There is then a language of the emotions and passions distinct from and paramount to every conventional vehicle, and it is the province of that attainment in any of the fine arts, which enables the individual to master and apply it, to which the term Taste is properly applied. It follows, that genius is unlimited by the nature of the language, the costume, the manners, the habits of this or that age or country. Not but that the popularity of a writer must, in a considerable degree, be limited by these circumstances. Still, to those who have the hardihood to collate and master these arbitrary expressions, there remains a perfect harmony in all the efforts of real genius. It may be justly said then of our clothes, of our furniture, as of our language, that they are Grecian or Roman; English or French; Italian or German: but of a work of fancy, which forcibly recommends itself to an enlightened taste, we ought only to say, that it is excellent in its kind.

"Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair."

We have been seduced into this train of observation, by the indignation which has frequently seized upon us whilst considering the extremely iniquitous judgments which are passed by the inhabitants of all countries, upon what are called foreign works of genius. Many of these criticisms appear to have ne other merit, than the alliterative language in which they are Couched. Accordingly, a performance, if it be Dutch, is, by prescription, dull; if French, flimsy; if German, grave. This is certainly the effect of national prejudice and antipathy, since no one ever thinks of inflicting the same cabalistic censure on the ancient works of genius. We hold it to be more equitable as well as more philosophical to assert, that works of genius can be written to any purpose, only in one tongue-the vernacular language of mankind, the idiom of the heart. It is by this title only that they descend to posterity and rank their authors among the number of the immortals. To most Englishmen, and descendants of Englishmen, the language of Shakspeare is a study of some difficulty; much of it is obsolete or quaint; his plots, so far as they are native, belong to another age, to other habits and manners; so far as they are foreign, they may be said to be true to any thing but reality. No one, however, we presume, would think of estimating his merits by such standards. His faults or his misfortunes in these particulars, might have been vastly more numerous than they are, without weighing a feather against his transcendent excellencies. He is still the mighty magician, at the waving of whose potent

wand, all the heaving passions of the soul start from their lurking places, in their living lineaments of deformity or beauty, of meanness or magnificence.

There is no nation, whose literature has been more injuriously treated than the German; none which has experienced more obstacles in forcing its works of merit upon the notice of the reading public of other countries. It is not difficult to account for this fact, at least to a certain extent. Whilst the more southern nations of Europe, including England, may be said to have started for the goal almost simultaneously, Germany, harrassed by civil wars and theological disputes, had no opportunity of signalizing herself in the arts which adorn and elevate existence. Rich as was the fund which she possessed in the lays of her Minnesingers, the diversity of dialects, and the want of a common currency in language, prevented her from deriving any profit from it. The Reformation, whilst it remedied this evil, by raising up a common standard in Luther's translation of the Scriptures, and in the pulpit addresses of the Clergy, was pregnant with other events by no means favourable to the cause of the Muses. The various sects of Religionists which subsequently arose, to whom experience had not yet imparted the salutary lesson of agreeing to differ, found in the discussion of their mutual differences an interest, to use no harsher epithets, too exclusive and absorbing. Even that degree of improvement in taste, which the eloquence of the Church insensibly acquires in times and situations where the current of human feeling is left to pursue its unruffled course, was almost hopelessly banished. Amidst rival aspirants to spiritual popularity, the simplicity of pathos was lost in the clang of dialectics, and the ordinary subjects of human interest exchanged for topics condemned by the wisdom of this world, and having no very obvious bearing on the next. A return to a better and more earthly state of things could not be expected, and, indeed, did not occur until these assailants had mutually exhausted all the weapons of controversy, without having effected the slightest breach in their respective theological battlements.

When the period of repose arrived, the writers of Germany found all the high places of literature occupied, and it was only by passing the isthmus, which united the associations of their countrymen with those of other nations, professing similar devotional impressions, that they obtained a solid footing in the world of leters. Hence we find that Gesner, and Gellert, and Klopstock continued to be the representatives of German literature long after they had been superseded at home by Lessing and Wieland.

In Schiller and Goethe, champions have arisen, whose success has fairly removed every barrier, whether native or foreign, which opposed itself to the literary renown of their country. A knowledge of its language begins to rank in the catalogue of liberal accomplishments, and its works of fancy are now very generally sought after and admired.

Of the recent popular writers of Germany, there is, perhaps, none more admired and read than the Baron de la Motte Fouqué, whose Tales and Romances we now propose to introduce to the notice of our readers. In brilliancy of fancy, novelty of invention, and a rich and flowing diction, copious but not diffuse, we believe that there are few writers of the present day by whom he is surpassed. When we consider the power which he displays, in connexion with the shortness of the pieces before us, we feel convinced that the charge of prolixity, so often urged against German works of fancy, is by no means well founded. M. Fouqué is, however, in the last degree amenable to the charge, to which all modern writers of Romance must plead guilty-a want of well-sustained interest. There is no regular plot; no consistent whole. The story proceeds by leaps and bounds, precipitating the reader in medias res, without the possibility of discovering what preceded, or of divining what is to follow. He is in the situation of a voyager traversing the ocean in a gallant ship, amidst joyous gales that waft him on his course, with the liquid azure of the heavens above, and the lurid waters of the deep beneath, now lifting him to the skies, and anon sinking under him or curling around him, till at last they appear to vanish in thin spray, and gorgeous, impalpable light. All is excitement for the moment, but the course finished, nothing is distinct, nothing vivid. The labouring recollection strives in vain to weave anew the web of joy which before encircled it. The confused elements still haunt the imagination, shrouded in thick darkness, which alone can be felt.

