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"If one were to say, 'You think it easy to be original: but no, it is difficult; it costs a whole life of labour and exertion,'-you would think him mad, and ask no more questions of him. And yet his opinion would be altogether true, and plain enough withal. Original, I grant, every man might be, and must be, if men did not almost always admit mere undigested hearsays into their head, and fling them out again undigested. Whoever honestly questions himself, and faithfully answers, is busied continually with all that presents itself in life; and is incessantly inventing, had the thing been invented never so long before. Honesty belongs as a first condition to good thinking; and there are almost as few absolute dunces as geniuses. Genuine dunces would always be original; but there are none of them genuine : they have almost always understanding enough to be dishonest."

"He (the blockhead) tumbled out on me his definition of genius; the trivial old distinctions of intellect and heart; as if there ever was, or could be, a great intellect with a mean heart!"

"To Rose, a younger sister, on her marriage in Amsterdam.-Paris, 1801. Since thy last letter I am sore downcast. Gone art thou! No Rose comes stepping in to me with true foot and heart, who knows me altogether, knows all my sorrows altogether. When I am sick of body or soul, alone, alone thou comest not to me any more; thy room empty, quite empty, for ever empty. Thou art away, to try thy for tune. O Heaven! and to me not even trying is permitted. Am not I in luck! The garden in the Lindenstrasse where we used to be with Hanne and Feu-was it not beautiful? I will call it Rose now; with Hanne and Hanse will I go often thither, and none shall know of it. ". . . . I here, Rahel the Jewess, feel Dost thou recollect that night when I was to set that I am as unique as the greatest appearance out with Fink the time before last? How in this earth. The greatest artist, philosopher thou hadst to sleep up stairs, and then to stay or poet, is not above me. We are of the same with me? O my sister, I might be as ill again element; in the same rank, and stand together.though not for that cause: and thou too, Whichever would exclude the other, excludes what may not lie before thee! But, no, thy only himself. But to me it was appointed not name is Rose; thou hast blue eyes, and a far to write, or act, but to live: I lay in embryo till other life than I with my stars and black ones. iny century; and then was, in outward respects, * Salute mamma a million times; tell so flung away. It is for this reason that I tell her I congratulate her from- the heart; the you. But pain, as I know it, is a life too: and more so as I can never give her such a pleaI think with myself, I am one of those figures sure! God willed it not. But I, in her place, which Humanity was fated to evolve, and then would have great pity for a child so circumnever to use more, never to have more: Me stanced. Yet let her not lament for me. I no one can comfort."-" Why not be beside know all her goodness, and thank her with my oneself, dear friend? There are beautiful pa- soul. Tell her I have the fate of nations and

"Goethe? When I think of him, tears come into my eyes: all other men I love with my own strength; he teaches me to love with his. My Poet!"

rentheses in life, which belong neither to us nor to others: beautiful I name them, because they give us a freedom we could not get by sound sense. Who would volunteer to have a nervous fever? And yet it may save one's life. I love rage; I use it, and patronize it."-" Be not alarmed; I am commonly calmer. But when I write to a friend's heart, it comes to pass that the sultry laden horizon of my soul breaks out in lightning. Heavenly men love lightning."

"To Varnhagen. . . One thing I must write to thee; what I thought of last night in bed, and for the first time in my life. That I, as a relative and pupil of Shakspeare, have, from my childhood upwards, occupied myself much with death, thou mayest believe. But never did my own death affect me; nay, I did not even think of this fact, that I was affected by it. Now, last night there was something I had to write; I said Varnhagen must know this thing, if he is to think of me after I am dead. And it seemed to me as if I must die; as if my heart were flitting away over this earth, and I must follow it; and my death gave me pity: for never before, as I now saw, had I thought that it would give anybody pity of thee I knew it would do so, and yet it was the first time in my life I had seen this, or known that I had never seen it. In such solitude have I lived: comprehend it! I thought, when I am dead, then first will Varnhagen know what sufferings I had; and all his lamenting will be in vain; the figure of me meets him again through all eternity no more; swept away am I then, as our poor Prince Louis is. And no one can be kind to me then; with the strongest will, with the exertion of despair, no one: and this thought of thee about me was what at last af fected me. I must write of this, though it af flict thee never so."

