The internal realizer dates all from the esoteric centre, and construes every fact affirmatively and synthetically. Concerning the merits of these two schools they themselves may differ interminably.

Frequently and urgently as the esoteric man may declare of real existence, of substance-being, the exoteric man will be able to perceive only a difference in mode, and will of course stand up for the clarity of his own. There is, however, nothing more certain to the transcendentalist, than the fact, that there is something more in all this than a verbal difference. Whenever it is brought against him as an accusation of dwelling in a mere peculiarity in words, a feeling more sacred than selfcomplacency accepts it, as an acknowledgment of short-coming in him who wills to be an opponent, for of opposition the transcendentalist is guiltless. Position only, and not opposition, is predicable of him. The universality in him finds a place for all philosophies, all opinions, all views. Transcending them, it does not exclude, but it includes them. His claim to a close relation with the universal, with the unity, would be poorly established if he must needs find obstacles in aught that exists. The true artist, he in whom art is vitally, instinctly, creatively, finds no hindrances in surrounding matter. The utmost he declares is of facilities, that they are greater or less.

Transcendentalism is not "hostile to old systems," though it would supersede them by better life. It does not attempt "to show that the old philosophy is altogether false and hollow, the old systems of metaphysics to be absurd, our moral code unjust, our religion but empty show and idle ceremony, that the old forms of government have no foundation in reason." (p. 27). It does not " propose to reform the world;" although that supposition being current, it may be unpopular and fiercely attacked." (p. 28)

No! The true transcendentalist has higher, nobler, lovelier work, than that of warring with the past, or abusing the present. His best employment is not that of reforming a deformed world, though it sin to the quick of self-condemnation. It belongs not to him to put forth a system, a mere new system, subject to all the worthless vicissitudes of systems in being "imperfectly developed, misunderstood, and misrepresented." His only occupation is to affirm BEING. Of, from, and in being, he constantly asserts being. His mission is not an attack on erroneous systems, and depraved men. He is an instrument, a medium of being to being. The Being in him utters to Being in other souls. As far as he is found in the regions of opposition, he is not a transcendentalist, but a metaphysician, a wrangler. As the practical philosopher transcends action and matter by ob

servation and knowledge, so the transcendentalist transcends observation and knowledge by being. Both doing and knowing, works and faith are transcended, not annihilated nor opposed, by being.

Transcendentalism is not a mere system opposed to other or to antiquated systems; but it signifies that Love-Spirit, that Life-Power, which uses all systems now presented, and developes new systems as they are required. Its ascent, or transcent, would be poor and worthless if it did not surmount all systems, which are but modulations in the department of human knowledge, and never can amount to realities in human being. If doctrine it must be designated, this is then the transcendental doctrine it is the substantive, indwelling Spirit in the soul, the real conscience, the religious nature, the source of the inner light, the veritable true, good, and beautiful, not as perception, as contemplation, but as substance, as being.

Letters of Schiller, selected from his private Correspondence prior to his Marriage. Translated by J. L. WEISSE. Boston: S. N. Dickinson, Printer, 62 Washington street. 1841.

WE are desirous to attract attention to this little volume, as few persons seem to have observed its appearance, and it is of a character to bring pleasure to almost any reader.

A brief yet sufficient account of its contents is given in the introduction..

"These Letters will be interesting to the admirers of Schiller, as showing him in his youth, struggling with the adverse circumstances that surrounded him, and displaying without disguise the true workings of his heart. They are written to persons from whom he had no reserve. Perhaps a higher opinion of his genius might be derived from his more finished works; but from none could we learn so well to know intimately the great poet, as when we see him, as here in the springtime of his ardent feelings, among those nearest and dearest to him. The Letters close with his marriage, and the ideas scattered through them have a youthful freshness that more than compensates for any want of reflection they may display, and a charm peculiarly attractive to any one who loves to search into the hidden recesses of a great soul."

It is easy to admire and love Schiller; no man need sacrifice his self-love to do so. His character had no intricate windings, no hidden vales, or caves, whether of beauty or terror. It was simple, powerful, affectionate, heroic, fit for the life of a citizen or patriotic bard.

Still, though he never gives us a clue into the world of mysteries, of causes, he is always clear and interesting. It is very

pleasant to turn over another page of his history, and see his thoughts presented to us in his usual frank and direct fashion. It is refreshing in a world of half feelings, of tedious subterfuges, to greet one like Schiller, whom any man may feel at liberty to love. He might be our next-door neighbor; we could go and see him when we pleased, we should not fear to intrude; he would tell us if we were not wanted.

But heroes, though they may be eloquent, are not practical. Schiller was not. The inspiration of his works is in their lofty sentiment and aspiration; the subtle, fashioning spirit of poetry was unknown to him. It is pleasant to see how simple and citizen-like his views of life were. On the subject of marriage it is perhaps a little surprising that the bard of Max and Thekla was not more ideal, even at the earliest age. The charm of these two fair beings, indeed, is in their pure, and unspotted innocence. Still the spell of a preexistent harmony seems upon them, and we cannot well conceive of Thekla's finding another Max. But Schiller, with his views, might have married any amiable woman, and gone about the world, like many another respectable person, seeking not a love, but a wife.

