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'Her pure and eloquent blood

Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,

That one might almost say her body thought.'

Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars, to make the heavens fine. Life, with this pair, has no other aim, asks no more, than Juliet-than Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms, religion, are all contained in this form full of soul, in this soul which is all form. The lovers delight in endearments, in avowals of love, in comparisons of their regards. When alone, they solace themselves with the remembered image of the other. Does that other see the same star, the same melting cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion, that now delight me? They try and weigh their affection, and adding up all costly advantages, friends, opportunities, properties, exult in discovering that willingly, joyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beautiful, the beloved head, not one hair of which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on these children. Danger, sorrow, and pain_arrive to them, as to all. Love prays. It makes covenants with Eternal Power, in behalf of this dear mate. The union which is thus effected, and which adds a new value to every atom in nature, for it transmutes every thread throughout the whole web of relation into a golden ray, and bathes the soul in a new and sweeter element,-is yet a temporary state. Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses itself at last from these endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness, and aspires to vast and universal aims. The soul which is in the soul of each, craving for a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities, defects, and disproportion in the behaviour of the other. Hence arises surprise, expostulation, and pain. Yet that which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness, signs of virtue: and these virtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear and reappear, and continue to attract; but the regard changes, quits the sign, and attaches to the substance. This repairs the wounded affection. Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game of permutation and combination of all possible positions of the parties, to extort all the resources of each, and acquaint each with the whole strength and weakness of the other. For it is the nature and end of this relation, that they should represent the human race to each other. All that is in the world which is or ought to be known, is cunningly wrought into the texture of man, of woman.

'The person love does to us fit,

Like manna, has the taste of all in it.'

"The world rolls: the circumstances vary every hour. All the angels that inhabit this temple of the body appear at the windows, and all the gnomes and vices also. By all the virtues they are united. If there be virtue, all the vices are known as such; they confess and flee. Their once flaming regard is sobered by time in either breast; and losing in violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough good understanding. They resign each other, without complaint, to the good offices which man and woman are severally appointed to discharge in time; and exchange the passion, which once could not lose sight of its object, for a cheerful, disengaged furtherance, whether present or absent, of each other's designs. At last they discover that all which at first drew them together,—those once sacred features, that magical play of charms, was deciduous, had a prospective end, like the scaffolding by which the house was built; and the purification of the intellect and the heart, from year to year, is the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and wholly above their consciousness. Looking at these aims, with which two persons, a man and a woman, so variously and correlatively gifted, are shut up in one house to spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I do not wonder at the emphasis with which the heart prophesies this crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with which

the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature and intellect and art emulate each other in the gifts and the melody they bring to the epithalamium.

"Thus are we put in training for a love which knows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which seeketh virtue and wisdom everywhere, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by nature observers, and thereby learners that is our permanent state. But we are often made to feel that our affections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and with pain, the objects of the affections change, as the objects of thought do. There are moments when the affections rule and absorb the man, and make his hap

piness dependent on a person or persons. But in health the mind is presently seen again,-its overarching vault, bright with galaxies of immutable lights, and the warm loves and fears that swept over us as clouds, must lose their finite character, and blend with God, to attain their own perfection. But we need not fear that we can lose anything by the progress of the soul. The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractive as these relations, must be succeeded and supplanted only by what is more beautiful, and so on for ever."

We have only left ourselves room for the following extract from the Essay on Friendship.

"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know. For now, after so many ages of experience, what do we know of nature, or of ourselves? Not one step has man taken toward the solution of the problem of his destiny. In one condemnation of folly stand the whole universe of men. But the sweet sincerity of joy and peace, which I draw from this alliance with my brother's soul, is the nut itself whereof all nature and all thought is but the husk and shell. Happy is the house that shelters a friend! It might well be built, like a festal bower or arch, to entertain him a single day. Happier, if he know the solemnity of that relation, and honour its law! It is no idle band, no holyday engagement. He who offers himself a candidate for that covenant comes up, like an Olympian, to the great games, where the first-born of the world are the competitors. He proposes himself for contests where Time, Want, Danger, are in the lists, and he alone is victor who has truth enough in his constitution to preserve the delicacy of his beauty from the wear and tear of all these. The gifts of fortune may be present or absent, but all the hap in that contest depends on intrinsic nobleness, and the contempt of trifles. There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship, each so sovereign, that I can detect no superiority in either, no reason why either should be first named. One is Truth. A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another. Sincerity is the luxury allowed, like diadems and authority, only to the highest rank, that being permitted to speak truth, as having none above it to court or conform unto. Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a second person, hypocrisy begins. We parry and fend the approach of our fellow man by compliments, by gossip, by amusements, by affairs. We cover up our thought from him under a hundred folds. I knew a man who, under a certain religious frenzy, cast off this drapery, and, omitting all compliment and commonplace, spoke to the conscience of every person he encountered, and that with great insight and beauty. At first, he was resisted, and all men agreed he was mad. But persisting, as indeed he could not help doing, for some time in this course, he attained to the advantage of bringing every man of his acquaintance into true relations with him. No man would think of speaking falsely with him,