"Slave-trade, war, marriage, working-classes-and they are astonished, and keep clouting and remending?"

"The whole world is, properly speaking, a tragic embarras."

of the greatest men before my eyes here: they go tumbling even so on the great sea of Exis.nce, mounting, sinking, swallowed up. From old all men have seemed to me like spring blossoms, which the wind blows off and whirls; none knows where they fall, and the fewest come to fruit."

Poor Rahel! The Frenchman said above she was an artist and apostle, yet had not ceased to be a child and woman. But we must stop short. One other little scene, a scene from her death-bed by Varnhagen, must end the tragedy:


She said to me one morning, after a dreadful night, with the penetrating tone of that lovely voice of hers: 'O, I am still happy; I am God's creature still; He knows of me; I shall come to see how it was good and needful for me to suffer: of a surety I had something to learn by it. And am I not already happy in this trust, and in all the love that I feel and meet with?'


"It might be about midnight, and I was still awake, when Dora called me: I was to come, she was much worse.' Instead of sleep, Rahel had found only suffering, one distress added to another; and now all had combined into decided spasm of the breast. I found her in a state little short of that she had passed six days ago. The medicines left for such an occurrence (regarded as possible, not probable) were tried; but this time with little effect. The frightful struggle continued; and the beloved sufferer, writhing in Dora's arms, cried, several "In this manner she spoke, one day, among times, This pressure against her breast was other things, with joyful heartiness, of a dream not to be borne, was pushing her heart out? which always from childhood she had remem- the breathing, too, was painfully difficult. She bered and taken comfort from. In my seventh complained that it was getting into her head year,' said she, 'I dreamt that I saw God quite now, that she felt like a cloud there;' she leannear me; he stood expanded above me, and ed back with that. A deceptive hope of some his mantle was the whole sky; on a corner of alleviation gleamed on us for a moment, and this mantle I had leave to rest, and lay there then went out for ever; the eyes were dimmed, in peaceable felicity till I awoke. Ever since, the mouth distorted, the limbs lamed! In this through my whole life, this dream has return-state the doctors found her; their remedies ed on me, and in the worst times was present were all bootless. An unconscious hour and also in my waking moments, and a heavenly half, during which the breast still occasionally comfort to me. I had leave to throw myself struggled in spasmodic efforts-and this noble at God's feet, on a corner of his mantle, and life breathed out its last. The look I got then, he screened me from all sorrow there: He per- kneeling almost lifeless at her bed, stamped mitted it.' The following words, itself, glowing, for ever into my heart." which I felt called to write down exactly as she spoke them on the 2d of March, are also remarkable: What a history!' cried she with deep emotion: A fugitive from Egypt and Palestine am I here; and find help, love, and kind care among you. To thee, dear August, was I sent by this guiding of God, and thou to me; from afar, from the old times of Jacob and the Patriarchs! With a sacred joy I think of this my origin, of all this wide web of prearrangement. How the oldest remembrances of mankind are united with the newest reality of things, and the most distant times and places are brought together. What for so long a period of my life I considered as the worst ignominy, the sorest sorrow and misfortune, that I was born a Jewess, this I would not part with now for any price. Will it not be even so with these pains of sickness? Shall I not one day mount joyfully aloft on them, too; feel that I could not want them for any price? O August, this is just, this is true; we will try to go on thus! Thereupon she said, with many tears, Dear August, my heart is refreshed to its inmost; I have thought of Jesus, and wept over his sorrows; I have felt, for the first time felt, that he is my Brother. And Mary, what must she have suffered! She saw her beloved Son in agony, and did not sink; she stood at the Cross. That I could not have done; I am not strong enough for that. Forgive me, God, I confess how weak I am.' • "At nightfall, on the 6th of March, Rahel


So died Rahel Varnhagen von Ense, born Levin, a singular biographic phenomenon of this century; a woman of genius, of true depth and worth, whose secluded life, as one cannot but see, had in it a greatness far be yond what has many times fixed the public admiration of the whole world; a woman equal to the highest thoughts of her century; in whom it was not arrogance, we do believe, but a just self-consciousness, to feel that "the highest philosopher, or poet, or artist was not above her, but of a like element and rank with her." That such a woman should have lived unknown and, as it were, silent to the world, is peculiar in this time.

