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is utterly uncultivated, and without command of them; full of monstrous affectation, the very high-priest of Bad Taste; knows not the art of writing, scarcely that there is such an art; an insane visionary, floating for ever among baseless dreams that hide the firm earth from his view: an intellectual Polyphemus, in short, a monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, (carefully adding) cui lumen ademptum; and they close their verdict reflectively with his own praiseworthy maxim: Providence has given to the English the empire of the sea, to the French that of the land, to the Germans that of the air.'

"In this way the matter is adjusted; briefly, comfortably, and wrong. The casket was difficult to open: did we know, by its very shape, that there was nothing in it, that so we should cast it into the sea? Affectation is often singularity, but, singularity is not always affectation. If the nature and condition of a man be really and truly, not conceitedly and untruly, singular, so also will his manner be, so also ought it to be. Affectation is the product of Falsehood, a heavy sin, and the parent of numerous heavy sins; let it be severely punished, but not too lightly imputed. Scarcely any mortal is absolutely free from it, neither most probably is Richter; but it is in minds of another substance than his that it grows to be the ruling product. Moreover, he is actually not a visionary; but, with all his visions, will be found to see the firm Earth, in its whole figures and relations, much more clearly than thousands of such critics, who too probably can see nothing else. Far from being untrained or uncultivated, it will surprise these persons to discover that few men have studied the art of writing, and many other arts besides, more carefully than he; that his Vorschule der Aesthetik abounds with deep and sound maxims of criticism; in the course of which, many complex works, his own among others, are rigidly and justly tried, and even the graces and minutest qualities of style are by no means overlooked or unwisely handled.

"Withal, there is something in Richter that incites us to a second, to a third perusal. His works are hard to understand, but they always have a meaning, often a true and deep one. In our closer, more comprehensive glance, their truth steps forth with new distinctness, their error dissipates and recedes, passes into veniality, often even into beauty; and at last the thick haze which encircled the form of the writer melts away, and he stands revealed to us in his own steadfast features, a colossal spirit, a lofty and original thinker, a genuine poet, a high-minded, true, and most amiable man.

"I have called him a colossal spirit, for this impression continues with us: to the last we figure him as something gigantic: for all the elements of his structure are vast, and combined together in living and life-giving, rather than in beautiful or symmetrical order. His intellect is keen, impetuous, far-grasping, fit to rend in peaces the stubbornest materials, and extort from them their most hidden and refractory truth. In his Humour he sports with the highest and the lowest, he can play at bowls with the Sun and Moon. His Imagination

opens for us the Land of Dreams; we sail with him through the boundless Abyss; and the secrets of Space, and Time, and Life, and Annihilation, hover round us in dim, cloudy forms; and darkness, and immensity, and dread encompass and overshadow us. Nay, in handling the smallest matter, he works it with the tools of a giant. A common truth is wrenched from its old combinations, and presented us in new, impassable, abysmal contrast with its opposite error. A trifle, some slender character, some jest, or quip, or spiritual toy, is shaped into most quaint, yet often truly living form; but shaped somehow as with the hammer of Vulcan, with three strokes that might have helped to forge an Egis. The treasures of his mind are of a similar description with the mind itself; his knowledge is gathered from all the kingdoms of Art, and Science, and Nature, and lics round him in huge unwieldy heaps. His very language is Titanian; deep, strong, tumultuous; shining with a thousand hues, fused from a thousand elements, and winding in labyrinthic mazes.

"Among Richter's gifts," continues this critic, "the first that strikes us as truly great is his Imagination: for he loves to dwell in the loftiest and most solemn provinces of thought; his works abound with mysterious allegories, visions, and typical adumbrations; his Dreams, in particular, have a gloomy vastness, broken here and there by wild far-darting splendour; and shadowy forms of meaning rise dimly from the bosom of the void Infinite. Yet, if I mistake not, Humour is his ruling quality, the quality which lives most deeply in his inward nature, and most strongly influences his manner of being. In this rare gift, for none is rarer than true Humour, he stands unrivalled in his own country, and among late writers, in every other. To describe Humour is difficult at all times, and would perhaps be more than usually difficult in Richter's case. Like all his other qualities, it is vast, rude, irregular; often perhaps overstrained and extravagant; yet, fundamentally, it is genuine Humour, the Humour of Cervantes and Sterne; the product not of Contempt, but of Love, not of superficial distortion of natural forms, but of deep though playful sympathy with all forms of Nature. **

