There is no such man in existence as Franz Toldy. The ve ritable person is a virtuous German-Schedel by name-who, enamoured of the beauties, and touched by the neglect of the Magyar tongue has, for some years, been successfully endeavouring to make it better known. He is one of the many German settlers in Hungary, who feel that the strongest hold they can possess on the affections of the Magyars is, to co-operate with them for the extension of their literary reputation-to assist in elevating them to the position they are entitled to occupy in the world of civilization-to encourage their patriotic sympathies and to give them a local habitation and a name among the cultivated portion of the human race. Purposes so excellent merit every encouragement. He who removes the stigma of reproach, or rolls away the clouds of neglect, from a people, is a benefactor on a magnificent scale. To suppress an individual calumny, to develop an individual virtue, is praiseworthy and generous; but to entitle a whole nation to a more favourable opinion, to create kind affections, respect, esteem, admiration for the virtues or the knowledge of millions, is one of the most exalted works in which philanthropy can be engaged. Such honourable labours have been too much neglectedbecause too little encouraged in England. While we have been pouring forth our knowledge over more than a hemisphere, while the names of our great men are familiar to the world, from how few countries have we gathered contributions in return; how vast the extent of territory, how many the languages, how various the tribes from whence we have never received, because we have never sought, one iota of instruction. Diversity of idiom has been a great barrier to the inter-communication of thought, but the difficulty of acquiring a foreign tongue has been wondrously exaggerated. There are few intellectual tasks less laborious, none more encouraging in its progress. The child with its imperfect organs and unimpaired faculties, learns in a few months enough of language to express its wants, and to receive delight from the expressions of those around it. Can it be believed with mature capacities, and under a proper system of instruction, that the youth or the man should be incapable of emulating the child? Experience shows the contrary wherever a proper experiment is made; but as we have gone so elaborately into this question in the last number of this Review, it is hardly necessary to dilate on it here.

From the end of the fifteenth century literary remains are not wanting in the language of the Magyar people. Rhymed chronicles become numerous in the sixteenth, and the seventeenth ushers in a numerous train of versifiers, of whom Zrínyi

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is the first entitled to special distinction. He sang the deeds of his ancestors with more of passion than poetry; but his erotic compositions are charming though grotesque. Liszti followed his description of the fatal field of Mohács wants the interest of history, and is rather made up of the generalities borrowed from classical sources, than of particulars gathered from the real events of the time. Gyöngyösi's fluent muse poured forth volumes of verses, which, if often wanting in force and pathos, served nevertheless to fix the language, and to give a great impulse to literature. Beniczky and Kohari, the first a bard of strong affections, the other of a quiet and thoughtful philosophy, prepared the way for Faludi, the leader of a new generation, rich in illustrious names. In the middle of the eighteenth century, a band of national writers arose, filling up, one after another, the various departments of letters in the field of imagination and of judgment. The attempts of the Austrian court to extirpate the Hungarian tongue, led to its complete resuscitation. Soon appeared Révai's collection of unpublished poetry; Dugonics printed his national romances; Kazinczy his various literary contributions. The stage lent its aid to the language of the people, and nearly three-hundred pieces were produced in a few years. The richest portions of the Magyar productions are undoubtedly the poetical; and the result of a vehement struggle between the advocates and representatives of the French, Latin, and German schools has been, the creation of a new and independent Hungarian spirit, which is likely to be exceedingly beneficial to the national culture, and which has already borne many fruits of beauty. The first representatives of the new and, at the present moment, the reigning poetical taste of the Hungarians, were Csokonai, Kazinczy, Dayka, and Verseghy. Their united influence formed an independent and patriotic school. Of these Kazinczy is still living, and has found in a strong band of young co-adjutors the security that his popular labours will influence all future time. Kazinczy brought the influence of foreign literature to act directly on that of Hungary; not by a particular and exclusive dedication to any one particular language, but by translating and assembling a number of meritorious works, and pouring them out, in fusion, as it were, upon the Magyar. Shakspeare and Lessing, Marmontel and Sterne, Ossian and Göthe, were assembled, and introduced together in social communion. Very various too are his original writings; his songs are sweet and simple; his epigrams happily pointed; and his epistles (a form of poetry not often happily managed) are agreeably diversified in manner and matter. He was born in 1759, and

his whole biography is a series of meritorious labours for the literary reputation of his country. In the periodicals, which from time to time have ministered to the taste for letters of the Magyars, he will be found almost omni-present. But he has been disciplined by adversity, and persecuted for his political opinions-seven years he passed in prison under the paternal visitations of the government of Vienna-the particulars of which the censorship has kindly erased from Toldy's volumes, leaving blanks and blank lines to be filled up, as many such an hiatus will be filled up hereafter, with the words, "Austrian despotism,"-" Austrian barbarism."

