American novelist compare so favorably in this respect as in many others, with their German contemporary. Indeed, an adequate and full description of female character is a thing yet to be achieved in our literature. Female frailties have had ample justice done them in English comedy, and the stronger traits of female passion in English tragedy. But how false and imperfect would be our ideas of female character, if we had derived them only from the buskined maid of the drama! In view of this general failure, we had often thought that the peculiar intensity of character which females exhibit, was beyond the reach of description. Here, however, Göthe has equalled our best ideas of excellence. His Memoirs give many specimens of his manner in this particular. No one tells the tale of love with such purity of feeling and enchanting simplicity of taste. And we are bold in saying that the dignity and charms of female virtue, the inimitable grace of her kindness, the meekness and heavenliness of her submission, the sublimity of her heroism in danger, the terrors of her just indignation, the tenderness and power of her love and the depths of her devotion, have never been better represented than in the characters of Mariane, Philena, Mignon, Aurelia, Theresa, Natalie and many others who seem, in very deed, to live and breathe in the volumes before us. In no one respect has Göthe been more commended by his countrymen, than for the correctness and classic elegance of his style. The rudeness of his native dialect assumes under his hand a chaste simplicity which vies with the finest specimens of Grecian and Roman taste. This graceful ease is preserved in the expression of the most elevated thoughts. His words are oracles in the mouth of a child. The style of Göthe has the rare excellence of being a perfect vehicle of thought, from which it never diverts the attention of the reader either by coarseness or finery of expression. So well is his language adapted to the sentiment it conveys, that the sign and the thing signified seem quite blended into one. His conceptions are as little hindered in their freeness, by their material dress, as the viewless spirit is by the thin air in which it veils itself in order to strike the sense of men. But we wish to notice more particularly the composure or reserve of his manner; because this, though the prevailing manner of the ancient classics, is seen, in modern times, only in a few rare instances of eminent genius. Schiller remarks that when he first became acquainted with the works of Shakspeare, he was displeased with a certain insensibility which allowed the author to trifle in the midst of his most heart-rending scenes in Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth. The custom of modern writers had led him to expect that the author would mingle his own reflections and sympathies with those of his readers. It was not till after a deeper study of the principles of taste as developed in the ancient classics, and especially in Homer, that he became reconciled with what he called the distance and reserve of Shakspeare, and finally indeed delighted with it. Some examples will show best the difference we are endeavoring to point out in this respect between ancient and modern writers. In the midst of a severe contest in the sixth book of the Iliad, Glaucus and Diomede discover that an ancestor of one of them had been hospitably entertained by an ancestor of the other, whence by an ancient right, they were themselves friends. They immediately throw down their arms and exchange presents. The reader stops to contemplate this beautiful act of piety. But Homer passes on with the narrative as if he had no heart in his bosom. Now see the modern style. In the first canto of Orlando Furioso, a scene of the same kind occurs, at which Ariosto steps forth from his position as author, and breaks out into the well known exclamation, "O noble minds, by knights of old possessed!" etc. We will mention but one instance among a hundred, of this species of reserve, in the volumes before us. Philena had cherished William with the most tender care during his sickness. One morning Mignon came to his bed-side with the news that Philena had gone away in the night. "William felt the loss of his kind nurse and companion," says the undisturbed narrator," but Mignon soon supplied her place"! Without illustrating this particular farther, we will only beg the reader to mark the effect of such an abrupt reserve of manner, and to compare it with the unbecoming interest which secondary writers take in their own scenes. As if any exercise of imagination in their readers, in supplying the abruptness of thought, must of course be disagreeable, they amplify every sentiment and detail every circumstance. By applying so many slight conductors, they dissipate the collected interest and prevent the electric effect. They leave about as much impression as the tragedian would, who after the catastrophe should feel it important to acquaint the weeping assembly with the farther fortunes of the dramatis persona. How opposite to this is the manner of Göthe. He says less than the occasion warrants. He merely kindles the imagination of his reader, allowing it to burn on of itself. He leaves us something to think of, which answers the description which Longinus gives of the sublime. He means more than he says,-by a kind of aposiopesis ;—a figure of speech which Cæsar used, when he said to the frightened boatman, "Cæsarem vehis!" This reserve of manner betokens a high order of greatness. The tranquillity with which Homer describes the doubtful battle, opens to view the same elevation of soul as is displayed by the cool selfpossession with which Agamemnon directs the onset and retreat. The heavenly composure with which the Evangelists describe the sufferings of their Master, show something of the magnanimity with which he himself endured them. We have only room to notice briefly some of the principal objections urged against this work. The criticism which denominates it ' eminently absurd, puerile, incongrous, vulgar, and affected** cannot be treated more deservingly than to be labelled with its own epithets; to which, if we may add the two, ignorant and presumptuous, we shall think it pretty fairly characterized. Strong objections have been urged against the degree of faithfulness with which actual life is here represented. One would imagine that the English reviewers never did anything less etherial than sipping nectar, from the offence they take at the description of a substantial repast. William Meister steals sweetmeats from the pantry, closes a letter to Mariane by telling her he is half asleep, and must stop,' etc. etc. 