describes extremes; every thing is sketched in strong and glaring colours; all vices and virtues are exhibited in their greatest excesses. The work is composed of light and darkness, with no intermediate shades. A German critic compares Schiller in this production to Titan, endeavouring to take the Heaven of invention by storm. It is a monstrous production; but spirit and genius move in it, and impart to it permanent life. His maturer taste was not able to improve it. The merits and faults are so mingled, that it is now printed in its first and boldest form.

Schiller attempted the career of an actor, but without success. He published two other tragedies, having the faults, but not the grandeur, of the "Robbers." After some years, he gave the world Don Carlos, in which tragedy he unfolds his own heart, and, in the eloquence of a person of the drama, gives the noblest lessons of liberty and public justice. The play is admirable, but not dramatic; having more of eloquence than of action, and more of the careful and elaborate views of a fine mind, than free displays of passion after the manner of real life.

The events of Schiller's life led him to the pursuits of history, for he became the successor of Eichhorn, at the university of Jena. Speculative science had also interested the poet, and Kant and abstract philosophy won his earnest attention. He applied himself to these pursuits seriously, for his object was to satisfy his inquisitive and impatient spirit. His lyre lay by his side almost untouched, while he was making every effort to acquire within himself that harmony which can alone result from clear convictions. His irritable nature, which rejected the realities of being, and longed for ideal goodness, wasted the powers of life; and the result of his irregular and too great application, was an illness from which he never entirely recovered, and which contributed to impart more of gentleness to his intellectual character. He now strove to reconcile himself with the world. At this period, his character may be considered as fully estab lished in all its great outlines. A noble nature, improved by careful study of the records of mankind, and raised to great contemplative excellence by the zealous and solemn pursuit of philosophy, was now restored to the career of poetry. A series of most beautiful lyric poems, some of which are among the best in the literature of the world, were gradually published, and won universal favour. But the results of his investigations in history and speculative science were to be embodied in one grand production. Not in the history of the Thirty Years' War, it is in the tragedy of Wallenstein, that the peculiarities of Schiller's mind, at this time, are most clearly reflected. In the English drama, Macbeth is the production with which it has the nearest analogies. In general character, in the display of men, hurried to their ruin, by a moral necessity, existing in them

selves, they are alike. But the scene in the play of the inimitable master is laid in remote and apocryphal history; in Wallenstein, we have real men, and events all too true; and this union of historic dignity and dramatic excellence, was a triumph reserved for Schiller. It has been published in French by the celebrated Benjamin Constant, who has, however, rather imitated than translated it. In English, we have a most spirited, but not very faithful version, by Coleridge.

Mary Stuart, and the Maid of Orleans, rapidly followed. In the first of these, Schiller has succeeded better than in any of his works, in delineating woman. It has in a less degree than Wallenstein the stern sublimity which is imparted by the unseen influences of an avenging destiny; but it makes a more direct appeal to the human heart, and has therefore acquired a wider popularity.

The Maid of Orleans is written in the spirit of romance; it is legendary, rather than exact, full of varied interest, striking contrasts, and marvellous interpositions, rather than a careful representation of human agencies and passions. The opening scene is in a noble spirit of elevated declamation; in parts of the play much tenderness is displayed; but the narrative interest is throughout predominant. In point of style, the diction is highly wrought, and varied; the melody of language is an attraction which it eminently enjoys. The fine scene in Ivanhoe, where the Jewess observes the battle, and tells the hero the incidents of the contest, is analogous to a very admirable one in Schiller's drama.

The speculative tendency of Schiller's mind, led him to make an experiment of introducing the Greek chorus into modern tragedy. The experiment failed, and the Bride of Messina is sustained by the splendour of its several parts, not by its general merits. But Schiller returned at once to the right path, and history again lent itself to his genius to exhibit a nation. William Tell is one of the most remarkable plays ever written; the interest gathers round the action more than the man; Switzerland and the Swiss character are delineated in unaffected simplicity; and a work of the sublimest character is founded on the virtues of a commonalty of peasants and herdsmen. The play is rational, and breathes the air of liberty. It was the last which Schiller lived to finish. He died just as a series of successful efforts had brought him to high perfection in his art; just as the world was hoping from his maturity a series of works that might be associated with the best of the literary treasures which it has taken ages for human genius to accumulate.

And yet he has been declared happy in the period of his death. In the memory of coming generations, men live as they are at the moment when the angel of death summoned them away. Is

not Warren ever present to us, as he "moved resplendent over the field of his honour, with the rose of Heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye?" Is not our own Washington enshrined in our recollections in the form and dignity of a mature but healthy age? So will Schiller be ever present, as dying in the noon-day of his glory. No weakness diminished his meridian splendour; his memory lives as of one in the vigour of active and virtuous manhood; and to gratitude for all that he was permitted to accomplish, there will ever be united a regret for the lost career which seemed to remain open to him. Yet his death was seasonable; he died before envy had endeavoured to tarnish his laurels, and before a sated nation could grow weary of lavishing on him their affection; he died while yet his love of country had not been wounded by his country's grievous disasters. Another year, and he would have seen the army of a detested enemy in his home, and the flag of foreign tyranny waving in triumph over the fairest parts of the land of his nativity.

