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spiritual, is of prime influence; not the form of government he lives under, and the power he can accumulate there, but the Church he is a member of, and the degree of moral Elevation he can acquire by means of its instruction. Church History, then, did it speak | wisely, would have momentous secrets to teach us: nay, in its highest degree, it were a sort of continued Holy Writ our sacred books being, indeed, only a History of the primeval Church, as it first arose in man's soul, and symbolically imbodied itself in his external life. How far our actual Church Historians fall below such unattainable standards, nay, below quite attainable approximations thereto, we need not point out. Of the Ecclesiastical Historian we have to complain, as we did of his Political fellow-craftsman, that his inquiries turn rather on the outward mechanism, the mere hulls and superficial accidents of the object, than on the object itself; as if the church lay in Bishop's Chapter-houses, and Ecumenic Council Halls, and Cardinals' Conclaves, and not far more in the hearts of Believing Men, in whose walk and conversation, as influenced thereby, its chief manifestations were to be looked for, and its progress or decline ascertained. The history of the Church is a History of the Invisible as well as of the Visible Church; which latter, if disjoined from the former, is but a vacant edifice; gilded, it may be, and overhung with old votive gifts, yet useless, nay, pestilentially unclean; to write whose history is less important than to forward its downfall.

Of a less ambitious character are the Histories that relate to special separate provinces of human Action; to Sciences, Practical Arts, Institutions, and the like; matters which do not imply an epitome of man's whole interest and form of life; but wherein, though each is still connected with all, the spirit of each, at least its material results, may be in some degree evolved without so strict reference to that of the others. Highest in dignity and difficulty, under this head, would be our histories of Philosophy, of man's opinions and theories respecting the nature of his Being, and relations to the Universe, Visible and Invisible; which History, indeed, were it fitly treated, or fit for right treatment, would be a province of Church History; the logical or dogmatical province of it; for Philosophy, in its true sense, is or should be the soul, of which Religion, Worship, is the body; in the healthy state of things the Philosopher and Priest were one and the same. But Philosophy itself is far enough from wearing this character; neither have its Historians been men, generally speaking, that could in the smallest degree approximate it thereto. Scarcely since the rude era of the Magi and Druids has that same healthy identification of Priest and Philosopher had place in any country: but rather the worship of divine things, and the scientific investigation of divine things, have been in quite different hands, their relations not friendly but hostile. Neither have the Brückers and Bühles, to say nothing of the

many unhappy Enfields who have treated of that latter department, been more than barren reporters, often unintelligent and unintelligible reporters, of the doctrine uttered, without force to discover how the doctrine originated, or what reference it bore to its time and country, to the spiritual position of mankind there and then. Nay, such a task did not perhaps lie before them, as a thing to be attempted.

Art, also, and Literature are intimately blended with Religion; as it were, outworks and abutments, by which that highest pinnacle in our inward world gradually connects itself with the general level, and becomes accessible therefrom. He who should write a proper History of Poetry, would depict for us the successive Revelations which man had obtained of the Spirit of Nature; under what aspects he had caught and endeavoured to body forth some glimpse of that unspeakable Beauty, which in its highest clearness is Religion, is the inspira. tion of a Prophet, yet in one or the other degree must inspire every true Singer, were his theme never so humble. We should see by what steps men had ascended to the Temple; how near they had approached; by what ill hap they had, for long periods, turned away from it, and grovelled on the plain with no music in the air, or blindly struggled towards other heights. That among all our Eichhorns and Wartons there is no such Historian, must be too clear to every one. Nevertheless let us not despair of far nearer approaches to that excellence. Above all, let us keep the Ideal of it ever in our eye; for thereby alone have we even a chance to reach it.

Our histories of Laws and Constitutions, wherein many a Montesquieu and Hallam has laboured with acceptance, are of a much sim pler nature, yet deep enough, if thoroughly investigated; and useful, when authentic, even with little depth. Then we have Histories of Medicine, of Mathematics, of Astronomy, Commerce, Chivalry, Monkery; and Goguets and Beckmanns have come forward with what might be the most bountiful contribution of all, a History of Inventions. Of all which sorts, and many more not here enumerated, not yet devised and put in practice, the merit and the proper scheme may require no exposition.

