latter is blind only in its own knowledge. True faith is older than Christianity itself, and is strongest even amid the Paganism of the Grecian sages. Plato tells us that, "Philosophers should make it the whole business of their lives to learn to die." But it is the main burden of our modern philosophy to relieve us from the responsibilities of life and disclose death itself as a "Beautiful Necessity." Idealism is not, however, without its religious element, and that, too, earnest and sincere, and it is certainly free from sanctimonious cant; but wandering and unsettled it often falls to the ground worn out by its own weight. That is, indeed, a curious part of our nature which thrives upon doubt, for it seems to tempt men only to deceive them. German philosophy so strong in this, our weakness, having set in motion this new current of Idealism in our own literature, has come among us with its mysteries, marvels, fancies and fallacies, like an evil spirit, seemingly, after all, but to work out a great lie. Let us see to it, that we fall not by its hollow and visionary schemes. We may safely build altars to its grand theme, even to "the Beautiful Necessity which makes a man brave in believing that he cannot shun a danger which is appointed, nor incur one which is not;" but let us also on them burn incense to the God who predestines Fate itself.

The reverential spirit with which all classes of men regard literature, amounts almost to idolatry. From the Theorist who deifies learning and knowledge and invests his reason with a sort of mysterious sanctity, to the most unassuming of his followers, this tendency to literary worship is every where manifest. It is a peculiarity arising more from the education of men, perhaps, than from their disposition: but it is certainly an excess. We have really no desire to see this feature superseded by irreverence or contempt, but look rather upon a moderate skepticism in matters pertaining to literature as an invaluable aid in forming correct estimates of authors and their works. The alacrity which is sometimes displayed in conforming to those popular literary tenets which necessitates one to adopt a system of opinions, is truly wonderful. It is a fact of too frequent recurrence to be any longer strange, that almost every one of us is either choosing out his Idol or is taking unto himself a literary faith and creed which shall serve as a touch-stone by which to measure good and evil in others. It is not enough to call such a standard of judgment arbitrary and false, for it is more than that, even pernicious and hurtful. It neither informs

nor expands the mind, but limits it rather by a prejudiced and often whimsical taste. In thus condemning individual and exclusive literary creeds, we are far from advocating the repudiation of preferences, and

the adoption in their stead of a set of neutral opinions simply, which would be worse than none at all, but we look upon the absolute, definite, and almost unalterable basis which is sometimes laid down, as the grossest of blunders. The man who thus regulates his judgment will realize about as much information and satisfaction, as he who went to see the play of Hamlet with the character of the Prince of Denmark left out. It defeats in a certain sense the grand purpose of literature. In this age we have learned at least that knowledge is not power, except so far as it subserves our own and a general good. What matters it if in knowledge a man be a sage, so that it does not elevate, ennoble, and refine him, but merely invigorates his selfishness. We talk much about the refining power of learning, we might equally as well discourse upon the refining power of wealth, either of which is more of a curse than a blessing, unless there is a generous impulse, a guiding hand, by which they shall be directed. Our main and first duty is with each other. Our chief lesson is to be learned in practising kindness and charity towards those who are around us. When the mind and the heart go thus together, knowledge is truly power and one seems lost in the other. If we must have, however, our literary faith, at least let no distinctive and premature opinions creep into it, but let it be founded upon a broad and general basis where truer knowledge may illumine the worship.

Within the last century ficticious writings have grown with such remarkable rapidity, that their great increase has given rise to the opinion that the existence and development of such works is little less than a species of wonderful speculation, founded after some fanciful idea, which as it gradually disclosed itself would injure the past character and ruin the present reputation of this department of English letters. In this period it is true that novels are almost wholly unrestricted in their compass. We find them written not only in poetry, but they are also the medium for discussing the most important questions of religion and philosophy. The transformation, however, which has changed the spirit of our light literature from a cold formality into that serious earnestness of which sympathy is the life, is the real cause of its universality and present influence. So long as this is the basis of fictitious writings, their power cannot be impaired, and certainly their growth cannot be checked. For mankind reason by analogies. The christian religion was taught us in parables, and the great lessons of human life are being learned from one another, then, our daily living is the prototype from which the novelist draws real representations, he will exercise a far greater influence over us

