not a smattering of botany?-ay, and a comfortable assortment of Latin remnants to deck the fag-ends of his sentences? Lawyers, it is true, have something of the same, but their Latin wants the natural grace of the gardener's; they speak according to a cold formal system and a proverbially bad system; but with the gardener it is as if some handfuls of Latin words had been scattered in his mind, and had there struck root, and sprung up in a thousand agreeable varieties, and original groups. But it may be said, that these advantages of the gardener are common to all agricultural labourers. By no means. There is something too wholesale in the ploughman's or the mower's style of working. They do not care for a single plant, but for a whole harvest; and we never find a mind thus prematurely accustomed to the contemplation of vague generalities, susceptible of the charms of knowledge. It is in the minute attention to individuals required at the hand of the gardener, that we are to look for the cause of that fine discriminating tact that leads him unavoidably on the way to learning. If Adam had been any other trade than a gardener, I wonder if the tree of knowledge would have been so irresistibly tempting. Then his sentiment! From the days of Shakspeare, the gardener has been noted for his sentimentality. The only one of Richard the Second's dependants who sympathises gracefully with the miseries of the unfortunate queen, is the gardener. What man, in his rank of life, but a gardener, could have thought of planting a bank of rue on the spot where the queen dropt a tear, in sad memorial of her woes? Then, (not to overwhelm the reader with examples,) is there not in later times the inimitable Andrew Fairservice? There are, we confess it with the deepest regret, some parts of Andrew's conduct which do not easily admit of a defence. He showed, in some instances, signs of a cold and selfish spirit; even his honesty was of a dubious kind; and his courage far from unquestionable. But the worse we make Andrew's character to be, the better for our theory. What other habits and pursuits could have rendered such a man capable of the fine burst of feeling with which he describes to Frank Osbaldistone the beauties of a bed of coleworts by moonlight? A gardener's sentiment, we confess, is rather peculiar. It is not allied to love-it does not affect the brotherhood of kindred creatures whose pulse beats back to ours. It is rarely that you hear of a gardener in love. They inherit a portion of that mysterious dower which rested upon those who in old times studied the habits and properties of plants. Penetrating into the hidden secrets of nature, and approaching more nearly to converse with the spiritual world, they feel the mantle of its unimpassioned nature cast around them, and walk among men with less of their frail and feverish passions. It is but seldom that you see a wife and children viewed as welcome inhabitants of a garden. The amateur differs little from the professional gardener, except in his being sometimes a man of more education, and, in general, free from the cares and anxieties of mercantile speculation. He, too, is, for the most part, a bachelor. Now I know there is a prejudice, in general but too well founded, against this class of society; but the gardener ought to be made an exception. He is not like other Benedicts, selfish and engrossing; he has an active and benevolent spirit, and would fain see all people happy. It is true that he loves his flowers better than any thing else-except, perhaps, his cat and his old housekeeper; but then he likes people to come and see his garden, and he is always ready to impart a share of his rarest treasures to those who can appreciate and enjoy them. He is hale and happy, for he is a nursling of the free air as much as any of his flowers and shrubs. He is the friend and particular acquaintance of every bird that builds its nest in his leafy corners. He cannot abide any thing that is harsh or ill-natured. Politics are his aversion: a newspaper enters not his door. Garden From the gardener, I turn to his territory. are as various as the characters and circumstances of their proprietors; and although, like them, they have all some thing in common, each has, at the same time, something of its own. How different the garden of the cottage, with its single bush of southern-wood, its two carnations and solitary rose, from the extensive piece of ground walled in from the northern and eastern blasts, with its numerous fruit-trees, (standard or trained upon the wal and espaliers,)-its thousand flowers of the gayest dyes and richest perfumes,-its hot-houses and green-houses, where the fruits and flowers of other regions flourish in other climates! And how different from both the royal garden, where we wander, now through forest glades, and anon among trim parterres, surrounded by artificial terraces, and gay alcoves, where the very water has yielded to the power of the artist, and assumes unwonted form and motion at his bidding! All of these have their peculiar charms; but, as it would fill half-a-dozen Journals at the least, to expatiate on them all, I must confine myself' to the