"So long as Humour will avail him, his management even of higher and stronger characters may still be pronounced successful; but wherever Humour ceases to be applicable, his success is more or less imperfect. In the treatment of heroes proper he is seldom completely happy. They shoot into rugged exaggeration in his hands: their sensibility becomes too copious and tearful, their magnanimity too fierce, abrupt, and thorough-going. In some few instances, they verge towards absolute failure: compared with their less ambitious brethren, they are almost of a vulgar cast; with all their brilliancy and vigour, too like that positive, determinate, volcanic class of personages whom we meet with so frequently in Novels; they call themselves Men, and do their utmost to prove the assertion, but they cannot make us believe it; for after al:

their vapouring and storming, we see well enough that they are but Engines, with no more life than the Freethinkers' model in Martinus Scriblerus, the Nuremberg Man, who operated by a combination of pipes and levers, and though he could breath and digest perfectly, and even reason as well as most country parsons, was made of wood and leather. In the general conduct of such histories and delineations, Richter seldom appears to advantage the incidents are often startling and extravagant; the whole structure of the story has a rugged, broken, huge, artificial aspect, and will not assume the air of truth. Yet its chasms are strangely filled up with the costliest materials; a world, a universe of wit, and knowledge, and fancy, and imagination has sent its fairest products to adorn the edifice; the rude and rent Cyclopean walls are resplendent with jewels and beaten gold; rich stately foliage screens it, the balmiest odours encircle it; we stand astonished if not captivated, delighted if not charmed, by the artist and his art."

by the force, the beauty, and benignity which pervade it. In fine, we joyfully accept him for what he is and was meant to be. The graces, the polish, the sprightly elegancies, which belong to men of lighter make, we cannot look for or demand from him. His movement is essentially slow and cumbrous, for he advances not with one faculty, but with a whole mind; with intellect, and pathos, and wit, and humour, and imagination, moving onward like a mighty host, motley, ponderous, irregular, irresistible. He is not airy, sparkling, and precise; but deep, billowy, and vast. The melody of his nature is not expressed in common note-marks, or written down by the critical gamut: for it is wild and manifold; its voice is like the voice of cataracts, and the sounding of primeval forests. To feeble ears it is discord, but to ears that understand it, deep majestic music."*

As our first specimen, which also may serve for proof that Richter, in adopting his own extraordinary style, did it with clear knowledge of what excellence in style, and the various kinds and degrees of excellence therein properly signified, we select, from his Vorschule der Aesthetik (above mentioned and recommended) the following miniature sketches: the reader, acquainted with the persons, will find these sentences, as we believe, strikingly descriptive and exact.

With these views, so far as they go, we see little reason to disagree. There is doubtless a deeper meaning in the matter, but perhaps this is not the season for evolving it. To depict, with true scientific accuracy, the essential purport and character of Richter's genius and literary endeavour; how it originated, whither it tends, how it stands related to the general tendencies of the world in this age; above all, what is its worth and want of worth to ourselves, may one day be a necessary problem; but, as matters actually stand, would be a difficult, and not very profitable one. The English public has not yet seen Richter; and must "Similar, but more compacted into periods, know him before it can judge him. For us, in is Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi's vigorous, Gerthe present circumstances, we hold it a more man-hearted prose; musical in every sense, promising plan to exhibit some specimens of for even his images are often derived from his workmanship itself, than to attempt de- tones. The rare union between cutting force scribing it anew or better. The general out-of intellectual utterance, and infinitude of senline of his intellectual aspect, as sketched in timent, gives us the tense metallic chord with few words by the writer already quoted, may its soft tones.' stand here by way of preface to these Extracts: as was the case above, whatever it may want, it contains nothing that we dissent from.



