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"This beautiful allegory," adds Mr. Taylor, | wise. The most of what Mr. Taylor has writ requires no illustration; but it constitutes ten on Schiller, on Goethe, and the new Literaone of the reasons for suspecting that the ture of Germany, a reader that loves him, as younger may eventually be the victorious we honestly do, will consider as unwritten, or Muse." We hope not, but that the generous written in a state of somnambulism. He who race may yet last through long centuries. has just quitted Kotzebue's Bear-garden, and Tuiskone has shot through a mighty space, Fives-court, and pronounces it to be all stimusince this Poet saw her: what if she were now lant and very good, what is there for him to do slackening her speed, and the Britoness quick-in the Hall of the Gods? He looks transiently ening hers? in; asks with mild authority, "Arian or Trinitarian? Quotidian or Stimulant?" and receiving no answer but a hollow echo, which almost sounds like laughter, passes on, muttering that they are dumb idols, or mere Nürnberg waxwork.


If the Essay on Klopstock is the best, that on Kotzebue is undoubtedly the worst, in this book, or perhaps in any book written by man of ability in our day. It is one of those acts which, in the spirit of philanthropy, we could wish Mr. Taylor to conceal in profoundest It remains to notice Mr. Taylor's Translasecrecy; were it not that hereby the "stimu- tions. Apart from the choice of subjects, lant" theory, a heresy which still lurks here which in probably more than half the cases is and there even in our better criticism, is in unhappy, there is much to be said in favour some sort brought to a crisis, and may the of these. Compared with the average of sooner depart from this world, or at least from British Translations, they may be pronounced the high places of it, into others more suitable. of almost ideal excellence; compared with the Kotzebue, whom all nations, and kindreds, and best translations extant, for example, the Gertongues, and peoples, his own people the fore- man Shakspeare, Homer, Calderon, they may most, after playing with him for some foolish still be called better than indifferent. One hour, have swept out of doors as a lifeless great merit Mr. Taylor has: rigorous adbundle of dyed rags, is here scientifically ex- herence to his original; he endeavours at amined, measured, pulse-felt, and pronounced least to copy with all possible fidelity the turn to be living, and a divinity. He has such pro- of phrase, the tone, the very metre, whatever lific invention," abounds so in "fine situa- stands written for him. With the German tions," in passionate scenes, is so soul-har-language he has now had a long familiarity, rowing, so stimulant. The Proceedings at Fow and, what is no less essential, and perhaps Street are stimulant enough; neither is prolific still rarer among our translators, has a decided invention, interesting situations, or soul-har- understanding of English. All this of Mr. rowing passion wanting among the Authors Taylor's own Translations: in the borrowed that compose there; least of all if we follow pieces, whereof there are several, we seldom, them to Newgate, and the gallows: but when except indeed in those by Shelley and Coledid the Morning Herald think of inserting its ridge, find much worth; sometimes a distinct Police Reports among our Anthologies? Mr. worthlessness. Mr. Taylor has made no conTaylor is at the pains to analyze very many science of clearing those unfortunate perof Kotzebue's productions, and translates formances even from their gross blunders. copiously from two or three: how the Siberian Thus, in that "excellent version by Miss Governor took on when his daughter was Plumptre," we find this statement: Professor about to run away with one Benjowsky, who Müller could not utter a period without introhowever, was enabled to surrender his prize, ducing the words with under, "whether they had there on the beach, with sails hoisted, by business there or not;" which statement, were looking at his wife's picture;" how the peo- it only on the ground that Professor Müller was ple "lift young Burgundy from the Tun," not not sent to Bedlam, there to utter periods, we indeed to drink him, for he is not wine but a venture to deny. Doubtless his besetting sin Duke; how a certain stout-hearted West In- was mitunder, which indeed means at the same dian, that has made a fortune, proposes mar- time, or the like, (etymologically, with among,) riage to his two sisters, but finding the ladies but nowise with under. One other instance we reluctant, solicits their serving-woman, whose shall give, from a much more important subreputation is not only cracked, but visibly ject. Mr. Taylor admits that he does not make quite rent asunder, accepts her nevertheless, much of Faust: however, he inserts Shelley's with her thriving cherub, and is the happiest version of the Mayday Night; and another of men with more of the like sort. On the scene, evidently rendered by quite a different strength of which we are assured that, "accord- artist. In this latter, Margaret is in the Cathe ing to my judgment, Kotzebue is the greatest dral during High-Mass, but her whole hought dramatic genius that Europe has evolved since are turned inwards on a secret shame and sor Shakspeare." Such is the table which Mr. row: an Evil Spirit is whispering in her ear, Taylor has spread for pilgrims in the Prose the Choir chant fragments of the Dies ira; she Wilderness of Life: thus does he sit like a kind is like to choke and sink. In the original, host, ready to carve; and though the viands this passage is in verse; and, we presume, and beverage are but, as it were, stewed gar- in the translation also,-founding on the lic, Yarmouth herrings, and bluc-ruin, praise capital letters. The concluding lines an them as "stimulant," and courteously presses the universe to fall to.