enquiry, what it is that gives the garden its chief and characteristic delightfulness? An idea has gone abroad in our days, that gardens ought to be imitations of nature;—a most absurd notion, and indicative of a want of feeling for the true charm of the garden. Our picturesque gardeners profess to create beautiful landscapes. The truth is, that they create poor and paltry attempts at something very fine. Natural scenery is a creation on too large a scale to be aped by the handiwork of man. But not only has this false direction of gardening talent spoiled our larger gardens, it has exercised a detrimental influence on the smallest. Since it has been laid down as a first principle, that artificial gardening shows a false and a vitiated taste, and since the fashion of laying out gardens in what is called the natural style can only be practised on a large scale, such persons as have only a rood or two of land, have for some time contented themselves with rearing fruits and herbs, and an occasional flower, esteeming it in vain to attempt any thing ornamental on so small a scale. A square plot of ground is measured off and surrounded with walls. From the centre four straight gravel walks are drawn perpendicular to each of the walls. At a distance of a couple of yards from each wall, a walk is laid out parallel to it, these four walks forming a lesser square endosure within the greater one. All the walks are bordered on either side with their edgings of box-wood, two inches in height. Fruit-trees and gooseberry bushes are planted at regular intervals, and in formal rows. Flowers are also planted at regular distances, so as not to incommode each other. This may be a good nursery, but it is not a garden. Its effect is stiff, bare, and unsatisfactory. The true garden is a place which a man has set apart før himself, and filled with all the rarest plants. These cannot be arranged or distributed in a natural way, for their very assemblage in such quantities shows that man? hand has been busy upon them. But still there is room for ornamental arrangement, although it must be in consonance with the artificial character of the whole collection. A little quaintness is rather an advantage than i drawback. The first requisite in a perfect garden is, that we should feel, when we are in it, shut in from the exter. ¦ nal world. This is best effected by circling its atmest limits with the tallest shrubs, which serve to screen the garden from the prying eyes of neighbours, and afford in the summer time, a pleasing and umbrageous canopy The next requisite is, that there should be plenty plants. They ought to be rather crowded than otherwise, so as to convey an impression of a rich and luxs riant vegetation. In the arrangement of the walks, for mality neither can nor ought to be entirely avoided. Th feeling inseparable from a garden, we have said above, a that it is a storehouse of vegetable wealth; and our walls ought to be arranged less with an eye to picturesque effect, than to the commodious approach they afford to our dev ers and shrubs. able. Schiller, when a boy, distinguished himself little from other boys. One or two silly anecdotes are told, by which his astonishing precocity is attempted to be proved; but our grandmothers can tell more wonderful things of us all; and, even although authenticated, they prove nothing. He was originally destined for the church, and had made some progress in his ecclesiastical studies, when his father changed his mind, and determined to make him a lawyer. The dry details of the juridical profession excited in Schiller nothing but the most unfeigned disgust, and he at last relinquished it altogether for one he imagined more inviting-medicine. The whole of his college life, however, seems to have been any thing but happy. Confined to his chambers at Stuttgard, he was shut out from all the rest of the world; and for any knowledge he had acquired of men and manners, he was indebted entirely to books. Many of the estimates he had formed There are some ornaments which, although not neces-regarding them were, consequently, erroneous. Apparent sary to a garden, may, in certain situations, be introduced evil, however, frequently produces real good, and seemwith advantage. Where there is a great inequality of ingly inadequate causes have often occasioned the most ground, terraces laid out, and decorated with some archi- important results. Had it not been for the perverted tectural pretensions, are a valuable addition. When the discipline of the Stuttgard school, the "Robbers" might enduring growth of the plants has subdued them to the never have been given to the world; yet this work forms character of the scene, they much enhance the charms of an era not only in Schiller's history, but in the literature the garden. In more genial climates than ours, an oc- of Europe. There was never an author rose more sudcasional bust or statue, peeping from among the green denly from obscurity to fame. Hitherto Schiller had passleaves, pleases the eye, and affords hints for meditation.ed for an unprofitable, discontented, and disobedient boy; Our variable weather causes them to moulder too quickly but the giant might of