In this manner, though, as above remarked, all Action is extended three ways, and the general sum of human Action is a whole Universe, with all limits of it unknown, does History strive by running path after path, through the Impassable, in manifold directions and intersections, to secure for us some oversight of the Whole; in which endeavour, if each Historian look well around him from his path, tracking it out with the eye, not, as is more come on, with the nose, he may at last prove not altogether unsuccess ful. Praying only that increased division of labour do not here, as elsewhere, aggravate our already strong Mechanical tendencies, so that in the manual dexterity for parts we lose all command over the whole; and the hope of any Philosophy of History be farther off than ever; let us all wish her great, and greater success.



AMONG Luther's Spiritual Songs, of which various collections have appeared of late years, the one entitled Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott is universally regarded as the best; and indeed still retains its place and devotional use in the Psalmodies of Protestant Germany. Of the Tune, which also is by Luther, we have no copy, and only a second-hand knowledge: to the original Words, probably never before printed in England, we subjoin the following translation; which, if it possesses the only merit it can pretend to, that of literal adherence to the sense, will not prove unacceptable to our readers. Luther's music is heard daily in our churches, several of our finest Psalm-tunes being of his composition. Luther's sentiments, also, are, or should be, present in many an English heart; the more interesting to us is any the smallest articulate expression of these. The great Reformer's love of music, of poetry, it has often been remarked, is one of the most significant features in his character. But, indeed, if every great man, Napoleon himself, is intrinsically a poet, an idealist, with more or less completeness of utterance, which of all our great men, in these modern ages, had such an endowment in that kind as Luther? He it was, emphatically, who stood based on the Spiritual World of man, and only by the footing and miraculous power he had obtained there, could work such changes in the Material World. As a participant and dispenser of divine influences, he shows himself among human affairs a true connecting medium and visible Messenger between Heaven and Earth; a man, therefore, not only permitted to enter the sphere of Poetry, but to dwell in the purest centre thereof: perhaps the most inspired of all Teachers since the first apostles of his faith; and thus not a poet only but a Prophet and God-ordained Priest, which is the highest form of that dignity, and of all dignity.

Unhappily, or happily, Luther's poetic feeling did not so much learn to express itself in fit Words that take captive every ear, as in fit Actions, wherein truly, under still more impressive manifestation, the spirit of spheral Melody resides, and still audibly addresses us. In his

ritten Poems we find little, save that Strength of one "whose words," it has been said, "were half-battles;" little of that still Harmony and blending softness of union which is the last perfection of Strength; less of it than even his conduct often manifested. With words he had not learned to make pure music; it was by deeds of Love, or heroic Valour, that he spoke freely; in tones, only through his Flute, amid tears, could the sigh of that strong soul find


For example: Luther's geistliche Lieder nebst dessen Gedanken über die musica, (Berlin, 1817): Die Lieder Luther's gesammelt von Kosegarten und Rambach, &c.

Nevertheless, though in imperfect articula tion, the same voice, if we will listen well, is to be heard also in his writings, in his Poems. The following, for example, jars upon our ears; yet is there something in it like the sound of Alpine avalanches, or the first murmur of Earthquakes; in the very vastness of which dissonance a higher unison is revealed to us. Luther wrote this Song in a time of blackest threatenings, which, however, could in no wise become a time of Despair. In those tones, rugged, broken as they are, do we not recognise the accent of that summoned man, (summoned not by Charles the Fifth, but by God Almighty also,) who answered his friend's warning not to enter Worms in this wise: "Were there as many devils in Worms as there are roof-tiles, I would on ;"-of him who, alone in that assemblage, before all emperors, and principali ties, and powers, spoke forth these final and for ever memorable words: "It is neither safe nor prudent to do aught against conscience. Here stand I, I cannot otherwise. God assist me. Amen!"* It is evident enough that to this man all Popes' conclaves, and imperial Diets, and hosts and nations were but weak; weak as the forest, with all its strong Trees, may be to the smallest spark of electric Fire.


Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott,
Ein' gute Wehr und Waffen;
Er hilft uns frey aus aller Noth,
Die uns jetzt hat betroffen.
Der alte böse Fiend,

Mit Ernst ers jetzt meint;
Gross Macht und viel List
Sein grausam' Rüs'zench ist,
Auf Erd'n ist nicht seins Gleicken.

Mit unsrer Macht ist nichts gethan,
Wir sind gar bald verloren :
Es streit't für uns der rechte Mann,
Den Gott selbst hat erkoren.
Fragst du wer er ist?
Er heisst Jesus Christ,
Der Herre Zebaoth,
Und ist kein ander Gott,
Das Feld muss er behalten.

