants, or to give the
word of command to his grenadiers; but his grammar and pronunciation
were extremely bad. He found it difficult to make out the meaning even
of the simplest German poetry. On one occasion a version of Racine's
Iphigenie was read to him. He held the French original in his hand; but
was forced to own that even with such help he could not understand the
translation. Yet though he had neglected his mother tongue in order to
bestow all his attention on French, his French was, after all, the
French of a foreigner. It was necessary for him to have always at his
beck some men of letters from Paris to point out the solecisms and false
rhymes of which, to the last, he was frequently guilty. Even had he
possessed the poetic faculty, of which, as far as we can judge, he was
utterly destitute, the want of a language would have prevented him from
being a great poet. No noble work of imagination, as far as we
recollect, was ever composed by any man, except in a dialect which he
had learned without remembering how or when, and which he had spoken
with perfect ease before he had ever analyzed its structure. Romans of
great abilities wrote Greek verses; but how many of those verses have
deserved to live? Many men of eminent genius have, in modern times,
written Latin poems; but, as far as we are aware, none of those poems,
not even Milton's, can be ranked in the first class of art, or even very
high in the second. It is not strange, therefore, that, in the French
verses of Frederic, we can find nothing beyond the reach of any man of
good parts and industry, nothing above the level of Newdigate and
Seatonian poetry. His best pieces may perhaps rank with the worst in
Dodsley's collection. In history, he succeeded better. We do not indeed
find in any part of his voluminous Memoirs either deep reflection or
vivid painting. But the narrative is distinguished by clearness,
conciseness, good sense, and a certain air of