his nature now stood forth confessaway; and in winter, they gleam coldly and uncomforta- ed. "He burst upon the world like a meteor; and surbly through the leafless trees. In Italy, there is some- prise, for a time, suspended the power of cool and rational thing exquisitely refreshing in the play of fountains, and criticism." His tragedy, which appeared when he was marble ornaments add both to their apparent coolness and in his twenty-second year, and which he published at his to their beauty. With us they are unnecessary. "Too own expense, not being able to find any bookseller that much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia." A small piece would undertake it, was, in a few months, translated into of water is, however, always an improvement to a garden. almost all the modern languages, and became the uniIt is in keeping, for a supply of this element is required versal topic among literary men. It is not our purpose in summer for the drooping flowers; and although it can- at present to enter into its peculiar merits or defects; but not be made to rival the beauties of a lake, there is yet this much we will say, that, however great its faults may something exquisitely pleasing in its transparency, and its be, it possesses beauties which no other German author reflections of tree and sky. A summer-house is indis--not even Schiller himself—has ever surpassed. pensable; but it ought to be of good stone and lime. Leafy bowers are fine things to read of, but they are plagued with insects. In general, too, they are stiff, and ought to be abrogated, with all the bare and stunted productions of what has been called the topiarian art. It is true that our brief and uncertain summer affords us but a short space for the enjoyment of the garden; but this is the very reason why we ought to make the most of it. In its embowered shades we can best concentrate our affections and thoughts, scattered and dissipated among the multitudinous cares of the world. There we can assemble our friends around us, or we may bask alone in the sun, until we seem to ripen with the fruits overhead, or sit in the breathless hush of midnight, looking at the pale moon, and the few intensely bright stars around her. It is not every one who can reach the solitudes of nature, there to commune with his own heart; but almost every one may have a garden, where he can lock out the dense crowd that jostles him in the streets. And if at times his thoughts be interrupted by the laugh from some neighbouring garden, or by the small happy voices of children, this will but give a heartier and more human turn to his musings, teaching him how many thousands are unconsciously sympathising with his happiness. MEMOIR OF THE POEt schiller. SCHILLER was born in the year 1759, at Marbach, a small town of Wurtemberg. His father had been a surgeon in the Bavarian army; but at the time of Schiller's birth, was employed by the Duke of Wurtemberg to superintend the laying out of various extensive pleasure grounds. His mother was a baker's daughter, and neiCher of his parents seem to have been in any way remark 66 Soon after this, he became acquainted with Dalberg, the superintendent of the theatre at Manheim; and in 1783, two other tragedies the "Conspiracy of Fiesco," and" Cabal and Love""-were brought upon the stage there with the greatest success. He now left Stuttgard finally, and renounced at once divinity, law, and medicine, for the more alluring charms of a literary life. "All my connexions," he says, in a letter to a friend, are now dissolved. The public is now all to me, my study, my sovereign, my confident. To the public alone I henceforth belong; before this, and no other tribunal, will I place myself; this alone do I reverence and fear. Something majestic hovers before me, as I determine now to wear no other fetters but the sentence of the world, to appeal to no other throne but the soul of man." He remained at Manheim for nearly two years, during which time he became the editor of the "German Thalia,”—a publication principally devoted to theatrical criticisms, essays on the nature of the stage, its history in various countries, and its moral and intellectual effects. He gave a good deal of his time to philosophical pursuits, of which he had been always fond, and produced the "Philosophic Letters," in which it appears that scepticism often interfered with his fairest visions, and threw a shadow across his soul, even in its loftiest moods. As his genius expanded, and his name became more and more known, Schiller began to long for a wider sphere of action. He accordingly removed first to Leipzig, and afterwards to Dresden, where he completed his tragedy of "Don Carlos," on which he had been engaged for some time, and gave it to the world in 1786. This is the first of his plays that bears the stamp of full maturity, and may safely take its place among the finest compositions of a similar nature. It is as much superior to the "Filippo" of Alfieri, as the " Othello" of Shakspeare is to the "Cato"! of Addison. It was received with immediate and universal approbation. Yet, notwithstanding its celebrity, he now grew tired of writing for the stage, and for