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felt herself easier than for long before, and expressed an irresistible desire to be new dressed. As she could not be persuaded from it, this was done, though with the utmost precau tion. She herself was busily helpful in it, and signified great contentment that she bad got it accomplished. She felt so well she expected to sleep. She wished me good-night, and bade me also go and sleep. Even the maid, Dora, was to go and sleep; however, she did not.

We say not that she was equal to De Staël, nor the contrary; neither that she might have written De Staël's books, nor even that she might not have written far better books. She has ideas unequalled in De Staël; a sincerity, a pure tenderness and genuineness which that celebrated person had not, or had lost. But what then? The subjunctive, the optative are vague moods: there is no tense one can found on but the preterite of the indicative. Enough for us, Rahel did not write. She sat imprisoned, or it might be sheltered and fosteringly embowered, in those circumstances of hers; she "was not appointed to write or to act, but only to live." Call her not unhappy on that account, call her not useless; nay, perhaps, call her happier and usefuller. Blessed are the humble, are they that are not known. It is written. "Seek

est thou great things, seek them not;" live where thou art, only live wisely, live diligently. Rahel's life was not an idle one for herself or for others: how many souls may "the sparkles showering from that light-fountain" have kindled and illuminated; whose new virtue goes on propagating itself, increasing itself, under incalculable combinations, and will be found in far places, after many days! She left no stamp of herself on paper; but in other ways, doubt it not, the virtue of her working in this world will survive all paper. For the working of the good and brave, seen or unseen, endures literally for ever, and cannot die. Is a thing nothing because the morning papers have not mentioned it? Or can a nothing be made some thing, by ever so much babbling of it there? Far better, probably, that no morning or evening paper mentioned it; that the right hand knew not what the left was doing! Rahel might have written books, celebrated books. And yet, what of books? Hast thou not already a bible to write, and publish in print, that is eternal; namely, a Life to lead? Silence, too, is great; there should be great silent ones, too.

Beautiful it is to see and understand that no worth, known or unknown, can die even in this earth. The work an unknown good man has done is like a vein of water flowing_hidden|and instruction he has given us.

To the Honourable the Commons of England in Parliament assembled, the Petition of Thomas Carlyle, a Writer of Books,

Humbly showeth,



That your petitioner has written certain books, being incited thereto by various innocent or laudable considerations, chiefly by the thought that said books might in the end be found to be worth something.

under ground, secretly making the ground
green; it flows and flows, it joins itself with
other veins and veinlets; one day it will start
forth as a visible perennial well. Ten dumb
centuries had made the speaking Dante; a
well he of many veinlets. William Burnes, or
Burns, was a poor peasant; could not prosper
in his "seven acres of nursery-ground,” nor
any enterprise of trade and toil; had to "thel
a factor's snash," and read attorney letters, in
his poor hut, "which threw us all into tears;"
a man of no money-capital at all, of no account
at all; yet a brave man, a wise and just, in
evil fortune faithful, unconquerable to the
death. And there wept withal among the
others a boy named Robert, with a heart of
melting pity, of greatness and fiery wrath; and
his voice, fashioned here by this poor father,
does it not already reach, like a great elegy,
like a stern prophecy, to the ends of the world?
"Let me make the songs, and you shall make
the laws!" What chancellor, king, senator,
begirt with never such sumptuosity, dyed vel-
vet, blaring, and celebrity, could you have
named in England that was so momentous as
that William Burns? Courage!-

That your petitioner had not the happiness to receive from Mr. Thomas Tegg, or any Publisher, Republisher, Printer, Bookseller, Bookbuyer, or other the like man or body of men, any encouragement or countenance in writing of said books, or to discern any chance of receiving such; but wrote them by effort of his own and the favour of Heaven.