Und wenn die Welt voll Teufel wür,
Und wollt'n uns gar verschlingen,
So fürchten wir uns nicht so sehr,
Es soll uns doch gelingen.
Der Fürste dieser welt,
Wie sauer er sich stellt,
Thut er uns doch nichts;
Das macht er ist gerichtt.

Ein Wörtlein kann ihn fällen.

"Till such time, as either by proofs from Holy Scripture, or by fair reason and argument, I have been confuted and convicted, I cannot and will not recant, weil weder sicher noch gerathen ist, etwas wider Gewissen zu thun. Hier stehe ich, ich kann nicht anders. Gott helfe mir. Amen!”

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To the student of German Literature, or of Literature in general, these volumes, purporting to lay open the private intercourse of two men eminent beyond all others of their time in that department, will doubtless be a welcome appearance. Neither Schiller nor Goethe has ever, that we have hitherto seen, written worthlessly on any subject, and the writings here offered us are confidential Let-itself into eaves-dropping. ters, relating moreover to a highly important period in the spiritual history, not of the parties themselves, but of their country likewise; full of topics, high and low, on which far meaner talents than theirs might prove interesting. We have heard and known so much of both these venerated persons; of their friendship, and true co-operation in so many noble endeavours, the fruit of which has long been plain to every one: and now are we to look into the secret constitution and conditions of all this; to trace the public result, which is Ideal, down to its roots in the Common; how Poets may live and work poetically among the Prose things of this world, and Fausts and Tells be written on rag-paper, and with goose-quills, like mere Minerva Novels, and songs by a Person of Quality! Virtuosos have glass bee-hives, which they curiously peep into; but here truly were a far stranger sort of honey-making. Nay, apart from virtuosoship, or any technical object, what a hold have such things on our universal curiosity as men! If the sympathy we feel with one another is infinite, or nearly so,-in proof of which, do but

consider the boundless ocean of Gossip (im perfect, undistilled Biography) which is emitted and imbibed by the human species daily ;if every secret-history, every closed-door's conversation, how trivial soever, has an interest for us, then might the conversation of a Schiller with a Goethe, so rarely do Schillers meet with Goethes among us, tempt Honesty

Unhappily the conversation flits away for ever with the hour that witnessed it; and the Letter and Answer, frank, lively, genial as they may be, are only a poor emblem and epitome of it. The living dramatic movement is gone; nothing but the cold historical net-product remains for us. It is true, in every confidential Letter, the writer will, in some measure, more or less directly depict himself: but nowhere is Painting, by pen or pencil, so inadequate as in delineating spiritual Nature. The Py ramid can be measured in geometric feet, and the draughtsman represents it, with all its environment, on canvas, accurately to the eye, nay Mont-Blanc is embossed in coloured stucco; and we have his very type, and miniature fac-simile, in our museums. But for great Men, let him who would know such, pray that he may see them daily face to face: for, in the dim distance, and by the eye of the imagination, our vision, do what we may, will be too imperfect. How pale, thin, ineffectual do the great figures we would fain summon from History rise before us! Scarcely as palpable men does our utmost effort body them forth; oftenest only like Ossian's ghosts, in

*Briefwechsel zwischen Schiller und Goethe, in den jah-hazy twilight, with "stars dim twinkling

ren 1794 bis 1805. (Correspondence between Schiller and Goethe in the years 1794-1805.) 1st-3d Volumes through their forms." Our Socrates, our Lu(1794-1797.) Stuttgart and Tübingen, 1828, 1829. ther, after all that we have talked and argued

of them, are to most of us quite invisible; the view, the "Correspondence of Schiller and Sage of Athens, the Monk of Eisleben: not Goethe" may have, we shall not attempt dePersons but Titles. Yet such men, far more termining here; the rather as only a portion than any Alps or Coliseums, are the true of the work, and to judge by the space of time world-wonders, which it concerns us to behold included in it, only a small portion, is yet be clearly, and imprint for ever on our remem-fore us. Nay, perhaps its full worth will not brance. Great men are the Fire-pillars in this become apparent till a future age, when the dark pilgrimage of mankind; they stand as persons and concerns it treats of shall have heavenly Signs, ever-living witnesses of what assumed their proper relative magnitude and has been, prophetic tokens of what may still stand disencumbered, and for ever separated be, the revealed, imbodied Possibilities of hu- from contemporary trivialities, which, for the man nature; which greatness he who has present, with their hollow, transient bulk, so never seen, or rationally conceived of, and mar our estimate. Two centuries ago, Leiwith his whole heart passionately loved and cester and Essex might be the wonders of reverenced, is himself for ever doomed to be England; their Kenilworth festivities and Calittle. How many weighty reasons, how many diz Expeditions seemed the great occurrences innocent allurements attract our curiosity to of that day; but what should we now give, such men! We would know them, see them were these all forgotten and some "Correvisibly, even as we know and see our like: spondence between Shakspeare and Ben Jonno hint, no notice that concerns them is super- son" suddenly brought to light! fluous or too small for us. Were Gulliver's conjurer but here, to recall and sensibly bring back the brave Past, that we might look into it, and scrutinize it at will! But, alas, in Nature there is no such conjuring: the great spirits that have gone before us can survive only as disembodied Voices; their form and distinctive aspect, outward and even in many respects inward, all whereby they were known as living, breathing men, has passed into another sphere; from which only History, in scanty memorials, can evoke some faint resemblance of it. The more precious, in spite of all imperfections, is such History, are such memorials, that still in some degree preserve what had otherwise been lost without very.

