sions of great cities, have become soiled and sinful. They resemble those convents on the river Rhine, which have been changed to taverns; from whose chambers the pious inmates have long departed, and in whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers have effaced the images of buried saints, and whose walls are written over with ribaldry and the names of strangers, and resound no more with holy hymns, but with revelry and loud voices.' "

"Both town and country have their dangers,' said the Baron; and therefore, wherever the scholar lives, he must never forget his high vocation. Other artists give themselves up wholly to the study of their art. It becomes with them almost religion. For the most part, and in their youth, at least, they dwell in lands, where the whole atmosphere of the soul is beauty; laden with it as the air may be with vapor, till their very nature is saturated with the genius of their art. Such, for example, is the artist's life in Italy.'"

"I agree with you,' exclaimed Flemming; ' and such should be the Poet's everywhere; for he has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world, — and the glories of a modern one, his Apollo and Transfiguration. He must neither forget nor undervalue his vocation ; but thank God that he is a poet; and everywhere be true to himself, and to "the vision and the faculty divine" he feels within him.'", pp. 83-88.

The time passes on with Paul Flemming and his friend the Baron, at Heidelberg, engaged in studies, and rambling about the place. Many questions of literary criticism are discussed in the conversations between the two friends, which show the author's profound acquaintance with German poetry, and the sympathizing manner in which he has studied it. An episodical story, the ruin and tragical fate of Emma of Ilmenau, in this part of the work, has but little connexion with its general design, and leaves only a painful impression. The sixth chapter is filled up with the mystical discourses of a transcendental philosopher, which put the Baron asleep. The tone of thought, and the vague, incoherent style of these dreaming and incomprehensible sages, are very well hit off.

After a time, Flemming and his friend make a journey together, in the course of which they visit Frankfort, the birthplace of Goethe. Here the character and merits of the poet form naturally the subject of conversation, and are discussed with enthusiasm, but in a way more suited, on the whole, to

satisfy sensible people, than most of the remarks one reads upon the subject from lovers of the German muse. The last chapter of the first volume, gives us the parting scene between the two friends.

"Summer-time," is thus described in the opening chapter of the second volume.

"They were right, those old German Minnesingers, - to sing the pleasant summer-time! What a time it is! How June stands illuminated in the Calendar! The windows are all wide open; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here and there a long streak of sunshine streams in through a crevice. We hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. The trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine. The birds sing. The cock struts about, and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. Yellow butter-cups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies. The elm-trees reach their long, pendulous branches almost to the ground. White clouds sail aloft; and vapors fret the blue sky with silver threads. The white village gleams afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow, winds the river, careless, indolent. It seems to love the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea. The bee, only, is at work, the hot and angry bee. All things else are at play; he never plays, and is vexed that any one should.

"People drive out from town to breathe, and to be happy. Most of them have flowers in their hands; bunches of appleblossoms, and still oftener lilacs. Ye denizens of the crowded city, how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover-blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, dashed with brine from the meadows! how pleasant, above all, the flowers, the manifold, beautiful flowers!

"It is no longer day. Through the trees rises the red moon, and the stars are scarcely seen. In the vast shadow of night, the coolness and the dews descend. I sit at the open window to enjoy them; and hear only the voice of the summer wind. Like black hulks, the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass. I cannot see the red and blue flowers, but I know that they are there. Far away, in the meadow, gleams the silver Charles. The tramp of horses' hoof sounds from the wooden bridge. Then all is still, save the continuous wind of the summer night. Sometimes, I know

not if it be the wind or the sound of the neighbouring sea. village clock strikes; and I feel that I am not alone.

The

"How different is it in the city! It is late, and the crowd is gone. You step out upon the balcony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, dewy night, as if you folded her garments about you. The whole starry heaven is spread out overhead. Beneath lies the public walk, with trees, like the fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent darkness the spirit plunges and floats away, with some beloved spirit clasped in its embrace. The lamps are still burning up and down the long street. People go by, with grotesque shadows, now fore-shortened and now lengthening away into the darkness, and vanishing, while a new one springs up behind the walker, and seems to pass him on the side-walk. The iron gates of the park shut with a jangling clang. There are footsteps, and loud voices ; tumult, a drunken brawl, an alarm of fire; - then silence again. And now, at length, the city is asleep, and we can see the night. The belated moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to welcome her. The moonlight is broken. It lies here and there in the squares, and the opening of streets, angular, like blocks of white marble." - Vol. II. I. PP.

1-6.

a

The chapters that follow contain many brilliant descriptions of Swiss scenery; and in them is told the tale of the hero's love for Mary Ashburton. In this, there are no common place incidents; no domestic entanglements; none of the apparatus of common modern novels; but it is a simple delineation of delicate and highwrought passion, cherished among the sublimest scenes in nature, and leading to a melancholy conclusion, in perfect harmony with the general tone of the whole book. The description of the heroine is written with fervor and feeling, and the last scene, where Paul Flemming declares his love, and is rejected, is conceived in a highly poetical spirit. We take from the heroine's portfolio a brilliant sketch of the artist's life in Rome.