What a purveyor with this palate shall say to Nectar and Ambrosia, may be curious as a question in Natural History, but hardly other


I feel imprison'd. The thick pulars gird me.
The vaults low'r o'er me. Air, air, 1 faint.


Where wilt thou lie concealed? for sin and shame
Remain not hidden-wo is coming down.


Quid sum miser tum dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus ?
Cum vix justus sit securus.


From thee the glorified avert their view,
The pure forbear to offer thee a hand.


Quid sum miser tum dicturus?


Neighbour, your—"

reach a second edition, which we hope, perhaps he may profit by some of our hints, and render the work less unworthy of himself and of his subject. In its present state and shape, this English Temple of Fame can content no one. A huge, anomalous, heterogeneous mass, no section of it like another, oriel-window alternating with rabbit-hole, wrought capital on pillar of dried mud; heaped together out of marble, loose earth, rude boulder-stone; hastily roofed in with shingles,-such is the Temple of Fame; uninhabitable either for priest or statue, and which nothing but a continued suspension of the laws of gravity can keep from rushing ere long into a chaos of stone and dust. For the English worshipper, who in the meanwhile has no other temple, we search out the least dangerous apartments; for the future builder, the materials that will be valuable.

-Your what?-Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" Your Drambottle." Will Mr. Taylor have us understand, then, that "the noble German nation," more especially the fairer half thereof, (for the "Neighbour" is Nachbarin, Neighbouress,) goes to church with a decanter of brandy in its pocket? Or would he not rather, even forcibly, interpret Fläschchen by vinaigrette, by volatile-salts? The world has no notice that this passage is a borrowed one, but will, notwithstanding, as the more charitable theory, hope and believe so.

And now, in washing our hands of this alltoo sordid but not unnecessary task, one word on a more momentous object. Does not the existence of such a Book, do not many other indications, traceable in France, in Germany, as well as here, betoken that a new era in the spiritual intercourse of Europe is approaching; that instead of isolated, mutually repul sive National Literatures, a World-Literature may one day be looked for? The better minds of all countries begin to understand each other; and, which follows naturally, to love each other and help each other; by whom ultimateall countries in all their proceedings are governed.