A modern Romance must, in its very inception, be a sin against good taste. It must necessarily, and to a certain extent, send every reader to school. Nor is this practice sufficiently defended, by saying that the notions, which we now style romantic, once constituted a part of the every day notions and the ordinary staple of life. The very defence is an implied admission of the truth of the charge. Every master-work of fancy, when duly analysed, will be found to consist of the most common and obvious materials; of notions, which a contemporary, so far from having to acquire, could scarcely be conceived ignorant of. Homer is occasionally abstrusely mythological; Pindar is copious in genealogy; and Milton is at times eminently metaphysi

cal and theological. These, however, were ordinary accomplishments in their respective times, and for aught we know, Praise God Barebones, in a spiritual tilt, might have been no contemptible antagonist of Cromwell's Latin Secretary.

To be able to construct a story, which shall present a regular beginning, middle and end, each naturally conducting to the other, is a task, which, however simple in the enunciation, always has, and we fear, will forever present an insuperable difficulty to minds otherwise possessed of exuberant fertility and energy in details. It is like demanding of a chain-carrier or country surveyor, the acquirements of Euclid or Archimides. Accordingly, we find that this is exactly the labour which a genius, not absolutely of the first order, is almost certain to avoid, or to fail in if he attempt it. We scruple not to assert, and we do so with sentiments of unfeigned admiration for the exuberance of his genius, and the masculine vigour of many of his conceptions of individual scenes and characters, that the author of "6 Waverly" has produced nothing comparable for high-wrought and uniformly sustained interest, to the "Clarissa" of Richardson. Yet there is nothing in this last, that an ordinary inhabitant of the good land of Cockaigne, might not understand perfectly without the aid of chronicle or glossary. But we would further ask, and we do so that we may avoid all suspicion of partiality, who can derive any other feelings than those of disgust, from the Priapeian details, upon which the author of the "Last of the Mohicans," has dwelt with such elaborate deformity? What just criticism could lead an author, indubitably possessed of athletic mental powers, to suppose that any durable impression of delight could be produced upon a cultivated understanding, English or American, by the most exact portraiture of the vilest passions, in their unrestrained influence over the most ferocious of our species? Why has he thrown aside the pencil of Titian or Reynolds, for the monstrous brush of Fuseli?

The author before us seems to be perfectly aware of the intimate alliance which exists between the obscure and the sublime. The first of these tales, "The League of Death," is one of great power in various parts, yet as a whole is indistinct and misty. We have taken some pains to gather up the thread of it, and yet we do not flatter ourselves with being thoroughly initiated into the writer's conception of it. We shall, however, endeavour to the best of our ability, to give an outline of it.

It seems that Reidmar, the hero of the piece, an elegant youth, an attendant at court, had, in early life, indulged in a voracious appetite for Romances and other wonderful narrations, until, like Don Quixotte, his imagination became distempered, and

"When

engendered a disgust for the tame realities of life. or where, that is the question," he is introduced to a familiarity with Diona, a young princess of incomparable beauty. They conceive an invincible attachment for each other, and are continually on the point of ratifying it by the most solemn vows, but are as often prevented by the apparition of the lady's deceased father, who, in the most extraordinary manner, enters her chamber, and mars all their blissful projects, by preternaturally forbidding the bans. At last, however, this ominous guardian, wearied out we suppose, for we dare not say that we are informed, by the perseverance of this constant couple, beckons the youth to his daughter's apartment, after having frightened her with a noise by no means ghostly, and then leaves the enraptured lovers to shape the course of their own fortunes. The damsel, however, appears to have conducted the negotiations with more than royal prudence, and for the present, the affair proceeded no further than to the espousals. Reidmar receives a miniature of his mistress, in a gold case, having a lesser compartment containing poison, with an injunction which he promises to fulfil, and which, in truth, was not unlike that of the Spartan mother, requiring her son to return with his shield, or to return upon it. The moment he ceased to love, the trinket was to be unloosed by death.

In the meantime, according to the usual fate of lovers, more particularly in high stations, a certain intriguing, political busybody, named Lorentin, steps between. From the ubiquity, and superhuman contrivance of this gentleman, we at first took him for an impersonation of the arch fiend himself. Yet from subsequent events, he seems to be a thing of flesh and blood. However this may be, it is certain, that his officiousness had the effect of sending poor Reidmar upon his travels, filled with disappointment, fixed in hatred of his adversary, and somewhat dephlogisticated by the rough experiments to which his attachment had been exposed. Accordingly, our first acquaintance with him commences by discovering him upon an unknown and unfrequented heath, just as the shadows of evening are closing in upon him. Looking out for some sign of the road, he espies a large stone with a statue upon it, to which the vapours of the evening imparted a gigantic appearance. A slight shudder creeps over him, and as he ridiculed himself for it, he insensibly fell into this parley with himself:

"Is it timidity then, to tremble before the inhabitants of an unknown world, to which we must all surely descend, after having shuffled off what we now consider our own? Is it"-his inward horror took the upper hand, since it confused and effaced every accurate thought, and