If,

than he who deals with argument alone. The former contends with stubborn human nature by suggestions and not by alternatives. Men will not be driven; they may be led. The novels of Walter Scott opened a new era in the history of light literature, But while they gave birth to a higher order of thought, they seem at the same time to have extended the field of fictitious composition without adding to it the earnestness, the purpose, and the sympathy which it so much needed. Thence too arose a class of French novelists, who, turning their writings into the same channel that Voltaire did his philosophy, corrupted and demoralized the entire literature of that country. The extravagant excitement which they seek to stir up, the scandalous freedom of their thoughts, invest their works with a power which panders to the very worst tastes and passions. It is a species of literary violence better adapted to the erratic temperament of French genius, than to the common sense of our less excitable countrymen. There is, however, among us a manifest tendency to indulge in what is called an humanitarian spirit, into which sentimentalism enters so largely that it becomes spurious and worthless. The science of Philanthropy may be a very pleasing thing: but it is certain that the practice of it is most difficult. We become at best but imitators, and often, even in this, do sad injustice to the master from whom we learn. It seems rather a strange phenomenon, that the most indifferent natures should become so speedily and thoroughly imbued with a living, acting sense of their duties to mankind. Suddenly they become very good, and often too, very crazy. The mechanical exactness with which the process is repeated, makes their philanthropy a mere profession without any accompanying deeds. Unmindful of the practicality which attaches itself to the earnestness of him who could carry his good works even into London prisons; many of those who partake of his spirit, spend a lifetime in chasing the wildest chimeras, benefiting few, and harming many. We believe fully encugh in the so called humanitarian spirit of this age, but its complementary part, its practice, is wanting. We cannot alleviate a single sorrow, right a single wrong, or dry a single tear, without an attending hand waits. upon our very speech. Our charities are rare only because in our excessive goodwill, we place our trust in superficial philanthropies and

"Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed."

It may be inferred, erroneously however, that the only remedy for these Excesses which we have mentioned, is to be found in a broad, deep and wholesome "Literary idea," For we do not regard either

the material which enters into our literature to be composed of such convertible matter, or the tastes of students so remarkably flexible, that all can be turned into a single general channel. Literature with each one of us is essentially personal in its nature, into which our likes and dislikes enter more strongly than any solicitude for a collective reputation. We might as well attempt to educate our sympathies as to prescribe to taste by any absolute standard. No one lacks in veneration for the great masters of literature, but every one claims the right and is anxious for the responsibility of filling up the interval for himself and as he pleases. An absolute literary standard, moreover, would develop as its legitimate fruits either sentimentalism or exclusiveness; the former, all of us shun, and of the latter few are able or care to partake. The philosophy of our college life is based upon association. In the vast number which is drawn together here from every quarter of the land, human nature exhibits itself in as many forms as one could desire. We are, in being thus surrounded, learning new lessons of experience day by day, and educating ourselves to a standard of manhood as well as scholarship. Amid the varied character which is attracted hither, we learn of human nature, its faults and its virtues too. No "literary idea" or creed can lessen in the slightest degree our selfishness, or give us a single practical hint of the way we are to meet the issues of life when we must see as we are seen. What we most need is to displace whatever may be cynical and unhappy in the temperament by a catholic, kind, and out-gushing spirit, which shall extend its influence far and near. Let our literature accomplish this and the remedy is found for whatever excesses may exist among us. The literature of this age, following in the train of the ingenuous spirit of the times, like a hand which does us kindness, seems never to tire in bestowing its blessings. Its present earnest character, enlivened by a spirit of sympathy, is hardly a new and unwonted feature, but a broad out-growth of a germ which has continued through many ages. A single century ago, amid the boisterousness of trifling, waspish satires, steering levity and soulless philosophy, it was only a single voice in the tumult, as of "one crying in the wilderness," but it was such that it set in motion a strong current of sympathy which has widened and deepened through many years.

W. L.

Mrs. Browning's Poems.

DELICATE feeling and the deepest passion would seem alike to be found in a woman's nature and a woman's song. And these are certainly the primal conditions of true poetry. Yet the number of votaries to the Muses from their own sex is not large, nor has it ever given to the world a genius worthy to be compared with the poets who receive the highest admiration of mankind.

The crown of authorship sits heavily on the brow of womanhood. A true woman, whose words have been said because she felt them, cannot exist on the emptiness of a reputation. Sappho's songs, if we may judge from the regard paid their broken fragments, might serve for the love language of the ancients. But Sappho, that "soul all love and poetry," could not find sustenance in the vain praise of admiring generations. And Mrs. Browning herself bemoans a woman's loneliness;

"To have our books

Appraised by love, associated with love,
While we sit loveless! is it hard you think?
At least 'tis mournful."

And she adds in her own quiet, forcible way,

"Fame, indeed, 'twas said

Means simply love. It was a man said that."

Thus it is that the most usual composition of poetesses has been lyrical. And as did Sappho of olden time, and Mrs. Barbauld, and Mrs. Hemans, who may be taken as the representatives of the same class in modern English literature, they seek sympathy in pouring their passion into their verses, or relief from pent up sorrow in the expression of it. Their poetry is almost invariably set to the same. minor key.

Mrs. Browning's is a far higher power. The plaintive dirges of Felicia Hemans, are full of tender pathos :-her "Ode to Death" expresses the submissive sorrowing of humanity at the ravages of death's relentless hand. But Mrs. Hemans could not have written the "Drama of Exile," or "Casa Guidi Windows."

Of Mrs. Browning's life we know little save what is to be gathered from her own writings. A lover and diligent student of Plato, literature has been her life-work,-art her pursuit. The woman of the finest culture, the largest understanding of all who have written English.