We take leave of Varnhagen with true goodwill, and heartily thank him for the pleasure

say what recompense in money this labour of his may deserve; whether it deserve any recompense in money, or whether money in any quantity could hire him to do the like.

That this his labour has found hitherto, in money or money's worth, small recompense or none; that he is by no means sure of its ever finding recompense, but thinks, that, if so, it will be at a distant time, when he, the laborer, will probably no longer be in need of money, and those dear to him will still be in need of it.

That the law does at least protect all persons in selling the production of their labour at what they can get for it, in all market places, to ail lengths of time. Much more than this the law does to many, but so much it does to all, and less than this to none.

That all useful labour is worthy of recompense; that all honest labour is worthy of the That your petitioner cannot discover himchance of recompense; that the giving and self to have done unlawfully in this his said assuring to each man what recompense his labour of writing books, or to have become labour has actually merited, may be said to be criminal, or have forfeited the law's protection the business of all Legislation, Polity, Govern- thereby. Contrariwise your petitioner believes ment, and Social Arrangement whatsoever firmly that he is innocent in said labour; that among men;-a business indispensable to at- if he be found in the long run to have written tempt, impossible to accomplish accurately, a genuine enduring book, his merit therein, difficult to accomplish without inaccuracies and desert towards England and English and that become enormous, unsupportable, and the other men, will be considerable, not easily esti parent of Social Confusions which never alto-mable in money; that on the other hand, if his gether end. book prove false and ephemeral, he and it will That your petitioner does not undertake to be abolished and forgotten, and no harm done.

That, in this manner, your petitioner plays no unfair game against the world; his stake being life itself, so to speak, (for the penalty is death by starvation,) and the world's stake nothing till once it see the dice thrown; so that in any case the world cannot lose.

That in the happy and long-doubtful event of the game's going in his favour, your petitioner submits that the small winnings thereof do belong to him or his, and that no other mortal has justly either part or lot in them at all, now, henceforth, or for ever.



Iturbide, "the Napoleon of Mexico," a great man in that narrow country, who was he? He made the thrice-celebrated "Plan of Iguala:" a constitution of no continuance. He became Emperor of Mexico, most serene Augustin I.:" was deposed, banished to Leghorn, to London; decided on returning;-landed on the shore at Tampico, and was there met, and shot: this, in a vague sort, is what the world knows of the Napoleon of Mexico, most serene Augustin the First, most unfortunate Augustin the Last. He did himself publish memoirs or memorials, but few can read them. Oblivion, and the deserts of Panama, have swallowed this brave Don Augustin: vate caruit sacro.

And Bolivar, "the Washington of Columbia," Liberator Bolivar, he too is gone without


THE confused South American revolution, his fame. Melancholy lithographs represent and set of revolutions, like the South American to us a long-faced, square-browed man; of continent itself, is doubtless a great confused stern, considerate, consciously considerate aspect, phenomenon; worthy of better knowledge than mildly aquiline form of nose; with terrible men yet have of it. Several books, of which angularity of jaw; and dark deep eyes, somewe here name a few known to us, have been what too close together, (for which latter cirwritten on the subject; but bad books mostly, cumstance we earnestly hope the lithograph and productive of almost no effect. The heroes alone is to blame :) this is Liberator Bolivar :of South America have not yet succeeded in a man of much hard fighting, hard riding, of picturing any image of themselves, much less manifold achievements, distresses, heroisms any true image of themselves, in the Cis-Atlan- and histrionisms in this world; a many-countic mind or memory. selled, much-enduring man; now dead and gone :-of whom, except that melancholy lithograph, the cultivated European public knows as good as nothing. Yet did he not fly hither and thither, often in the most desperate manner, with wild cavalry clad in blankets, with War of Liberation, "to the death?" Clad in blankets, ponchos the South Americans call them: it is a square blanket, with a short slit in the centre, which you draw over your head, and so leave hanging: many a liberative cavalier has ridden, in those hot climates, without further dress at all; and fought handsomely too, wrapping the blanket round his arm, when it came to the charge.

