But it would be unjust should I deny to A. W. von Schlegel the merit which he won by his translation of Shakespeare's dramas, and his lectures on them. Honourably confessed the latter lack the philosophic basis, they sweep along too superficially in a frivolous dilettantism, and certain ugly reserved reflections or back-thoughts came too visibly fcrward for me to pronounce unreserved praise over them. Herr A. W. von Schlegel's inspiration is always artificial, a deliberately intended shamming one's self into an intoxication without drunkenness; and with him, as with all the rest of the romantic school, the apotheosis of Shakespeare is indirectly meant for a degradation of Schiller. Schlegel's translation is certainly the best as yet, and fulfils every requisition which can be made for a metrical version. The feminine nature of his talents is here an admirable aid to the writer, and in his artistic ready skill without character, he can adapt himself admirably and accurately to the foreign spirit.
And yet I confess that, despite these merits, I often prefer to read the old translation of Eschenburg (which is all in prose) to that of Schlegel, and for these reasons:
The language of Shakespeare is not peculiarly his own, but was derived from his predecessors and contemporaries; it is the traditional theatrical
