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altered !" But she too is equally changed. Even her old uncle, to whom she owes every thing—who educated her with more than a father's care-is neglected, because his feelings are too honest and open for the artificial society in which she now moves.
The only display of her early and better nature, which we see at this time, is in the grief and remorse which she feels, on hearing of her uncle's sudden death. And we cannot forbear quoting the following beautiful reflections which the author here introduces :
" There are no lessons of kindness and good will that come so home to the heart, as those which are enforced by sudden death. Who has ever lost a beloved friend, that would not give worlds for one hour of the intercourse for ever gone ?--one hour to pour forth the swelling affection of the heart—to make atonement for errors and mistakes-to solicit forgiveness-to become perfect in self-sacrifice and disinterested devotion ? This is one of the wise and evi. dent uses of sudden death-that we may so live with our friends, that come when and how it will, we may not add to the grievous loss, the self-reproach of unkindness or neglected duties.”
But, Mrs. Fulton's grief soon vanished. She plunged more deeply into society, and each year their affairs became more involved. Husband and wife were also growing more alienated from each other, in affection, until their conversations sometimes formed a mournful contrast to those which once took place, when they passed their evenings so happily together. At last, extravagance meets with its reward, and Dr. Fullon is ruined. His family receive a welcome, at the house of some warm hearted, though unfashionable, friend of their old uncle ; while he himself is forced to separate from them, and endea. vor, in the far west, to commence life anew.
Such is the outline of this little story. And we have devoted this space to it, because its influence is so likely to be salutary, that we wish to recommend it. It teaches, so emphatically, that happiness is chiefly dependant on ourselves, and not on outward circumstances.
Much as we like it, however, we must make one objection. Its religious views are defective. There are several conversations on this subject, which sound too much like Unitarian preaching. We never quarrel with a book because it is not a religious one; but, if it does talk religion, we want it done in an orthodox manner. This is not the case with the present volume.
8.-Fourth Experiment of Living. Living Without Means. Boston:
Otis, Broaders, & Co., 1837. pp. 63.
A worthless, trashy, affair, which we notice only to warn our readers not to imagine it from its title, to be written by the author of the book named above. It is probably by some broken down scrib. bler, who being at the time, "without means," was induced by the success of the “ Three Experiments of Living,” to adopt a similar title, in the hope of being borne along in the wake of its popularity. But not a shred of his predecessor's mantle has fallen on his shoul. ders.
The book, in fact, conveys no valuable lesson, and contains nothing of interest. It is not worth the shilling which it costs; and will soon be consigned to dumb forgetfulness a prey."
Note.-We do not, in this number, fulfil our intention of giving a
department to Ecclesiastical and Literary Intelligence. It has been found impossible, in the limited time since the work was determined on, to obtain the requisite materials—in this and other countries—to enable us to make the view we wished to present, sufficiently complete ; and we prefer to wait till another number.
Art. I.-- Wahrheit aus Jean Paul's Leben. Truth from
the Life of Jean Paul.] Eight volumes; Breslau, Max and Kompt. 1826-33.