One valuable quality these letters of Schiller and Goethe everywhere exhibit, that of truth: whatever we do learn from them, whether in the shape of fact or of opinion, may be relied on as genuine. There is a tone of entire sincerity in that style: a constant natural courtesy nowhere obstructs the right freedom of word or thought; indeed, no ends but honourable ones, and generally of a mutual interest, are before either party; thus neither needs to veil, still less to mask himself from the other; the two self-portraits, so far as they are filled up, may be looked upon as real likenesses. Perhaps, to most readers, some larger intermixture of what we should call domestic reco-interest, of ordinary human concerns, and the hopes, fears, and other feelings these excite, For the rest, as to the maxim, often enough in- would have improved the work; which as it is, culcated on us, that close inspection will abate not indeed without pleasant exceptions, turns our admiration, that only the obscure can be sub- mostly on compositions, and publications, and lime, let us put small faith in it. Here, as in other philosophies, and other such high matters. provinces, it is not knowledge, but a little know- This, we believe, is a rare fault in modern ledge, that puffeth up, and for wonder at the Correspondences; where generally the oppothing known substitutes mere wonder at the site fault is complained of, and except mere knower thereof: to a sciolist, the starry hea- temporalities, good and evil hap of the corre vens revolving in dead mechanism, may be sponding parties, their state of purse, heart, less than a Jacob's vision; but to the Newton and nervous system, and the moods and huthey are more; for the same God still dwells mours these give rise to,-little stands recordenthroned there, and holy Influences, like An- ed for us. It may be too that native readers gels, still ascend and descend; and this clearer will feel such a want less than foreigners do, vision of a little but renders the remaining whose curiosity in this instance is equally mimystery the deeper and more divine. So like-nute, and to whom so many details, familiar wise is it with true spiritual greatness. On enough in the country itself, must be unknown. the whole, that theory of "no man being a At all events, it is to be remembered that Schilhero to his valet," carries us but a little way ler and Goethe are, in strict speech, Literary into the real nature of the case. With a su- Men; for whom their social life is only as the perficial meaning which is plain enough, it dwelling-place and outward tabernacle of their essentially holds good only of such heroes as spiritual life; which latter is the one thing are false, or else of such valets as are too ge- needful; the other, except in subserviency to nuine, as are shoulder-knotted and brass-lack- this, meriting no attention, or the least possiered in soul as well as in body: of other sorts ble. Besides, as cultivated men, perhaps even it does not hold. Milton was still a hero to by natural temper, they are not in the habit of the good Elwood. But we dwell not on that yielding to violent emotions of any kind, still mean doctrine, which, true or false, may be less of unfolding and depicting such, by letter, left to itself the more safely, as in practice it even to closest intimates; a turn of mind is of little or no immediate import. For were which, if it diminished the warmth of their it never so true, yet, unless we preferred huge epistolary intercourse, must have increased bug-bears to small realities, our practical their private happiness, and so, by their friends, course were still the same: to inquire, to in- can hardly be regretted. He who wears his vestigate by all methods, till we saw clearly. heart on his sleeve, will often have to lament What worth in this biographical point of aloud that daws peck at it: he who does