a considerable number of years turned his thoughts to other subjects. He published a number of snfaller pieces, which are esteemed by the Germans as forming one of the most valuable portions of their miscellaneous poetry. Soon afterwards the "Ghostseer" made its appearance, a novel in two volumes, but of unequal merit. Though his studies were thus multifarious, and his productions so voluminous, Schiller did not live as a solitary recluse or morose bookworm. His manners were frank, simple, and unembarrassed, and his dispositions social and conciliating. He resided in the midst of a numerous circle of friends in Dresden, and that circle was greatly enlarged by a visit he paid, in 1787, to Weimar, at that time the very Athens of Germany, and subsequently to Rudolstadt. In the former he became acquainted with Herder and Wieland, and in the latter with Goethe. His first interview with Goethe was rather unpropitious. Goethe was always jealous of his own literary renown, and Schiller was a formidable rival. But by degrees his better feelings overcame all others, and a friendship was formed, which was never interrupted till death put an end to it. of watching him on such occasions-a thing very easy to Soon after its publication, Schiller removed to Weimar, where his "Mary Stuart," his "Maid of Orleans,” his "Bride of Messina," and his " Wilhelm Tell," successively appeared. Of these, the most deservedly popular were the second and the last. At the first exhibition of the "Maid of Orleans," in Leipzig, Schiller was in the theatre. When the curtain dropped, at the end of the first act, there arose, on all sides, a shout of Es lebe Friedrich Schiller! accompanied by the sound of trumpets and other military music. At the conclusion of the piece, the whole assembly left their places, went out, and crowded round the door through which the poet was expected to come; and no sooner did he show himself, than his admiring spectators, uncovering their heads, made an avenue for him to pass; and as he walked along, many held up their children, and exclaimed, That is he! This must have been a moment worth a life of misery. It was among the latest of his brilliant hours. In the spring of 1805, in the forty-fifth year of his age, his old malady returned with more than its original virulence. On the 9th of May, it reached a crisis. He became, for some restored. Some one enquiring how he felt, he said, "Calmer and calmer;" he soon afterwards sunk into a deep sleep, and awoke no more. H. G. B. Schiller, meanwhile, was busily engaged in historical researches, and in the following year the first volume of his "History of the Revolt of the United Netherlands" was produced. It is to be regretted that this work was never finished, for it would have ranked as the very best of Schiller's prose compositions. Soon after its publication he was appointed professor of history in the University of Jena, whither he immediately went; and, in the February following, married a lady to whom he had been for some time attached, and with whom he seems to have lived a happy and virtuous life. Hear how he himself expresses it: "Life is quite a different thing by the side of a beloved wife, than when forsaken and alone. Beautiful Nature! I now, for the first time, fully enjoy it, live in it. The world again clothes itself around me in poetic forms; old feelings are again awakening in my breast!" In his new office he devoted himself with double zeal to history; and in 1791 his chief performance in this department of literature appeared-the "History of the Thirty Years' War." It has its imperfections, but Ger-hours, delirious; but, towards evening, his senses were many can boast of no other historical work equal to it; and, in saying so, we do not forget Müller. It was in this year that the first severe fit of sickness overtook him he had ever experienced; and though he overcame it in the present instance, the blessing of entire health never returned to him. His disorder was in the chest, and was probably induced by his severe habits of study; for though tall, he was not robust, and his frame was too weak for the sleepless soul that dwelt within it. He was obliged to give up his professorship, but a pension was settled on him of a thousand crowns. As his health partially returned he resumed his activity, and was for a while deeply involved in all the mysticism of the Kantean system of philosophy. He published several treatises upon the subject, but they are now the least remembered of all his works. Escaping from this vortex, he seems to have projected the writing of an epic poem, and Frederick the Great of Prussia was to have been his hero; but it was a scheme upon the execution of which he never entered. His old partiality for the drama returned, and for several years he consecrated his brightest hours to the tragedy of "Wallenstein." His place of study was in a garden in the suburbs of Jena, where he commonly retired about sunset; and Doering informs us, that, "on sitting down to his desk at nights, he was wont to keep some strong coffee or chocolate, but more frequently a flask of old Rhenish or Champagne, standing by him, that he might, from time to