Amidst his numerous works it is difficult to select; but in the following, indiscriminately culled, the character of his poetry may be traced.

HER IMAGE.

Midön az hajnal elveri álmonat.

"Tis morning and I wake-the earliest vision
That beams upon me is thy face divine;
And then my spirit floats in light elysian,

And bliss springs youthful from those smiles of thine.
""Tis she 'tis she!" I cry,-swift flow my veins,

I kiss the air, as if her breath had bless'd it-
I bow to earth, as if her feet had press'd it—
Yes! she was here, and still her influence reigns.
Fair Representative! the sweet infection

Of power is with thee-gentle, but supreme;
Blending such dreams of hope and recollection-
And gilding with new glory every dream :
Look!-for the sun is up, and on thy face
Throws all its lustre, light, and heavenly grace.

FABLE-THE BADGER AND THE SQUIRREL.

A' tunya borz szennyes gödrében nézte szökéseit.

A dirty badger, from his noisome dwelling,
Observ'd from branch to branch a squirrel springing:
'Twas near the badger's den where dwelt the squirrel,
On an old tree, to Pan once consecrated.

"Ho! Cousin, Ho!" so cried the dirty badger,
Hast thou forgotten, say, that thou by nature
Art classed among the quadrupeds-'tis folly
And an unseemly vanity, that make thee
Ashamed of earth—and seeking habitation
Among the fowls of heaven. Descend, companion,
Come dwell among thy kindred, and abandon
Thy towering friskings. Cousin bear leaps often,
I too, sometimes-but then tis with discretion."
The little creature listened to the counsel,

And answered meekly-" Were I thy companion—
Then-but thou art a badger-I a squirrel."

THE BELOVED.

As I grew older,
Beautiful visions
Glanc'd thro' the foliage
Of the old oak trees;
Near the clear streamlet
Rising irriguous,
Visions of beauty
Which my song chaunted.
Then did my country
And her bright children.
Waken its music-
Then did love's passion
Thrill thro the harp-strings,
And the bright eye-balls
Of that divine one,
Who in the darkness

Of the green garden,
Beam'd-and fled smiling.
Wicked one! darting
Into my bosom-
And then departing.

THE EPIGRAM.

Szökj,' Epigramma, di nem mint nyil melly czélra fut és öl.

Fly, Epigram, fly, but not like a barb that wounds as it hurries
Fly like a kiss, which the loving one tremblingly steals;
Lo! 'tis just heard and retain'd-from the fire of the odorous
maiden

Flames have been waked on my lips, and a heat has possess'd all my heart.

Berzsenyi was born in 1776, and inhabits Mikla. Encouraged by Kis, an estimable poet yet living, he became the friend and correspondent of Kazinczy, and soon obtained distinction and a place under the Hungarian government. His works were collected in three books (Versei) and published at Pesth in 1813. They are remarkable for their tenderness, and have passed through three editions. These are translated extracts :

EVENING TWILIGHT.

Come with thy purple smiles, and bring
To nature quiet rest :
Come, gentle light of eve, and fling

The dew o'er nature's breast.

Send to the weary eye repose
And happy dreams to-night :
And bid the veil of darkness close
O'er holy love's delight.

The rose-tree hides its fairest flowers
While eve glides calmly by,

And life's most bright and blessed hours
Are hid in mystery.

I have a secret-but 'tis mine

No word shall reach thine ear,
'Tis buried in my heart's own shrine,
And lock'd in safety there.

I will not tell my thought-nor shame
My maiden with a fear;

I will not tell my maiden's name
Nor what I feel for her.

I told it to the silent moon,
She saw my hour of bliss-
The tears of joy I shed-the boon,
The beauty and the kiss.'

TO ERNESTINE.

"Sweet is life, my Ernestine!

In the od'rous myrtle grove,
In the arms of holy love,
In Dione's, or in thine.
Sweet is life, my Ernestine !

Some may fear lest wind and wave
Delve for all their wealth a grave;
Some may heap Golconda's store,
Ever adding more to more ;