We have now done with Mr. Taylor; and would fain, after all that has come and gone, part with him in good nature and good will. He has spoken freely, we have answered free-ly ly. Far as we differ from him in regard to German Literature, and to the much more im- Late in man's history, yet clearly at length, portant subjects here connected with it; deeply it becomes manifest to the dullest, that mind as we feel convinced that his convictions are is stronger than matter, that mind is the creator wrong and dangerous, are but half true, and, and shaper of matter; that not brute Force, if taken for the whole truth, wholly false and but only Persuasion and Faith is the king of fatal, we have nowise blinded ourselves to his this world. The true Poet, who is but the invigorous talent, to his varied learning, his sin- spired Thinker, is still an Orpheus whose Lyre cerity, his manful independence and self-sup- tames the savage beasts, and evokes the dead port. Neither is it for speaking out plainly rocks to fashion themselves into palaces and that we blame him. A man's honest, earnest stately inhabited cities. It has been said, and opinion is the most precious of all he possesses: may be repeated, that Literature is fast be let him communicate this, if he is to communi- coming all in all to us; our Church, our Sencate any thing. There is, doubtless, a time to ate, our whole Social Constitution. The true speak, and a time to keep silence; yet Fon- Pope of Christendom is not that feeble old tenelle's celebrated aphorism, I might have my man in Rome; nor is its Autocrat the Nahand full of truth, and would open only my little poleon, the Nicolas, with his half million even finger, may be practised also to excess, and of obedient bayonets; such Autocrat is himthe little finger itself kept closed. That re- self but a more cunningly-devised bayonet and serve, and knowing silence, long so universal military engine in the hands of a mightier than among us, is less the fruit of active benevo- he. The true Autocrat and Pope is that man, lence, of philosophic tolerance, than of in- the real or seeming Wisest of the past age; difference and weak conviction. Honest Skep-crowned after death; who finds his Hierarchy ticism, honest Atheism, is better than that of gifted Authors, his Clergy of assiduous withered, lifeless Dilettantism and amateur Journalists; whose Decretals, written not on Eclecticism, which merely toys with all opi- parchment, but on the living souls of men, it nions; or than that wicked Machiavelism, were an inversion of the Laws of Nature to which, in thought denying every thing, except disobey. In these times of ours, all Intellect that Power is Power, in words, for its own wise has fused itself into Literature: Literature, purposes, loudly believes every thing: of both Printed Thought, is the molten sea and wonderwhich miserable habitudes the day, even in bearing Chaos, into which mind after mind England, is wellnigh over. That Mr. Taylor casts forth its opinion, its feeling, to be molten belongs not, and at no time belonged, to either into the general mass, and to work there; Inof these classes, we account a true praise. Of terest after Interest is engulfed in it, or emhis Historic Survey we have endeavoured to barked on it: higher, higher it rises round all point out the faults and the merits: should he the Edifices of Existence; they must all be

depths of Time, is a subject for prophetic con jecture, wherein brightest hope is not unmingled with fearful apprehension and aw at the boundless unknown. The more chee ing is this one thing which we do see d

molten into it, and anew bodied forth from it, or stand unconsumed among its fiery surges. Wo to him whose Edifice is not built of true Asbest, and on the everlasting Rock; but on the false sand, and of the drift-wood of Accident, and the paper and parchment of anti-know-That its tendency is to a universal quated Habit! For the power, or powers, exist European Commonweal; that the wisest in not on our Earth, that can say to that sea, roll all nations will communicate and co-operate; back, or bid its proud waves be still. whereby Europe will again have its true What form so omnipotent an element will Sacred College, and Council of Amphictyous; assume; how long it will welter to and fro as wars will become rarer, less inhuman, and, in a wild Democracy, a wild Anarchy; what the course of centuries, such delirious ferocity Constitution and Organization it will fashion | in nations, as in individuals it already is, may for itself, and for what depends on it, in the ❘ be proscribed, and become obsolete for ever.

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THE healthy know not of their health, but only the sick: this is the Physician's Aphorism; and applicable in a far wider sense than he gives it. We may say, it holds no less in moral, intellectual, political, poetical, than in merely corporeal therapeutics; that wherever, or in what shape soever, powers of the sort which can be named vital are at work, herein lies the test of their working right, or working wrong.

In the Body, for example, as all doctors are agreed, the first condition of complete health is, that each organ perform its function unconsciously, unheeded; let but any organ announce its separate existence, were it even boastfully, and for pleasure, not for pain, then already has one of those unfortunate "false centres of sensibility" established itself, already is derangement there. The perfection of bodily wellbeing is, that the collective bodily activities seem one; and be manifested, moreover, not in themselves, but in the action they accomplish. If a Dr. Kitchener boast that his system is in high order, Dietetic Philosophy may indeed take credit; but the true Peptician was that Countryman who answered that, "for his part, he had no system." In fact, unity, agreement, is always silent, or soft-voiced; it is only discord that loudly proclaims itself. So long as the several elements of Life, all fitly adjusted, can pour forth their movement like harmonious tuned strings, it is a melody and unison; Life, from its mysterious fountains, flows out as in celestial music and diapason,-which also, like that other music of the spheres, even because it is perennial and complete, without interruption and without imperfection, might be fabled to escape the ear. Thus, too, in some languages, is the state of health well denoted by a term expressing unity; when we feel ourselves as we wish to be, we say that we are whole.