With such cavalry, and artillery and infantry to match, Bolivar has ridden, fighting all the way, through torrid deserts, hot mud swamps, through ice-chasms beyond the curve of per

1. Funeral Discourse delivered on occasion of celebrat-petual frost,-more miles than Ulysses ever ing the obsequies of his late Excellency the Perpetual Dic-sailed: let the coming Homers take note of it. tator of the Republic of Paraguay, the Citizen Dr. José Gaspar Francia, by Citizen the Rev. Manuel Antonia Perez, of the Church of the Incarnation, on the 20th of October, 1840. In the "British Packet and Argentine News," No. 813. Buenos Ayres: March 19, 1812.

2. Essai Historique sur la Révolution de Paraguay, et le Gouvernement Dictatorial du Docteur Francia. Par MM. Rengger et Longchamp. 2de édition. Paris, 1827.

3. Letters on Paraguay. By J. P. and W. P. Robertson.

2 vols. Second edition. London, 1839.

He has marched over the Andes more than once; a feat analogous to Hannibal's; and seemed to think little of it. Often beaten, banished from the firm land, he always returned again, truculently fought again. He gained in the Cumana regions the "immortal victory" of Carababo and several others; under him was gained the finishing "immortal victory" of Ayacucho in Peru, where Old Spain, for the last time, burnt powder in those latitudes, and then fled without return. He was Dictator, Liberator, almost emperor, if he had lived. Some three times over did he, in solemn Columbian parliament, lay down his Dictator ship with Washington eioquence; and as often,

4. Francia's Reign of Terror. By the same. London, 1829.

5. Letters on South America. By the same. 3 vols.

London. 1843.

6. Travels in Chile and La Plata. By John Miers. 2 vols. London, 1826.

May it therefore please your Honourable House to protect him in said happy and longdoubtful event; and (by passing your CopyRight Bill) forbid all Thomas Teggs and other extraneous persons, entirely unconcerned in this adventure of his, to steal from him his small winnings, for a space of sixty years at the shortest. After sixty years, unless your Honourable House provide otherwise, they may begin to steal.

And your petitioner will ever pray.

7. Memoirs of General Miller, in the Service of the Republic of Peru. 2 vols. 2d edition. London, 1829.

A Statement of some of the principal Events in the Public Life of Augustin de Iturbide: written by Himself London, 1843.

on pressing request, take it up again, being a man indispensable. Thrice, or at least twice, did he, in different places, painfully construct a Free Constitution; consisting of "two chambers, and a supreme governor for life with liberty to name his successor," the reasonablest democratic constitution you could well construct; and twice, or at least once, did the people, on trial, declare it disagreeable. He was of old, well known in Paris; in the dissolute, the philosophico-political and other circles there. He has shone in many a gay Parisian soirée, this Simon Bolivar; and he, in his later years, in autumn, 1825, rode triumphant into Potosi and the fabulous Inca Cities, with clouds of feathered Indians somersetting and warwhopping round him*-and as the famed Cerro, metalliferous Mountain, came in sight, the bells all pealed out, and there was a thunder of artillery," says General Miller! If this is not a Ulysses, Polytlas and Polymetis, a much enduring and many counselled man; where was there one? Truly a Ulysses whose history were worth its ink,had the Homer that could do it, made his appearance!