"I often reflect with delight upon the young artist's life in Rome. A stranger from the cold and gloomy North, he has crossed the Alps, and with the devotion of a pilgrim, journeyed to the Eternal City. He dwells, perhaps, upon the Pincian Hill; and hardly a house there, which is not inhabited by artists from foreign lands. The very room he lives in has been their abode from time out of mind. Their names are written all over the walls; perhaps some further record of them left in a rough sketch upon the window-shutter, with an inscription and a date. These things consecrate the

place, in his imagination. Even these names, though unknown to him, are not without associations in his mind."

"In that warm latitude, he rises with the day. The nightvapors are already rolling away over the Campagna sea-ward. As he looks from his window, above and beyond their white folds, he recognises the tremulous blue sea at Ostia. Over Soracte rises the sun, -over his own beloved mountain; though no longer worshipped there, as of old. Before him, the antique house, where Raphael lived, casts its long, brown shadow down into the heart of modern Rome. The city lies still asleep and silent. But, above its dark roofs, more than two hundred steeples catch the sunshine on their gilded weathercocks. Presently, the bells begin to ring, and, as the artist listens to their pleasant chimes, he knows, that in each of those churches, over the high altar, hangs a painting by some great master's hand, whose beauty comes between him and heaven, so that he cannot pray, but wonder only.

"Among these works of art he passes the day; but oftenest in St. Peter's and the Vatican. Up the vast marble staircase, through the Corridor Chiaramonti, - through vestibules, galleries, chambers, he passes, as in a dream. All are filled with busts and statues; or painted in daring frescoes. What forms of strength and beauty! what glorious creations of the human mind! and in that last chamber of all, standing alone upon his pedestal, the Apollo found at Actium, — in such a majestic attitude, with such a noble countenance, life-like, god-like !

He

He

"Or, perhaps, he passes into the chambers of the painters ; but goes no further than the second. For, in the middle of that chamber, a large painting stands upon the heavy easel, as if unfinished, though more than three hundred years ago the great artist completed it, and then laid his pencil away for ever, leaving this last benediction to the world. It is the Transfiguration of Christ, by Raphael. A child looks not at the stars with greater wonder, than the artist at this painting. knows how many studious years are in that picture. knows the difficult path that leads to perfection, having himself taken some of the first steps. Thus he recalls the hour, when that broad canvass was first stretched upon its frame, and Raphael stood before it, and laid the first colors upon it, and beheld the figures, one by one, born into life, and 'looked upon the work of his own hands with a smile, that it should have succeeded so well.' He recalls, too, the hour, when, the task accomplished, the pencil dropped from the master's dying hand, and his eyes closed to open on a more glorious transfiguration, and at length the dead Raphael lay in his own stu

dio, before this wonderful painting, more glorious than any conqueror, under the banners and armorial hatchments of his funeral !

،، Think you, that such sights and thoughts as these do not move the heart of a young man and an artist. And when he goes forth into the open air, the sun is going down, and the gray ruins of an antique world receive him. From the Palace of the Cæsars he looks down into the Forum, or towards the Coliseum; or westward, sees the last sunshine strike the bronze Archangel, which stands upon the tomb of Adrian. He walks amid a world of Art in ruins. The very street-lamps, that light him homeward, burn before some painted or sculptured image of the Madonna ! What wonder is it, if dreams visit him in his sleep, nay, if his whole life seem to him a dream! What wonder, if, with a feverish heart and quick hand, he strive to reproduce those dreams in marble or on canvass." pp. 55 - 59.

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This part of the romance contains a number of criticisms upon some of the minor German poets, showing a remarkable familiarity with this portion of the literature of that country. Some of the most famous of Uhland's ballads, and the Song of the Silent Land," by Salis, are translated most faithfully and musically.

After the love passages, and their disastrous conclusion, Flemming, accompanied by his friend Berkley, a burly English bachelor, leaves Interlachen, on his way to Innsbruck. The scenery, on the journey, is vividly painted. At length, the travellers reach Salzburg, where Paul Flemming falls sick of a violent fever; during which he is watched and tended by his friend Berkley. On recovering from illness, the period. of convalescence is cheered by discussion of literary matters, and the character of Hoffmann, in particular, is elaborately delineated. A translation of a humorous piece, by the latter, called the "Musical Sufferings of John Kriesler," occupies an entire chapter. The story of Brother Bernardus is interesting, because it is founded on fact, and presents an example of a species of insanity not uncommon among the excitements of this age.

At length, the hero determines to return to his native land, and engage in the labors and duties of the active citizen. He rouses himself from the dreams of poetry and love, strengthens his heart against disappointment, and, after one last and severe pang, leaves for ever the scene of his studies, his visions, his hopes, and his passion.