time, repair the exhaustion of nature. Often the neighbours used to hear him earnestly declaiming in the silence of the night; and whoever had an opportunity THE DRAMA. FANNY KEMBLE is a little girl of very considerable genius. There is nothing awful, or overwhelming, er mysterious, or prodigious about her,—nothing to make grave gentlemen of forty gape in stupid wonder,-or calm, judicious, and hackneyed critics, like ourselves, feel our faculties benumbed, and our minds confused, by her unprecedented powers; but there is something about her which makes it pleasant to see her act, and which gives good promise of excellence yet to be. As soon as the excitement and curiosity which have attended her first sea son in town, and her first provincial tour, have subsided, the truth of this sober and rational statement will be come apparent to persons whose inexperience occasioned their being more easily carried away by the current than we were. Miss Kemble has now played four of her prin cipal parts-Juliet, Belvidera, Isabella, and Mrs Beverly and she has acquitted herself in each in a highly cre ditable and respectable manner. To say that she had, in any of them, equalled the matured powers of Mis O'Neill, or made even a far-off approach to the grandeur and sublimity of Mrs Siddons, would be flattery of the grossest description. Yet, let it not be supposed that we have any inclination to damn with faint praise. Mis Kemble, we are given to understand, is not nineteen; and to suppose her, at so early an age, capable of achieving the highest conquests of the drama, would be to Suppose her something more than human. Her person is not yet nearly filled up, her voice has not acquired half its strength and volume, and her features are still far too girlish for the display of those mightier passions which agitate the breast of man or woman. In many instances, Miss Kemble shows us more what she wishes to do, than what she does. If this be obvious, even in our small Theatre, we should think it must have been necessarily much more obvious at Covent Garden. But let it be observed, that Miss Kemble has hitherto played, both there and here, under very favourable auspices. If an actor or actress once contrives to excite public interest, the promiscuous audiences assembled in consequence are ever ready to take up and applaud the slightest points they may happen to make, while efforts of a higher description, made by others who have ceased to attract by their no. velty, are passed over in entire silence. Frequently have we seen pet performers or stars praised to the echo for traits of acting which indicated no genius whatever, just as we have seen some pompous triton in a small literary coterie throw all the minnows that surrounded him into convulsions of delighted laughter, with one small shake of his tail. Nothing is more disgusting to a man of common discrimination, than to perceive the idiotical manner in which a mob of boobies award their commendation. There is an immense number of fat, officious, Cockney boobies among a London audience; and, when once Fanny Kemble's wheel was set in motion, these poor drivels pushed in their fingers on every spoke, anxious to enjoy the good-natured and paltry vanity of aiding in accelerating its motion. But we men of Edinburgh take the credit to ourselves of being a cooler and more sagacious race; and we do not scramble over each other's heads, or break each other's ribs, at the pit door, to see one whom we are not pretty well assured is worthy the price thus paid for her. Miss Fanny Kemble's face is not beautiful, her voice s not musical, her elocution is not perfect, her figure is not commanding ;-consequently Miss Kemble is not calculated to burst upon you, and to command your atention, whether you will or not. The next question, herefore, comes to be—Is Miss Fanny Kemble calculaed to gain upon you? We think she is-Her face, hough not beautiful, is expressive; her voice, though not musical, is touching in its lower tones; her elocution, hough not perfect, may be improved; her figure, though not commanding, is graceful. We have already said, hat owing to her youth, she wants many physical requisites for the delineation of the stormier passions; and we nay now add, as explanatory of this, that in every scene which requires much energy of action, she is obliged to train her voice and distort her countenance, in order to ring out any thing like her own conceptions of the maner in which it should be performed. Still, her own onceptions are often excellent, and though they are ometimes more like a sketch than a finished picture, hey yet show what could be done had the artist the all command of her own resources. In the calmer cenes, where good taste and lady-like feeling are the bief requisites, Miss Kemble never disappoints. This a very excellent foundation for any actress to rest upon, or it implies the presence of those finer susceptibilities -hich are at the root of all genius, and without which here may be some display of vulgar power, but never high and genuine talent. As an instance of what we ean, we would particularly refer to Miss Kemble's noon of the manner in which Isabella, overcome by