Of General San Martin, too, there will be something to be said. General San Martin, when we last saw him, twenty years ago or -through the organs of the authentic Steadfast Mr. Miers, had a handsome house in Mendoza, and "his own portrait, as I remarked, hung up between those of Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington." In Mendoza, cheerful, mudbuilt, whitewashed Town, seated at the eastern base of the Andes, "with its shady public walk well paved and swept;" looking out pleasantly, on this hand, over wide horizons of Pampa wilderness; pleasantly on that, to the Rocky-chain, Cordillera they call it, of the sky-piercing Mountains, capt in snow, or with volcanic fumes issuing from them: there dwelt General Ex-Generalissimo San Martin, ruminating past adventures over half the world; and had his portrait hung up between Napoleon's and the Duke of Wellington's.

Did the reader ever hear of San Martin's march over the Andes in Chile? It is a feat worth looking at; comparable, most likely, to Hannibal's march over the Alps, while there was yet no Simplon or Mont-Cénis highway; and it transacted itself in the year 1817. South American armies think little of picking their way through the gullies of the Andes; so the Buenos-Ayres people, having driven out their own Spaniards, and established the reign of freedom, though in a precarious manner, thought it were now good to drive the Spaniards out of Chile, and establish the reign of freedom there also instead: whereupon San Martin, commander at Mendoza, was appointed to do it. By way of preparation, for he began from afar, San Martin, while an army is getting ready at Mendoza, assembles "at the fort of San Carlos by the Aguanda river," some days' journey to the south, all attainable tribes of the Pehuenche Indians, to a solemn Palaver, so they name it, and civic entertainment, on

Memoirs of General Miller.

the esplanade there. The ceremonies and de liberations, as described by General Miller, are somewhat surprising; still more the concluding civic feast, which lasts for three days, which consists of horses' flesh for the solid part, and horses' blood with ardent spirits ad libitum for the liquid, consumed with such alacrity, with such results as one may fancy. However, the women had prudently removed all the arms beforehand; nay, "five or six of these poor women, taking it by turns, were always found in a sober state, watching over the rest;" so that comparatively little mischief was done, and only "one or two" deaths by quarrel took place.

The Pehuenches having drunk their ardentwater and horses' blood in this manner, and sworn eternal friendship to San Martin, went home, and-communicated to his enemies, across the Andes, the road he meant to take. This was what San Martin had foreseen and meant, the knowing mar! He hastened his preparations, got his artillery slung on poles, his men equipt with knapsacks and haversacks, his mules in readiness; and, in all stillness, set forth from Mendoza by another road. Few things in late war, according to General Mil ler, have been more noteworthy than this march. The long straggling line of soldiers, six thousand and odd, with their quadrupeds and baggage, winding through the heart of the Andes, breaking for a brief moment the old abysmal solitudes!-For you farre along, on some narrow roadway, through stony laby rinths; huge rock-mountains hanging over your head, on this hand; and under your feet, on that, the roar of mountain-cataracts, horror of bottomless chasms;the very winds and echoes howling on you in an almost preternatural manner. Towering rock-barriers rise sky-high before you, and behind you, and around you; intricate the outgate! The roadway is narrow; footing none of the best. Sharp turns there are, where it will behove you to mind your paces; one false step, and you will need no second; in the gloomy jaws of the abyss you vanish, and the spectral winds howl requiem. Somewhat better are the sus pension bridges, made of bamboo and leather. though they swing like see-saws: men are stationed with lassos, to gin you dexterously, and fish you up from the torrent, if you trip there.

Through this kind of country did San Martin march; straight towards San Iago, to fight the Spaniards and deliver Chile. For ammunition wagons he had sorras, sledges, canoe shaped boxes, made of dried bull's-hide. His cannons were carried on the back of mules. each cannon on two mules judiciously harnessed: on the packsaddle of your foremost mule, there rested with firm girths a long strong pole; the other end of which (forked end, we suppose) rested, with like girths, on the packsaddle of the hindmost mule; your cannon was slung with leathern straps on this pole, and so travelled, swaying and dangling, yet moderately secure. In the knapsack of each soldier was eight days' provender, dried beef ground into snuff-powder, with a modicum of pepper, and a slight seasoning of biscuit of

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