"To characterize Jean Paul's works," says he, "would be difficult after the fullest inspection to describe them to English readers would be next to impossible. Whether poetical, philosophical, didactic, fantastic, they seem all to be emblems, more or less complete, of the singular mind where they originated. As a whole, the first perusal of them, more particularly to a foreigner, is almost infallibly offensive; and neither their meaning nor their no-meaning is to be discerned without long and sedulous study. They are a tropical wilderness, full of endless tortuosities; but with the fairest flowers and the coolest fountains; now overarching us with high umbrageous gloom, now opening in long gorgeous vistas. We wander through them, enjoying their wild grandeur; and, by degrees, our half-contemptuous wonder at the Author passes into reverence and love. His face was long hid from us; bu. we see him at length, in the firm shape of spiritual manhood; a vast and most singular nature, but vindicating his singular nature

"Visit Herder's creations, where Greek lifefreshness, and Hindoo life-weariness are wonderfully blended: you walk, as it were, amid moonshine, into which the red dawn is already falling; but one hidden sun is the painter of both."

"In Goethe's prose, on the other hand, his fixedness of form gives us the Memnon's-tone. A plastic rounding, a pictorial determinateness, which even betrays the manual artist, make his works a fixed still gallery of figures and bronze statues."

"Luther's prose is a half-battle; few deeds are equal to his words."


Klopstock's prose frequently evinces a sharpness of diction bordering on poverty of matter; a quality peculiar to Grammarians, who most of all know distinctly, but least of all know much. From want of matter, one is apt to think too much of language. New views of the world, like these other poets, Klopstock scarcely gave. Hence the naked winter-boughs, in his prose; the multitude of circumscribed propositions; the brevity; the return of the same small sharp-cut figures, for instance, of the Resurrection, as of a Harvest-field.”

"The perfection of pomp-prose we find in Schiller: "what the utmost splendour of reflection in images, in fulness and antithesis can give, he gives. Nay, often he plays on the po

*German Romance, iii. 6, 16.

etic strings with so rich and jewel-loaded a hand, that the sparkling mass disturbs, if not the playing, yet our hearing of it."-Vorschule, s. 545.

That Richter's own playing and painting differed widely from all of these, the reader has already heard, and may now convince himself. Take, for example, the following of a fairweather scene, selected from a thousand such that may be found in his writings; nowise as the best, but simply as the briefest. It is in the May season, the last evening of Spring:

"Such a May as the present, (of 1794,) Nature has not in the memory of man-begun; for this is but the fifteenth of it. People of reflection have long been vexed once every year, that our German singers should indite Maysongs, since several other months deserve such a poetical Night-music better; and I myself have often gone so far as to adopt the idiom of our market-women, and instead of May butter to say June butter, as also June, March, April songs. But thou, kind May of this year, thou deservest to thyself all the songs which were ever made on thy rude namesakes!-By Heaven! when I now issue from the wavering chequered acacia-grove of the Castle, in which I am writing this Chapter, and come forth into the broad living light, and look up to the warming Heaven, and over its Earth budding out beneath it,-the Spring rises before me like a vast full cloud, with a splendour of blue and green. I see the Sun standing amid roses in the western sky, into which he has thrown his ray-brush wherewith he has to-day been painting the Earth-and when I look round a little in our picture exhibition,his enamelling is still hot on the mountains; on the moist chalk of the moist earth, the flowers, full of sap-colours, are laid out to dry, and the forget-me-not with miniature colours; under the varnish of the streams the skyey Painter has pencilled his own eye; and the clouds like a decoration-painter, he has touched off with wild outlines, and single tints; and so he stands at the border of the Earth, and looks back on his stately Spring, whose robefolds are valleys, whose breast-bouquet is gardens, and whose blush is a vernal evening, and who, when she rises, will be—Summer!" Fizlein, z. 11.

Or the following, in which moreover are two happy living figures, a bridegroom and a a bride on their marriage-day:

"He led her from the crowded dancingroom into the cool evening. Why does the evening, does the night, put warmer love in our hearts? Is it the nightly pressure of helplessness; or is it the exalting separation from the turmoils of life, that veiling of the world, in which for the soul nothing then remains but souls is it, therefore, that the letters in which the loved name stands written in our spirit, appear, like phosphorus writing, by night, on fire, while by day in their cloudy traces they but smoke?

and her soul expanded, and breathed in the free open garden, on whose flowery soil Destiny had cast forth the first seeds of the blossoms which to-day were gladdening her existence. Still Eden! Green, flower-chequered chiaroscuro !-The moon is sleeping under ground, like a dead one, but beyond the garden, the sun's red evening-clouds have fallen down like roseleaves; and the evening-star, the brideman of the sun, hovers like a glancing butterfly above the rosy red, and, modest as a bride, deprives no single starlet of its light.