Of|tion for him is of old standing, and has not abated, as it ripened into calm, loving estimation. But to English expositors of Foreign Literature, at this epoch, there will be many more pressing duties than that of expounding Schiller. To a considerable extent, Schiller may be said to expound himself. His greatness is of a simple kind; his manner of displaying it is, for most part, apprehensible to every one.-Besides, of all German Writers, ranking in any such class as his, Klopstock scarcely excepted, he has the least nationality: his character indeed is German, if German mean true, earnest, nobly-humane; but his mode of thought, and mode of utterance, all but the mere vocables of it, are European. Accordingly, it is to be observed, no German Writer has had such acceptance with foreigners; has been so instantaneously admitted into favour, at least any favour which proved permanent. Among the French, for example, Schiller is almost naturalized; translated, commented upon, by men of whom Constant is one; even brought upon the stage, and by a large class of critics vehemently extolled there. Indeed, to the Romanticist class, in all countries, Schiller is naturally the pattern man and great master; as it were a sort of ambassador and mediator, were mediation possible, between the Old School and the New; pointing to his own Works, as to a glittering bridge, that will lead pleasantly from the Versailles gardening and artificial hydraulics of the one, into the true Ginnistan and wonderland of the other. With ourselves too, who are troubled with no controversies on Romanticism_and Classicism,-the Bowles controversy on Pope having long since evaporated without result, and all critical guild-brethren now working diligently with one accord, in the calmer sphere of Vapidism, or even Nullism,-Schiller is no less universally esteemed by persons of any feeling for poetry. To readers of German, and these are increasing everywhere a hundred fold, he is one of the earliest studies; and the dulles! cannot study him without some perception of his beauties. For the un-German, again, we have Translations in abundance and supera. bundance; through which, under whatever distortion, however shorn of his beams, some image of this poetical sun must force itself; and in susceptive hearts, awaken love, and a desire for more immediate insight. So that now, we suppose, anywhere in England, a man who denied that Schiller was a Poet would himself be, from every side, declared a Prosaist, and thereby summarily enough put to silence.

not, will spare himself such lamenting. Rousseau's Confessions, whatever value we assign that sort of ware, there is no vestige in this Correspondence.

Meanwhile, many cheerful, honest little domestic touches are given here and there; which we can accept gladly, with no worse censure than wishing that there had been more. But this Correspondence has another and more proper aspect, under which, if rightly considered, it possesses a far higher interest than most domestic delineations could have impart ed. It shows us two high, creative, truly poetic minds, unweariedly cultivating themselves, unweariedly advancing from one measure of strength and clearness to another; whereby to such as travel, we say not on the same road, for this few can do, but in the same direction, as all should do, the richest psychological and practical lesson is laid out; from which men of every intellectual degree may learn something, and he that is of the highest degree will probably learn the most. What value lies in this lesson, moreover, may be expected to increase in an increasing ratio as the Correspondence proceeds, and a larger space, with broader differences of advancement, comes into view; especially as respects Schiller, the younger and more susceptive of the two; for whom, in particular, these eleven years may be said to comprise the most important era of his culture; indeed, the whole history of his progress therein, from the time when he first found the right path, and properly became progressive.

But to enter farther on the merits and special qualities of these Letters, which, on all hands, will be regarded as a publication of real value, both intrinsic and extrinsic, is not our task now. Of the frank, kind, mutually-respectful relation that manifests itself between the two Correspondents; of their several epistolary styles, and the worth of each, and whatever else characterizes this work as a series of biographical documents, or of philosophical views, we may at some future period have occasion to speak; certain detached speculations and indications will of themselves come before us in the course of our present undertaking. Meanwhile to British readers, the chief object is not the Letters, but the writers of them. Of Goethe the public already know something: of Schiller, less is known, and our wish is to bring him into closer approximation with our readers.

Indeed, had we considered only his importance in German, or we may now say, in European Literature, Schiller might well have demanded an earlier notice in our Journal. As All which being so, the weightiest part of our a man of true poetical and philosophical ge-duty, that of preliminary pleading for Schiller nius, who proved this high endowment both in of asserting rank and excellence for him while his conduct, and by a long series of Writings a stranger, and to judges suspicious of coun which manifest it to all; nay, even as a man terfeits, is taken off our hands. The knowledge so eminently admired by his nation, while of his works is silently and rapidly proceeding; he lived, and whose fame, there and abroad, in the only way by which true knowledge can during the twenty-five years since his decease, be attained, by loving study of them, in many has been constantly expanding and confirm an inquiring, candid mind. Moreover, as ing itself, he appears with such claims as can remarked above, Schiller's works, generally belong only to a small number of men. If we speaking, require little commentary: for a have seemed negligent of Schiller, want of man of such excellence, for a true Poet we affection was nowise the cause. Our admira- should say that his worth lies singularly open;

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