It is surprising, too, to see him write with a sort of shame of an attachment from which he had recovered. One would expect from a character like Schiller's, the steadfast strength to feel that its past stages, however extravagant and imperfect, had been necessary to its growth, and by giving it vent, had raised him above the passion he now could criticise.

Of friendship his views read more nobly. I know not that we can find any passage that deserves better to be laid to heart than the following, where in few words are shown the union of pride, modesty, and tenderness, natural to a great, but also human, being.

"Your last letter has placed an imperishable memento of you in my heart. You are the noble man, whom I have so long wanted, and who is wanting to possess me with all my weaknesses and blighted virtues; for he will bear with the former, and honor the latter with tears. I am not what I certainly might have become. I might perhaps have been great, but fate struggled too early against me. You esteem and love me for that which I might perhaps have become under better stars, and you respect in me the intention that Providence has thwarted."

This is the trust of soul to soul which goes deepest. But he understood other stages or sorts of friendship, as shown in the very next letter, to another person.

"I find the ways of Heaven strange in this; eight years we were obliged to be together and were indifferent; now we are separated, and have become important to each other. Which of us two could then, even in prospect, have divined the hidden threads, that should once and

forever draw us so firmly together? - but perhaps even this mutual estrangement was the work of a wiser Providence, that we should know each other first, when we were worthy to be known. Both of us, yet unformed, would have too soon observed too many weaknesses in one another, and might never have become warmed to each other. Esteem is the only unfailing bond of friendship, and this we had both of us to earn. In every way we have now arrived at this end, and find ourselves here with delight. You have taken the first step, and I blush before you. I have always understood less how to acquire friends, than when acquired, to retain."

The effect of his enforced and outward toils on Schiller, are more visible here than in letters of a later date. With him, as with others, came uses from uncongenial labor, infusing salt and steel, hardening the fibre, and assaying the ore of his thoughts, by repression and delay. Materials, too, that he would not of himself have collected, when once beneath his eye, became a new thread for his web. But though some of this is well, too much may perfect the character but stifle the genius. The hand that has to hold the plough too long, becomes too stiff and clumsy for the lyre or pen. Those who cannot give up their natural dower, who want to accomplish the task nature assigned them, and steal from the night what the day refuses, pay with their lives for their soul, truly the price of blood, and so did Schiller. His character was too fervent and earnest to take things easily, or skim over the surface of any mode of life, and so he suffered, and died early. But we do not mourn for him as for many others, for the tree had borne some of its proper fruit, if not as much as it might under more favorable circumstances. It is impossible to set a bound to what he might have accomplished, had his great and steady impulses been seconded by firmer health, and length of days, yet, in the eighteen volumes of his works, and in his letters, we possess more than we shall easily learn how to prize.

Fables of La Fontaine.

Translated from the French. By ELIZUR WRIGHT, Jr. 2 vols. 12mo. Boston: Tappan and Dennett. 1842.

WE have found these volumes very pleasant reading. The translation appears to be executed with great wit and sprightliness, and, for the most part, a happy employment of the English idioms. Occasionally a verse of unusual vigor occurs; as when, in the fable of "The Oak and the Reed," the Oak brags,

"The while, my towering form
Dares with the mountain top
The solar blaze to stop,
And wrestle with the storm."

We are reminded, in this connexion, of an excellent old English version of "The Lark and the Reapers," which we lately met with, which proves how inexhaustible are these slight themes. When the lark has quieted the fears of her young, who inform her that the farmer has applied to his friends for aid,

"Then up she clam the clowdes

With such a lusty saye,

That it rejoyste her younglinges heartes
As in their neast they laye;

And much they did commende

Their mother's lofty gate,

And thought it long til time had brought

Themselves to such estate."

The conclusion of the same fable in the present version is lively enough. When at length the farmer and his boys resolve to reap the field themselves,

“All, fluttering, soaring, often grounding,

Decamped without a trumpet sounding."

These volumes, we think, are sure of a lasting popularity with the young, and will no doubt make acceptable Christmas and New Year's presents.

Confessions of St. Augustine. Boston: E. P. Peabody.

WE heartily welcome this reprint from the recent London edition, which was a revision, by the Oxford divines, of an old English translation. It is a rare addition to our religious library. The great Augustine, one of the truest, richest, subtlest, eloquentest of authors, comes now in this American dress, to stand on the same shelf with his farfamed disciples, with A-Kempis, Herbert, Taylor, Scougal, and Fenelon. The Confessions have also a high interest as one of the honestest autobiographies ever written. In this view it takes even rank with Montaigne's Essays, with Luther's Table Talk, the Life of John Bunyan, with Rousseau's Confessions, and the Life of Dr. Franklin. In opening the book at random, we have fallen on his reflections on the death of his early friend.

"O madness, which knowest not how to love men like men! I fretted, sighed, wept, was distracted, had neither rest nor counsel. For I bore about a shattered and bleeding soul, impatient of being borne by me, yet where to repose it I found not. All things looked ghastly; yea, the very light; whatsoever was not what he was, was revolting and hateful, except groaning and tears. In those alone found I a little refreshment. I fled out of my country; for so should mine eyes look less for him where they were not wont to see him. And thus from Thagaste I came to Carthage. Times lose no time; nor do they roll idly by; through our senses they work strange operations on the mind. Behold, they went and came day by day, and by coming and going introduced into my mind other imaginations and other remembrances;