the remitting, warm, and respectful attentions of Villeroy, ght at length to yield a half consent to become his ife. The words are these:- And I should wrong the truth, myself, and you, To say that I can ever love again. I owe this declaration to myself; But as a proof that I owe all to you, If, after what I have said, you can resolve To think me worth your love-Where am I going? You cannot think it; 'tis impossible!" The first part of this speech was delivered in a slow solemn accent, and as she proceeded, Miss Kemble gradually became more and more embarrassed, partially covering her face with her hands to conceal her agitation, but at length when the full force of the promise she was about to make flashed upon her, she started up at once to her full height, and with a generous burst of heroic energy, full of the deathless love she bore her unforgotten Biron, she turned away from Villeroy, exclaiming, "Where am I going? You cannot think it; 'tis impossible !" Miss Kemble will perhaps be surprised to hear that we consider this the finest thing she has yet done in Edinburgh. There was no stage trick in it, and it went directly home to the feelings of the audience, the more directly that the transition was unexpected, but admirably managed. In the business of the stage, Miss Kemble has been excellently schooled, and certainly she could have had few instructors superior to her own father, who walks the boards more completely like a gentleman than almost any performer we recollect. We have heard this knowledge of stage business charged to Miss Kemble as a fault, but this is absurd. One might as well accuse a lawyer of being too intimately versed in the technicalities of his profession, which are just as necessary to his success in it as the highest abilities. Miss Kemble's attitudes and by-play are, of course, studied to a certain extent, but so, we presume, is every thing of much merit in this world, at least we scarcely know any thing worth having that is to be had without study. Miss Kemble is young, and likely to improve. If she does, in any fair proportion, she will unquestionably be a great actress ;----if she does not, she will at least remain what she is at present a pleasing and elegant one, with here and there flashes of genius breaking through. She will also enjoy the advantage in two or three years, of ceasing to be what she is now, too young for the great majority of parts she plays. We have not yet seen Miss Kemble in comedy, but she is to appear as Lady Townly this evening, and will next week, we believe, sustain the part of Beatrice, which she has not hitherto performed in London. Her abilities will thus be more completely placed before us, and we shall be able to add, to our present remarks, some others of interest next Saturday. Old Cerberus. ORIGINAL POETRY. TO JULIANA. COULDST thou stand before me now I summon thee with spell of power, Now thy hand is lock'd in mine, Now my arms around thee twine, Now the silver light I kiss Little heed we time or tide, Or what future hours may hide; Vision! must it still be so? Though its name be link'd with thine, Other words of praise have won thee;- me, Yet, sweet, if I do thee wrong, Watch the change of the season From winter to spring; Not the "still voice" of reason More solace can bring. If the flowers that we cherish If the rainbow's past glory And the thorn-chain be bound Its life over thee. When moonlight is gleaming O'er turret and tree, And the night wind is streaming Away on the sea; When meteor lights, sweeping, Illumine the glade, And the cypress is weeping Alone in the shade; When the voice of the fountain In melody springs, And one bird from a mountain Oh, remember that I, Where man hath not been, To bless thee unseen;~~ If the hopes gleam the brighter We often may meet, Though I change like the billow Which breaks at thy feet. In the hope that thou to me More than thou ere hast been, will be. H. G. B. ALASTOR. ΤΟ WHEN health is declining In silence and tears;- Glide over the brain, And the dawn of the morrow When hope does but linger, Points on to the tomb ;When the past but returns As dreams that are fled, And the lonely lamp burns At the foot of the deadOh, look out in the midnight With love-searching eye, Though evading thy sight, Will my spirit be nigh! LINES ON LIFE. By Lawrence Macdonald. CALL on the viewless winds for woman's sighs, Caught up by them into the liquid air, Proclaiming grief to the unconscious skies; Call on the earth to make her bosom bare, To show the ocean in her depth that lies Of human tears, all shed amid the cries Of human nature's agonizing pain! Bare all to view, and, with thy wondering eyes, Behold the spirit's grief! the heart's big rain! Then say why o'er the earth this flood of misery came. With man's frail bark upon its billows toss'd, The mast all shivering 'mid life's heavy gale, The rudder gone, life's pointing compass lost, While mental darkness crowds to fill the sail!But death, or soon or late, will burst the spell, And fling the stormy clouds of life away, Revealing to our eyes that heaven or hellThe deeper darkness, or the brighter day,— Which Priests proclaim, and Poets twine throughou their lay! |