Lord Byron is said to have declared that he would give a portion of his reputation to read Goethe's Autobiography in the original. As of its author's multifarious literary works, this is perhaps the one which, from its form and nature, would lose least by translation, the declaration may be regarded as merely a lively testimonial of the surpassing attractiveness of this class of writings. In the Republic of Letters, the appearance of a “Life” is as exciting an incident as in a social circle is the disclosure of a family secret. It is food for the appetite of gossip, and with many is the chief source of knowledge of the individual whom it depicts. Shakspeare's Autobiography would have a hundred readers for every five of Hamlet. But while to the shallow, the most authentic “Life” of the most gifted man affords only a transient stimulus; to the sympathising student it is the moving record of a brother's trials and triumphs, and to the psychologist a pregnant exhibition of a soul's development. « No one knows my inward biography, but God, myself, and the Devil,” says Richter to Voss, in a letter stating that he is at work on his « Life.” It is this “inward biography,” this picture of the mental growth, that is so attractive and so valuable, especially in the case of a Poet ;*
* We use the term Poet in the wide sense of the Germans, with whom the for with him the threads of the individual existence are the staple of the beautiful products wherewith he indues, for warmth and for adornment, his country's spirit. Appealing to emotions, his own susceptibilities must be most full and keen; and as in his works we have idealized humanity, we may
look to find, as the basis in the composition of the workman, the subtlest and noblest faculties of man. On turning from results to their origin, the undiscerning may sometimes share the disappointment of the child seeking behind the mirror for the original of its smiling image ; but examination will satisfy the intelligent, that in the outwardly dull substance under his hand inhere the qualities required to produce the admired effect. The eight volumes before us contain a full description of
(to translate the Lebensbeschreibung of the German) of one who, in the teeming period of German literature, took rank among
greatest of its creators. Although not assuming the title of an Autobiography, they are made up chiefly of autobiographical materials, in the form of copious fragments left by their subject, and of numerous letters to his wife, friends and kindred, to booksellers, authors, ministers, nobles and kings. In 1818, in his fifty-fifth year, a few years before his death, Richter commenced,-after, as was his wont in all his literary undertakings, extensive preparatory studies,-the writing of his “ Life."' The loss sustained by the non-fulfilment of his autobiographical plan is in a great measure supplied by the possession of his ample manuscripts and plentiful letters, skilfully edited by his most intimate friend, Christian Otto, who dying before he had finished the bequeathed duty, was competently followed by Ernst Foerster; so that the work as it stands, presents one of the completest, and, from the character of its subject, one of the most interesting Biographies extant. It is a faithful delineation of the habits and feelings, of the mental growth, progress, and career of a great and good man. If from these full materials we can abstract a distinct sketch of the life of Richter, we shall, we think, do a doubly acceptable service; introducing to the notice of many of our readers,—and unless we execute our task very clumsily, to their love and admiration,-one of the profoundest and most beautiful of those rare spirits, the end of whose earthly living is, to encourage, enlighten, sustain and purify their fellow-men; and, while tracing his footsteps, presenting such
creator of“ My Father," " Trim," and“ My Uncle Toby," though he never wrote a verse, is a greater poet than Cowper; and the claims of Goldsmith to the high name is derived from the authorship of the Vicar of Wakefield.
glimpses of the fertile and varied domain around him, and of fellow-actors therein, as will tempt some perhaps to set about obtaining a near survey of what, we venture to asse ver yet failed to repay the labor of the discerning.
In the small town of Wonsiedel, lying among the Fichtelberg mountains in the very centre of Germany, (then in the Circle of Franconia, now in the Kingdom of Bavaria,) there was, on the 21st of March, 1763, in the house of a poor organist and schoolmaster, rejoicings at the birth of a first-born, who, as himself informs us, was christened the next day Johann Paul Friedrich Richter. In describing the marriage of his parents, the indifference of his father to money, and his mother's contentedness on moving with him into his “tiny house," the Autobiographer, representing himself as an historical professor giving lectures on his own Life,-of which, unhappily, only three were finished,—thus, in the first of them, advises the reader of something that he is to expect, and pours forth a passage of that genial wisdom so abundant in all his numerous volumes.
" Verily in my historical lectures Hunger will play an im. portant part, like feasting in Thummel's Travels and tea.drinking in Richardson's Clarissa. And yet, I cannot but say to Poverty, welcome ! so that thou dost not come in one's too late days. Wealth weighs heavier on talent than Poverty. Pressed to death under mountains of gold and thrones, lies perhaps buried many an intellectual giant. When into the flames of youth, the warmer facul. ties being in their fullest glow, is poured the oil of riches, little of the Phænix will be left but lifeless ashes; and only some Goethe has the vigor not to burn his wings shorter at the Sun of Fortune. Not for much money would the present poor historical professor have had much money in his youth. Fate deals with Poets as we with birds, and darkens the cage of the songster until he can sing the tones that are played to him.” Vol. I. p. 14.
Doubly characteristic is the earliest recollection of Richter, for it goes back to the first half of his second year,-a period into which the memories of few can penetrate, --and from this dim epoch, his intellect, stimulated by gratitude to an achievement of retentiveness, rescues an act of kindness. delight,” he says, “I have it in my power to exhibit from my twelfth, or at most my fourteenth month, a pale little recollection, the first spiritual snowdeep out of the dark soil of childhood. I remember that a poor pupil [of his father's school] was very fond of me and I of him, that he always carried me in his arms, and gave me milk in a large black room.”
The father had taken a degree in Theology as well as in
" To my