"He walked with his bride into the Castlegarden she hastened quickly through the Castle, and past its servant's-hall, where the fair flowers of her young life had been crushed broad and dry, under a long dreary pressure;

"The wandering pair arrived at the old gardener's-hut; now standing locked and dumb, with dark windows in the light garden, like a fragment of the Past surviving in the Present. Bared twigs of trees were folding, with clammy half-formed leaves, over the thick intertwisted tangles of the bushes. The Spring was standing, like a conqueror, with Winter at his feet. In the blue pond now bloodless, a dusky evening-sky lay hollowed out; and the gushing waters were moistening the flowerbeds. The silver sparks of stars were rising on the altar of the East, and falling down extinguished in the red-sea of the West."

"The wind whirred, like a night-bird, louder through the trees; and gave tones to the acacia-grove, and the tones called to the pair who had first become happy within it: Enter, new mortal pair, and think of what is past, and of my withering and your own; and be holy as Eternity, and weep, not for joy only, but for gratitude also!' *


"They reached the blazing, rustling marri age-house, but their softened hearts sought stillness; and a foreign touch, as in the blos soming vine, would have disturbed the flowernuptials of their souls. They turned rather, and winded up into the churchyard, to preserve their mood. Majestic on the groves and mountains stood the Night before man's heart, and made it also great. Over the white steeple-obelisk the sky rested bluer and darker; and behind it wavered the withered summi: of the Maypole with faded flag. The son no ticed his father's grave, on which the wind was opening and shutting, with harsh noise, the small lid on the metal cross, to let the year of his death be read on the brass plate within. An overpowering grief seized his heart with violent streams of tears, and drove him to the sunk hillock; and he led his bride to the grave, and said: 'Here sleeps he, my good father: in his thirty-second year he was carried hither to his long rest. O thou good dear father, couldst thou but see the happiness of thy son, like my mother! But thy eyes are empty, and thy breast is full of ashes, and thou seest us not.'-He was silent. The bride wept aloud; she saw the mouldering coffins of her parents open, and the two dead arise, and look round for their daughter, who had stayed so long behind them, forsaken on the earth. She fell on his neck and faltered: 'O beloved, I have neither father nor mother, do not forsake me!'

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"And with this embracing at a father's therein, and absolve from ali, bachelorship grave, let this day of joy be holily concluded." only excepted. As a Natural-Philosopher, I -Fixlein, z. 9. have many times admired the wise methods of Nature for distributing daughters and plants: is it not a fine arrangement, said I to the Natural-Historian Goeze, that Nature should have bestowed specially on young wo men, who for their growth require a rich mineralogical soil, some sort of hooking apparatus, whereby to stick themselves on miserable marriage-cattle, that may carry them to fat places? Thus Linnæus,* as you know, observes that such seeds as can flourish only in fat earth are furnished with barbs, and so fasten themselves the better on grazing quadrupeds, which transport them to stalls and dunghills. Strangely does Nature, by the wind,-which father and mother must raise,scatter daughters and fir-seeds into the arable spots of the forest. Who does not remark the final cause here, and how Nature has equipped many a daughter with such and such charms, simply that some Peer, some mitred Abbot, Cardinal-deacon, appanaged Prince, or mere country Baron, may lay hold of said charmer, and in the character of Father or Brideman, hand over her ready-made to some gawk of the like sort, as a wife acquired by purchase? And do we find in bilberries a slighter attention on the part of Nature? Does not the same Linnæus notice, in the same treatise, that they, too, are cased in a nutritive juice to incite the Fox to eat them; after which, the villain,-digest them he can. not,—in such sort as he may, becomes their sower?