But, alas, as the Philosopher declares, “Life itself is a disease; a working incited by suf fering;" action from passion! The memory of that first state of Freedom and paradisiac Unconsciousness has faded away into an ideal poetic dream. We stand here too conscious of many things: with Knowledge, the symptom of Derangement, we must even do our best to restore a little Order. Life is, in few instances, and at rare intervals, the diapason of a heavenly melody; oftenest the fierce jar of disruptions and convulsions, which, do what we will, there is no disregarding. Nevertheless, such is still the wish of Nature on our behalf; in all vital action, her manifest purpose aud effort is, that we should be unconscious of it, and, like the peptic Countryman, never know that we "have a system." For indeed vital action everywhere is emphatically a means, not an end; Life is not given us for the mere sake of Living, but always with an ulterior external Aim: neither is it on the process, on the means, but rather on the result, that Nature, in any of her doings, is wont to intrust us with insight and volition. Boundless as is the domain of man, it is but a small fractional proportion of it that he rules with Consciousun-ness and by Forethought: what he can contrive, nay, what he can altogether know and comprehend, is essentially the mechanical, the vital; it is essentially the mysterious, and small; the great is ever, in one sense or other, only the surface of it can be understood. But Nature, it might seem, strives, like a kind mother, to hide from us even this, that she is a mystery: she will have us rest on her beautiful and awful bosom as if it were our secure home; on he bottomless, boundless Deep,

Few mortals, it is to be feared, are permanently blessed with that felicity of "having no system" nevertheless, most of us, looking back on young years, may remember seasons of a light, aerial translucency and elasticity, and perfect freedom; the body had not yet become the prison-house of the soul, but was its vehicle and implement, like a creature of the thought, and altogether pliant to its bidding. We knew not that we had limbs, we only lifted, hurled, and leapt; through eye and ear, and all avenues of sense, came clear impeded tidings from without, and from within

1. An Essay on the Origin and Prospects of Man.

By Thomas Hope. 3 vols. 8vo. London, 1831.

issued clear victorious force; we stood as in the centre of Nature, giving and receiving, in harmony with it all; unlike Virgil's Husbandmen, "too happy because we did not know our blessedness." In those days, health and sick. ness were foreign traditions that did not concern us; our whole being was as yet One, the whole man like an incorporated Will. Such, were Rest or ever-successful Labour the human lot, might our life continue to be: a pure, perpetual, unregarded music; a beam of perfect white light, rendering all things visible, but itself unseen, even because it was of that perfect whiteness, and no irregular obstruction had yet broken it into colours. The beginning of Inquiry is Disease: all Science, if we consider well, as it must have originated in the feeling of something being wrong, so it is and continues to be but Division, Dismemberment, and partial healing of the wrong. Thus, as was of old written, the Tree of Knowledge springs from a root of evil, and bears fruits of good and evil. Had Adam remained in Paradise, there had been no Anatomy and no Metaphysics.

2. Philosophische Vorlesungen, insbesondere über Philosophie der sprache und des Wortes. Geschrieben vorgetragen zu Dresden im December, 1828, und in den ersten Tagen des Januars 1829. (Philosophical Lectures, especially on the Philosophy of Language and the Gift of Speech Written and delivered at Dresden in December, 1828, and the early days of January, 1829.) By Friedrich von Schlegel. 8vo. Vienna, 1830.

not that it is any thing surprising: Milton, again, is more conscious of his faculty, which accordingly is an inferior one. On the other hand, what cackling and strutting must we not often hear and see, when, in some shape of academical prolusion, maiden speech, review article, this or the other well-fledged goose has produced its goose-egg, of quite measurable value, were it the pink of its whole kind; and wonders why all mortals do not wonder!

whereon all human things fearfully and wonderfully swim, she will have us walk and build, as if the film which supported us there (which any scratch of a bare bodkin will rend asunder, any sputter of a pistol-shot instantaneously burn up) were no film, but a solid rock-foundation. For ever in the neighbourhood of an inevitable Death, man can forget that he is born to die; of his Life, which, strictly meditated, contains in it an Immensity and an Eternity, he can conceive lightly, as of a simple implement wherewith to do day-labour and earn wages. So cunningly does Nature, the mother of all highest art, which only apes her from afar, "body forth the Finite from the Infinite;" and guide man safe on his wondrous path, not more by endowing him with vision, than, at the right place, with blindness! Under all her works, chiefly under her noblest work, Life, lies a basis of Darkness, which she benignantly conceals; in Life, too, the roots and inward circulations which stretch down fearfully to the regions of Death and Night, shall not hint of their existence, and only the fair stem with its leaves and flowers, shone on by the fair sun, disclose itself, and joyfully grow.