or of putting him off with any chat of markets or reading-rooms. But every man was constrained by so much sincerity to face him; and what love of nature, what poetry, what symbol of truth he had, he did certainly shew him. But to most of us society shews not its face and eye, but its side and its back. To stand in true relations with men in a false age is worth a fit of insanity, is it not? We can seldom go erect. Almost every man we meet requires some civility, requires to be humoured!-he has some fame, some talent, some whim of religion or philanthropy in his head that is not to be questioned, and so spoils all conversation with him. But a friend is a sane man who exercises not my ingenuity, but me. My friend gives me entertainment without requiring me to stoop, or to lisp, or to mask myself. A friend, therefore, is a sort of paradox in nature. I who alone am, I who see nothing in nature whose existence I can affirm with equal evidence to my own, behold now the semblance of my being in all its height, variety, and curiosity, reiterated in a foreign form; so that a friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature."

Our extracts have been somewhat erratic; for having at present no point of our own to sustain, we have been only solicitous to give the reader ample materials from whence to form a correct estimate of the book before us. It will be perceived that although there is much of beauty-nay, even of sublimity-in these Essays, that they altogether want prominence and just relief. Emerson brings no treasure to the storehouse of the memory; if his words do not instantly excite kindred thoughts in the reader, if they do not provoke him to elaborate the subject further for himself, however they may please at the moment, they quickly evaporate and leave no trace behind. Other authors leave a remembrance of a concatenation of reasoning, or of a gracefully woven continuation of sentiment; but Emerson has no argument to support, and demonstrates nothing. We see that he is rich in gems and precious stones; but he displays them so partially as to tantalize rather than satisfy our curiosity.

However, these Essays are valuable as being the products of a man of great and original genius, who has earnestly sought for truth with no ill success. If he has done no more, he has at least erected sign-posts which will faithfully direct the steps of all who consult them into the paths of true philosophy. Fallen on such evil days as these, honour be to him who does even thus much!

But perhaps, in complaining of vagueness, we complain unjustly. What if Emerson's ideas be too pure-too ethereal for adequate expression? Ideas, in themselves, are incommunicable. They are silent intentions of the soul; suggested without the help of language. And if we would preserve them uncontaminated-if we would retain them in their original truthfulness— we must not seek to reduce them to words. Ideas are never false, for the soul cannot lie; but we may and do falsify them when we seek to clothe their loveliness in the rags and tatters of phrase. Nor is this all. Having once spoken an idea, it departs from us, leaving in its stead only the pitiful remembrance of the terms we have used in expressing it. These terms may be such as to lead to error and contradiction; and at the very best, will be but feeble and inefficient representatives of the idea we have lost.

In conceiving an idea, a flash of brilliant light seems to burst upon our soul; we stay not to seek arguments, or weigh evidence; our conviction of its truth is instantaneous. Mere thoughts are suggested to us already decked in a form of words; and we place no confidence in them until we have bolstered them up with reasoning and testimony. But our ideas apparently spring from a source that cannot err. I say apparently, for we know not whence they come, nor whither they go. Indeed, we might almost conclude that they were heavenly monitions addressed exclusively to ourselves; and that to impart them was a breach of confidence.

Among ideas-the noblest and the highest-has Mr. Emerson his abiding place; and hence arises his obscurity. The celestial visitants refuse to be confined to the dull earth. Nevertheless, let us gratefully listen to the broken utterances vouchsafed to us; for they may perchance prove oracles. Esop's Fables, written in Chinese by the learned MUN MOOY SEEN-SHANG, and compiled in their present Form (with a free and literal Translation), by his Pupil SLOTH.