If, for the sake of illustration, we should select any English poet with whom to compare Schiller, it would unquestionably be Lord Byron. And yet there is still more room for contrast, than comparison. Both were restless, and found no happiness in the world; but one was happy in himself; both were of wild and irregular habits of mind in early years; but of one the life was pure both imparted the character of their respective minds to all the objects which they represented; but the one was soured to misanthropy, while the other glowed with benevolence. Schiller has produced nothing that can be compared to the narrative and descriptive poems of Byron; but Byron must yield the palm in the drama. Both are among the best lyric poets of modern times; with a good deal of hesitation, we yet think Schiller unequalled by Byron, in his minor poems. Both died in the vigour of life, the one a martyr to his art, the other to his zeal for liberty. But in their death what a difference! The poet who had always advocated the best interests and purest feelings of humanity, was honoured in his end with the unmingled sorrow of all to whom his works had become known.

Were we to attempt an enumeration of all those who have written with some success, in the last fifty years, in Germany, we should satiate the reader. There are more than twelve thousand living authors in that country; more than a thousand female writers may be enumerated. In 1823, a curious observer was able to count 287 dramatic poets alone. In the sciences, where industry and research conduct to eminence, there is room for the honourable service of men of moderate capacities, but in invention, no writers of a foreign nation, but those of high order, merit to be noticed beyond the limits of their immediate sphere.

Kotzebue excelled in bringing striking scenes upon the stage -in rare and surprising situations. He is no German in feeling

or manner.

Schulze is reported to have actually died for love. He pined away, having first, to immortalize his passion, finished a poem, of which the manner is exquisite, though the execution is defective.

Körner's life is more poetic than any thing he has written. Genuine patriotism, a fervent spirit, self-sacrificing courage, led him to be a martyr for the liberty of his country. His poetry is the expression of his nature; and ceasing to be a dead letter, lives on the lips and in the hearts of thousands of his country

men.

Müllner has given over writing for the stage. He has some spirit and critical skill, but is a little of a literary coxcomb. His Guilt gives him an elevated place among the dramatists below

stairs.

To those who desire to see honourable specimens of the dramatic skill of the present writers for the German stage, we recommend the Golden Fleece and the Ottokar of Grillpazer. They have great value, though they are not in the first rank of

the art.

For the great mass of the German novels, we have but little to say. The business of manufacturing romances is carried on very extensively and systematically. The press groans with the weight of rubbish, which is soon transferred to the circulating libraries, and, by a safe process, the capital invested is secured. This branch of industry occupies many idle hands and weak heads, and forms a sort of literature by itself, conducted by the crowds who throng round the foot of Parnassus.

Caroline Pichler and La Mothe Fouqué are higher up the mountain; they are popular, and most prolific. But Scott and our worthy countryman have greater power to charm the German world; and the Red Rover is this moment making more prizes through all the circles of the empire, than any regular production from the workshop of a German novelist. Did time permit, we should, passing over the subordinate departments of polite literature, call attention rather to such works as the Roman History, of Niebuhr, the Ideas on the Politics of Commerce and Antiquity, by Heeren, the mythological investigations of Creuzer, the Literary Histories of Bouterwek, and other works, in which clear understanding, propriety of manner, and vast erudition, are skilfully allied. But we could give nothing more than very vague ideas of these and other works of similar value, except by devoting a separate article to each of them.

And perhaps it ought to be observed, that Prince Hardenberg, the Prussian chancellor, has left a manuscript history of his

times, from 1801 to the peace of Tilsit. The work must have great value and interest, but the world is not to see it till 1850. In concluding these notices of German men of letters, in which we have been able but hastily to allude to some striking features in their general character, it remains to speak of a poet, who, more than any contemporary, possesses the veneration of his country. Of all living men, who have, in any department of contemplative or active life, attained a degree of eminence, equal, or nearly equal to that which he enjoys, he is the oldest. Almost eighty years have passed over him, and dimmed the lustre of his genius. Though in his youth, there were no adversaries whom he need have feared, and though he was clad in an armour, which seemed to have been the invulnerable gift of a superior nature, he is now too near the grave to wrestle for further palms or resist new aggressions. And his reputation is safe in the hands of the countless throng, to whose minds he has opened the glorious visions of poetry, and whose steps he has guided to the contemplation of beauty.

Does there not belong to his declining years something inexpressibly lovely and majestic? The lyre, which could have given the meed of immortality to any, whom it would honour with a strain, is hushed; the spirit, which was eager in its curiosity to search into every source of inspiration, and strove to gather spoils from all departments of knowledge, is now only able to communicate the results of past experience, with timid glances at contemporary efforts. There was a time, when Goethe could be severe in reproof and bitter in scorn; but now all that he writes in his extreme age, is quiet and mild, and he seems desirous of parting from all mankind in peace. He has come from the field of contest, and, conscious of his approaching end, has laid down his arms, and is preparing for eternal rest from the toils of earth. And all the while, he is an object of astonishment to the civilized world, of admiration to those who have penetrated into the meaning of his works; and more than any sovereign of Europe, has the voluntary homage of his countrymen. The men of greatest rank and power visit him, not as their equal, but as one whom it will always be a grateful reminiscence to have seen, and whom it is a common duty to respect; and the critics have already written about him and his works, more volumes than would fill the lumber room of a library.

Such is the glorious and peaceful close of Goethe's life; it has been his happiness to have lived a brilliant career. From the moment of his entering on the arena of letters, the eyes of men were turned towards him. For a long time, indeed, the world was uncertain what judgment they should pass on his efforts; but attention was never denied, and his early works, especially his Werther and Goetz of Berlichingen will be remembered, as long