In such passages, slight as they are, we fancy an experienced eye will trace some features of originality, as well as of uncommonness: an open sense for Nature, a soft heart, a warm rich fancy, and here and there some under-current of Humour are distinctly enough discernible. Of this latter quality, which, as has been often said, forms Richter's grand characteristic, we would fain give our readers some correct notion; but see not well how it is to be done. Being genuine poetic humour, not drollery or vulgar caricature, it is like a fine essence, like a soul; we discover it only in whole works and delineations; as the soul is only to be seen in the living body, not in detached limbs and fragments. Richter's Humour takes a great variety of forms, some of them sufficiently grotesque and piebald; ranging from the light kindly-comic vein of Sterne in his Trim and Uncle Toby, over all intermediate degrees, to the rugged grim farce-tragedy often manifested in Hogarth's pictures; nay, to still darker and wilder moods than this. Of the former sort are his characters of Fixlein, Schmelzle, Fibel; of the latter his Vult, Giannozzo, Leibgebber, Schoppe, which last two are indeed one and the same. Of these, of the spirit that reigns in them, we should despair of giving other than the most inade. quate and even incorrect idea, by any extracts or expositions that could possibly be furnished here. Not without reluctance we have accordingly renounced that enterprise; and must content ourselves with some "Extra-leaf," or "O, my heart is more in earnest than you other separable passage, which, if it afford no think; the parents anger me who are soulemblem of Richter's Humour, may be, in these brokers; the daughters sadden me, who are circumstances, our best approximation to such. made slave-Negresses.-Ah, is it wonderful Of the Extra-leaves," in Hesperus itself, a that these, who in their West-Indian marketconsiderable volume might be formed, and place, must dance, laugh, speak, sing, till some truly one of the strangest. Most of them, lord of a plantation take them home with him, however, are national; could not be appre--that these, I say, should be as slavishly treathended without a commentary; and even then, ed, as they are sold and bought? Ye poor much to their disadvantage, for Humour must lambs!-And yet ye, too, are as bad as your be seen, not through a glass, but face to face. sale-mothers and sale-fathers: what is one to The following is nowise one of the best; but do with his enthusiasm for your sex, when one it turns on what we believe is a quite Euro- travels through German towns, where every pean subject, at all events is certainly an Eng-heaviest pursed, every longest-tilled individual, lish one. were he second cousin to the Devil himself, can point with his finger to thirty houses, and Extra-leaf on Daughter-full Houses. say I know not, shall it be from the pearl"The Minister's house was an open book-coloured, or the nut-brown, or the steel-green shop, the books in which (the daughters) you house, that I wed; open to customers are they might read there, but could not take home with all!-How, my girls, is your heart so little you. Though five other daughters were al-worth that you cut it, like old clothes, after any ready standing in five private libraries, as fashion, to fit any breast; and does it wax or wives, and one under the ground at Maienthal shrink, then, like a Chinese ball, to fit itself was sleeping off the child's-play of life, yet into the ball-mould and marriage ring-case of still in this daughter-warehouse there remained any male heart whatever? Well, it must; three gratis copies to be disposed of to good unless we would sit at home, and grow Old friends. The Minister was always prepared, Maids,' answer they; whom I will not answer, in drawings from the office-lottery, to give his but turn scornfully away from them to address daughters as premiums to winners, and hold- that same Old Maid in these words: ers of the lucky ticket. Whom God gives an office, he also gives, if not sense for it, at least a wife. In a daughter-full house, there must, as in the Church of St. Peter's, be confessionals for all nations, for all characters, for all faults; that the daughters may sit as confessoresses Globe.




*His Aman. Acad.-The Treatise on the Habitable

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Forsaken, but patient one! misknown and mistreated! Think not of the times when thou hadst hope of a better than the present are, and

repent the noble pride of thy heart never! It is | Plattner's mouth, created whole books in me." not always our duty to marry, but it is always-The following dream is perhaps his grandest, our duty to abide by right, not to purchase hap-as, undoubtedly, it is among his most celebrated. piness by loss of honour, not to avoid unwed- We shall give it entire, long as it is, and therededness by untruthfulness. Lonely, unadmired with finish our quotations. What value he heroine in thy last hour, when all Life and himself put on it, may be gathered from the the bygone possessions and scaffoldings of Life following Note: "If ever my heart," says he, shall crumble in pieces, ready to fall down; in" were to grow so wretched and so dead, that that hour thou wilt look back on thy untenant- all feelings in it which announce the being of ed life: no children, no husband, no wet eyes a God were extinct there, I would terrify mywill be there; but in the empty dusk, one high, self with this sketch of mine; it would heal pure, angelic, smiling, beaming Figure, godlike me, and give me my feelings back." We and mounting to the Godlike, will hover, and translate it from Siebenkas, where it forms the beckon thee to mount with her,-mount thou first chapter, or Flumens.ück, (Flower-piece.) with her, the Figure is thy Virtue.'"