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Foolish enough, too, was the College Tutor's surprise at Walter Shandy; how, though unread in Aristotle, he could nevertheless argue; and not knowing the name of any dialectic tool, handled them all to perfection. Is it the skilfullest Anatomist that cuts the best figure at Sadler's Wells? or does the Boxer hit bet ter for knowing that he has a flexor longus and a flexor brevis? But, indeed, as in the higher case of the Poet, so here in that of the Speaker and Inquirer, the true force is an unconscious one. The healthy Understanding, we should say, is not the Logical, argumentative, but the Intuitive; for the end of Understanding is not to prove, and find reasons, but However, without venturing into the abstruse, to know and believe. Of Logic, and its limits, or too eagerly asking Why and How, in things and uses and abuses, there were much to be where our answer must needs prove, in great said and examined; one fact, however, which part, an echo of the question, let us be content chiefly concerns us here, has long been to remark farther, in the merely historical familiar; that the man of logic and the man way, how that Aphorism of the bodily Physi- of insight; the Reasoner and the Discoverer, or cian holds good in quite other departments. even Knower, are quite separable,—indeed, for Of the Soul, with her activities, we shall find most part, quite separate characters. In pracit no less true than of the Body: nay, cry the tical matters, for example, has it not become Spiritualists, is not that very division of the almost proverbial that the man of logic cannot unity, Man, into a dualism of Soul and Body, prosper? This is he whom business people itself the symptom of disease; as, perhaps, call Systematic and Theorizer and Wordyour frightful theory of Materialism, of his monger; his vital intellectual force lies dormant being but a Body, and therefore, at least, once or extinct, his whole force is mechanical, conmore a unity, may be the paroxysm which scious: of such a one it is foreseen that, when was critical, and the beginning of cure! But once confronted with the infinite complexities omitting this, we observe, with confidence of the real world, his little compact theorem enough, that the truly strong mind, view it as of the world will be found wanting; that unless Intellect, as Morality, or under any other as he can throw it overboard, and become a new pect, is nowise the mind acquainted with its creature, he will necessarily founder. Nay, strength; that here as before the sign of health in mere Speculation itself, the most ineffectual is Unconsciousness. In our inward, as in our of all characters, generally speaking, is your outward world, what is mechanical lies open dialectic man-at-arms; were he armed cap-ato us: not what is dynamical and has vitality. pie in syllogistic mail of proof, and perfect Of our Thinking, we might say, it is but master of logic-fence, how little does it avail the mere upper surface that we shape into him! Consider the old Schoolmen, and their articulate Thoughts ;-underneath the region pilgrimage towards Truth: the faithfullest of argument and conscious discourse lies the endeavour, incessant unwearied motion, often region of meditation; here, in its quiet myste- great natural vigour; only no progress: nothing rious depths, dwells what vital force is in us; but antic feats of one limb poised against the here, if aught is to be created, and not merely other; there they balanced, somersetted, and manufactured and communicated, must the made postures; at best gyrated swiftly, with work go on. Manufacture is intelligible, but some pleasure, like Spinning Dervishes, and trivial; Creation is great, and cannot be un-ended where they began. So it is, so will it derstood. Thus if the Debator and Demon- always be, with all System-makers and builders strator, whom we may rank as the lowest of of logical card-castles; of which class a certrue thinkers, knows what he has done, and tain remnant must, in every age, as they do in how he did it, the Artist, whom we rank as the our own, survive and build. Logic is good, highest, knows not; must speak of Inspiration, but it is not the best. The Irrefragable Docand, in one or the other dialect, call his work tor, with his chains of induction, his corollaries, the gift of a divinity. dilemmas, and other cunning logical diagrams and apparatus, will cast you a beautiful horoscope, and speak reasonable things; neverthe less your stolen jewel, which you wanted him to find you, is not forthcoming. Often by some


But on the whole, "genius is ever a secret to itself;" of this old truth we have, on all sides, daily evidence. The Shakspeare takes no airs for writing Hamlet and the Tempest, understands

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