'Such circumstances,' says the fastidious reviewer, are carefully kept out of view in the best descriptions of life.' Can a better reason be given why these best descriptions are for the most part so intolerably bad? 6 This is a point where English and German taste separate. Nor are the Germans themselves unanimous in their preference of the faithful description of actual life. Schlegel prefers that history and tradition should afford the scenes for the exhibition of character; though at the same time he acknowledges that the actual and present are not unworthy objects of representation. Much of the controversy which has existed on this subject might have been prevented, by considering, that the material in which the artist works, as it is never the object of taste, should never be the object of criticism. The sole merit of the work of art consists in the manner in which the material is treated. A common and grovelling manner makes the Alfred of Cottle an intolerable poem in spite of its lofty theme; while even a battle of frogs and mice is raised to interest and importance by the manner in which Homer treats it. Indeed the merit of the work of art is often in the inverse ratio of the rudeness of the material. Plus les choses sent sêches,' says Boileau, the justest of modern critics, plus elles frappent quand ils sent dit noblement.' Genius never shows itself more visibly than in conquering the difficulty of a low, dry or intractable subject. That talent is genuine which can stamp a tasteless object with a foreign beauty, which can extract meaning from what is insignificant, cast a brilliant illumination over what is common place, and infuse a rich spirit into what is lifeless. The objection made by Madame de Stael, that the work is destitute of the interest of action, arises from considering romantic writing * See Edinburgh Review, vol. xlii. p. 414. in the gross. She alleges against the romance of character, what can be an objection only to the romance of chivalry. The same may be said of many of the objections which we have not room to notice. The objections to the moral tendency of this work deserve the most careful consideration. We should be far from contending that one definite moral should be pursued in works of fiction, and that this should be everywhere presented to the reader. The writings in which this is attempted are unnatural. Events as they occur in the real world, never speak that explicit and distinct language which they are made to utter in the moral tales of Voltaire, the Prince of Abyssinia and works of the same kind. The voice of Providence is many-toned. The duller ear hears it not at all. The more attentive catch but a portion, and that uncertainly. And none can be certain that they have the full wisdom of the divine lesson. But while we would dispense with this single and definite moral, we would earnestly contend that every writer is responsible for the general moral tendency of his writings. And serious objections must be felt to the writings of Göthe in this respect. We have freely conceded to them in common with many similar works of the present day, a favorable influence upon the social character. But, in common with many others, they, too, are chargeable with substituting false principles of action and judgment in place of those which God has implanted in our natures. They regard things in the light of taste and not of conscience. They found their estimate upon the agreeableness or disagreeableness-the mere external appearance; and not upon the right or wrong-the deep reality of objects. In doing this, how often do they sacrifice truth and morality to a pleasing aspect. The difference between the judgments pronounced at the tribunal of conscience and of taste cannot have escaped the observer. The assassin is more criminal than the thief. But, while taste turns with disgust from the latter, it looks on the former with unaverted interest. Now it is a fact to be deplored, that by this erroneous standard are we led to regard objects by the greater portion of elegant literature. And hence it comes to pass, that persons of the purest moral feeling, deceived by this false light, often find themselves applauding the hero in the novel, whom they would apprehend as a wretch in the streets. A more serious objection still to the writings of Göthe, is the covert scepticism which they contain. He does not indeed scoff at the idea of an overruling Providence, or speak of man with insulting contempt, as the vile sport of fate. On the contrary, he honors the virtues which adorn our nature, and sympathizes with the sorrows with which we are afflicted. But this is the discouraging language of all his descriptions: Enjoy while you may the various pleasures within your reach, and when misfortune comes, endure it as an unavoidable evil. He looks upon the changeful scenes of life, without a cheering confidence in the deep wisdom by which they are ordered. That he should have stopped in the region of doubt, the region of vulgar minds-is a matter of wonder and deep regret. Cold hearted speculation may be permitted and expected to wander in darkness. But genius is an inward light, given for the noblest purposes. Those who possess it are, in no humble sense, the messengers of heaven. When will they recognize their high commission, and leave uncertainty behind, and lead on their admirers enthusiastically in the paths of truth? GREENFIELD HILL. This village is situated on a commanding eminence in the township and county of Fairfield, Conn, about three miles from Long Island Sound. VILLAGE of beauty! looking down, Like a throned queen with emerald crown, Old as the country, its vane's fire, 'Mid the white villas round thy green, O'er velvet banks that wave serene, And rows of sycamores' cool shade, And still outspreads the mellow view And, like a pile of gilt clouds, stand, At twilight hour, when up the hill Then watch the red moon, broad and round |