We have spoken above, and warmly, of Jean Paul's Imagination, of his high devout feeling, which it were now a still more grateful part of our task to exhibit. But in this also our readers must content themselves with some imperfect glimpses. What religious opinions and aspirations he specially entertained, how that noblest portion of man's interests represented itself in such a mind, were long to describe, did we even know it with certainty. He hints somewhere that "the soul, which by nature looks Heavenward, is without a Temple in this age;" in which the careful reader will decipher much.

"The purpose of this fiction is the excuse of its boldness. Men deny the Divine Existence with as little feeling as the most assert it. Even in our true systems we go on collecting mere words, playmarks, and medals, as the misers do coins; and not till late do we transform the words into feelings, the coins into enjoyments. A man may, for twenty years, believe the Immortality of the Soul;—in the one-and-twentieth, in some great moment, he for the first time discovers with amazement the rich meaning of this belief, and the warmth of this Naptha-well.


Of such sort, too, was my terror at the poisonous stifling vapour which floats out round the heart of him who for the first time enters the school of Atheism. I could with less pain deny Immortality, than Deity; there I should lose but a world covered with mists, here I should lose the present world, namely, the Sun thereof: the whole Spiritual Universe is dashed asunder by the hand of Atheism, into number

The stones and rocks, which two veiled Figures, (Necessity and Vice,) like Deucalion and Pyrrha, are casting behind them, at Good-less quicksilver-points of Me's, which glitter, ness, will themselves become men. run, waver, fly together or asunder, without "And on the Western Gate (Abendthor, eve-unity or continuance. No one in Creation is so ning-gate) of this century stands written: Here alone, as the denier of God; he mourns, with is the way to Virtue and Wisdom; as on the an orphaned heart that has lost its great Father, Western-Gate at Cherson stands the proud In- by the corpse of Nature, which no World-spirit scription: Here is the way to Byzance. moves and holds together, and which grows in "Infinite Providence, Thou wilt cause the its grave; and he mourns by that Corpse till day to dawn. he himself crumble off from it. The whole world lies before him, like the Egyptian Sphinx of stone, half-buried in the sand; and the All is the cold iron mask of a formless Eternity.*

"I merely remark farther, that with the belief of Atheism, the belief of Immortality is quite compatible; for the same Necessity, which in this Life threw my light dew-drop of a Me into a flower-bell and under a Sun, can repeat that process in a second life;-nay, more easily imbody me-the second time than the first.

"But there will come another era," says Paul," when it shall be light, and man will awaken from his lofty dreams, and find-his dreams still there, and that nothing is gone save his sleep.


"But as yet, struggles the twelfth-hour of the Night: the nocturnal birds of prey are on the wing, spectres uproar, the dead walk, the living dream."-Hesperus. Preface.

Connected with this, there is one other piece, which also for its singular poetic qualities, we shall translate here. The reader has heard much of Richter's Dreams, with what strange prophetic power he rules over that chaos of spiritual Nature, bodying forth a whole world of Darkness, broken by pallid gleams, or wild sparkles of light, and peopled with huge, shadowy, bewildered shapes, full of grandeur and meaning. No Poet known to us, not Milton himself, shows such a vastness of Imagination; such a rapt, deep, old Hebrew spirit, as Richter in these scenes. He mentions in his Biographical Notes the impression which these lines of the Tempest had on him, as recited by one of his companions:

"We are such stuff

As dreams are made of, and our little Life
Is rounded with a sleep."

"The passage of Shakspeare," says he, "rounded with a sleep, (mit Schluf umgeben,) in

"If we hear, in childhood, that the dead, about midnight, when our sleep reaches near the soul, and darkens even our dreams, awake out of theirs, and in the church mimic the worship of the living, we shudder at Death by reason of the dead, and in the night-solitude turn away our eyes from the long silent windows of the church, and fear to search in their gleaming, whether it proceed from the moon.

"Childhood, and rather its terrors than its raptures, take wings and radiance again in dreams, and sport like fire-flies in the little night of the soul. Crush not these flickering sparks!-Leave us even our dark painful

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