Now that a Chinese professorship has actually been established in London, this work may obtain what it deserves-extensive notice. It is published by Robert Thorn, Esq., one of Her Majesty's interpreters in China, under the pseudonyme of Sloth. It supplies what has long been a desideratum in the elementary departments of Chinese literature. In saying that every student of the Chinese language on the Continent, if he but knew where to procure it, would not fail to possess himself of a copy, we only repeat the opinion of M. Stanislas Julien, of Paris, without doubt the first Chinese scholar in Europe.

The English Maiden; her Moral and Domestic Duties. London: George Bell, 186, Fleet Street. 1841.

A very elegant book upon a subject which has lately become intensely interesting. The influence of woman in society has received such increase in our times, that many analyses of it have appeared. The one before us is exceedingly meritorious.

If there be one peculiarity in the character of our neighbours, the French, more predominant than any other, it is that spirit of research and investigation which they bring to their inquiries upon apparently trifling subjects. While every one complained of the nauseous taste of medicine, none but the French thought of concealing or removing that objectionable quality. By dint of perseverance they have succeeded. Their medicines are, to say the least, not disagreeable; and many of them are actually nice. One we particularly remember as extremely pleasant-the Sirop Orangé Purgatif de Lagrange, an Aperient, intended to supersede the Black Draught, &c.

MUSIC.

We have watched for some months past with great interest the philanthropic exertions of M. Mainzer in diffusing gratuitous singing instruction among our workmen. M. Mainzer is well and honourably known both in France and Germany, as a composer, and also for his benevolent personal efforts in spreading gratuitous musical instruction among the Parisian workmen. These efforts were crowned with high success, and thousands of workmen received lessons on this delightful art,-many of them attaining to considerable proficiency. Encouraged by repeated solicitations to extend the benefits of his musical apostolate to this country, he came to London about four months ago; and since that time he has been devoting his time, energy, talent, and means to the extension of this generous project. Convinced that music can be employed as a potent moralizing agent, his ultimate aim is to render it an essential, recognized branch of popular education; and this he bids fair to realize. Already he has established numerous classes in various parts of the metropolis: in the Temperance Hall, Broadway, Westminster; Rockingham Rooms, near the Elephant and Castle; Chelsea Teetotal Hall; Mechanics' Institution,

Southampton Buildings; Westminster Literary and Scientific Institution, &c. &c. His work, "Singing for the Million," is the manual employed, and the progress of the pupils is strikingly rapid. The elementary course consists of sixteen lessons, at the end of which, although previously altogether ignorant of music, the pupils are enabled to sing from notes, and to execute choruses in parts in a very creditable manner. After this elementary course, a second or more advanced class is immediately formed to conduct those who may desire to proceed to the higher and more artistic parts of vocal inusic. We learn with pleasure from the " National Singing Circular," the organ of the association for popular instruction, according to the Mainzerian system, that M. Mainzer will not confine his operations to the metropolis, but intends extending them to all the large manufacturing towns, and, through the aid of professors, universally over the kingdom, so as to ingraft a love for music upon the national character, and through its agency to beget a taste and appreciation of art, the most powerful antidote against the indulgence of low-based sensual gratifications, and a strong incentive to a greater moral developement. In this grand and important design our best wishes are with him. He comes to us a stranger, on a mission of benevolence, not on a trading speculation in the character of an enthusiastic philanthropist, not as a selfish money-getter; and we heartily trust his success will be commensurate with the goodness and extent of his intention.

THE GREEN ROOM.

KNOWLES'S "OLD MAIDS," AND THE COVENT GARDEN
MANAGEMENT.

THE true poet writes according to his mental moods: the pseudoscribe for the occasion: the one is always consulting the market, the other yielding to mysterious impulses. The mind has its ebb and flow, as the sea has; and periods of great excitement will be succeeded by intervals of deepest calm. Some of the most beautiful poems seem to have been composed under such gentle influences, and to be animated with the very inspirations of peace-so soothe they the travailed feelings -so sweetly they lull the wearied spirits. Mr. Knowles's genius, after its sublimer excursion into the heroic field of action, erewhile trodden by the eloquent John of Procida, sought repose among the domestic affections, and sported with the love that delights in maskings, and the condescension that is pleased to lift humble merit to the level where disposition and destiny consort in happy union. In such a temper of mind, he conceived the subject of the poem, which is now performing at Covent Garden Theatre under the title of "Old Maids.”

We say, poem: the work before us is eminently a poem; it is a poem of the best and purest kind. We shall think of it, henceforth, with the Comus of Milton, with Shakspere's Midsummer Night's Dream, and Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess. This is the class of works to which it belongs; though not, like them, invested with supernatural fascinations, yet possessing charms of its own which are of

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