fairy tales and books of chivalry; but no persuasion could induce him to learn arithmetic. Near Celle there was an old castle in ruins, a part of which was inhabited by a farmer, and in which a library full of Schulze's favourite books, and fitted up in a Gothic style, still remained. These captivated his fancy, and he persuaded his father to allow him to take up his abode in the farmer's family. There he read so constantly, that the farmer expressed his fears that the youth would read himself melancholy and mad. The time approached, however, for him to engage in some occupation. His decided aversion to law, and medicine, made him choose theology for, at least, the nominal objects of his studies, and in the autumn of 1806 he was sent to Göttingen. He seems now first to have learned, that, by a proper application of his talents, he might obtain a respectable subsistence without devoting himself to either of the three learned professions; and he soon gave up theology for the classical languages and elegant literature. There are so many professors in Germany for every branch of science, that teaching at a university may be said to be a regular calling, and to require a regular education. And a great number of young men are in constant training for future professors. Schulze resolved to teach the classical languages, and be a professor of elegant literature. With this view he left off the study of theology for poetry. Homer engrossed much of his attention, and he formed the project of writing a history of the lyric poetry of Greece. Few, however, of the projects of our youth are completed in manhood. So many unforeseen circumstances" turn awry the current of our thoughts," that rarely men of talents, certainly none of a very ardent imagination, follow up in the prime of life the schemes of their boyhood. Ardent minds are extensive and excursive in their thoughts, and in them the probability is great, that they will vary in their course. We can readily conceive a vain youth in the first flutter of his imagination, supposing himself destined to inform or delight mankind, to be the prince of philosophers, or the first of poets; but it is the attribute of genius, from the ease of its execution, to be in a manner unconscious

of its own powers; and he whom Nature has appointed to fill the highest place, will see it within his reach before he dreams of his exalted fate. Schulze resolved to be a teacher of poetry, and to write a history of a part of it, but he became a lover and a poet, has left no vestige of his intended history, but many light and agreeable poems.

In the early part of his residence at Göttingen, he was cheerful and rather volatile, paying little attention to the lectures he heard, and delighting in the gay poetry of Wieland. In the latter part he became melancholy, and at both periods his writings bore marks of the prevalent disposition of his mind. So altered had he become, that those who formerly regarded him as nearly incapable of a serious thought, were alarmed at his earnestness and melancholy. For a while he had fluttered round the circle of youthful joys, and sipped honey from every blooming flower. But real life was not capable of long satisfying him. He had lived too much in a world of imagination to be contented with dull reality. An ideal female reigned in his heart, to whom he found a resemblance in the daughter of one of the literati of Göttingen. His fancy enveloped her with all its own splendours, and he appears never to have been intimate enough with her to destroy the illusion. Cecilia had charms sufficient to captivate an ordinary man, and permanently to content his heart. She was in the full bloom of youth, distinguished for native talents and acquired accomplishments, and was more charming than most of her sex. To approach and admire her was the summit of his wishes. What his admiration might hereafter have become, the early death of Cecilia does not allow us to know; but his passion was purely poetical in its origin, and poetical and Petrarchal in its continuance. It seems never to have gone beyond singing her praise, and consecrating her name by his poetry. He was contented to see and admire her, and probably loved her with much more fervour than he would have done had his passion been less the offspring of his own imagina tion, and more of her charms. While he gave up his mind, or at least his poetry, to this pure devotion, he did not forget the ordinary business of

life.

When his passion was at its height, he continued his studies, passed his examination, and was admitted to take the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Cecilia appears to have returned his attachment, though probably, after it had continued some time, she wished it less etherial. Nor do we think this the least reproach to her. The duties and substantial joys of life are not to be sacrificed for a little vain adulation; and though a Laura, already married, might be delighted with the added homage of a poet, we cannot expect that this alone should, supply, in the heart of a young woman, the place of the delightful affections of husband and children. We believe, with an elegant living author, that many of the younger and most accomplished of the other sex who are said to die of some accidental cold, are, in reality, the victims of an unfortunate attachment; they perish of a very common disease, though disguised under a variety of names,-a broken heart. Schulze went on for many months worshipping the idol of his fancy, the goddess of his imagination, and he seems always to have forgotten that she was a woman, in the blush of beauty, and in the bloom of existence. He never talked of marriage, but fretted and starved her with the high-scented incense of poetical adulation. Etherial as his attachment might be, it was at the same time ignorant, if not unfeeling; for he sported in his reveries with the heart which his arrows had pierced. A cold and a consumption at the end of a year rooted out this lovely flower from the earth it adorned. The pious resignation and the fortitude with which she bore her sickness increased his admiration to the highest pitch. She had displayed every womanly, every Christian, every poetical, virtue; and her character was so consecrated by her early death, that she became more than sainted in the imagination of her poetical lover.

After her death he remained always melancholy, and his poetry, which had before been rather cheerful and gay, became pensive and sad. As he stood over the beautiful corpse, he very poetically, but somewhat unmanly, we think, and unfeelingly, resolved to glorify her name with all the powers of his muse. As he looked on her in mute despair, he first thought of that

VOL. VIII.

poem which it was the chief business of his remaining days to compose, and which bears the name of Cäcilie. In January 1813 it was begun, and though the work was interrupted by other occupations, and even by his serving as a volunteer in 1813-14, the whole twenty cantos were completed by December 1815. It is by far the longest modern German poem we know. However much the ancient industry and perseverance of the Germans may be yet visible in their philosophical productions, no trace of them can be discovered in their modern poetry. The longest of their latter productions with which we are acquainted, except Cäcilie, does not extend to half a common octavo volume. Schulze had never before shown any disposition to write religious poetry; but "Cäcilie" has decidedly a religious turn, and is full of religious feelings. His former studies had, however, a considerable influence on his imagination, and “ Cäcilie" is a strange mixture of religion and chivalry, of contemplative feeling, and of miracles, wonders, and battles. But, at present, we must confine ourselves to his life-his poetry will be noticed on another occasion. Ere this poem was half finished, he fell sick of a consumption, which was soon to carry him after his beloved Cecilia. Like all consumptive people, he seems not to have anticipated that his death was near. He projected a second romantic poem as long as "Cäcilie," to be executed in Italy, which he proposed to visit. Yet, as if a voice of more knowledge than his own had spoken in his verse, -as if he were an unconscious prophet of his own fate, he makes the hero of his poem, the beloved of his imaginary Cecilia, sink with her into one grave, and be united with her only in heaven.

During the summer of 1816, he employed himself in making preparations for his journey to Italy, though he continued his studies, and gave lectures on the older poets, which did not succeed very well. In the autumn of this year, though weak, he made a tour on foot through the delightful neighbourhood of the Maine and Rhine. The fatigues of this journey hastened his dissolution. He was ever careless of his health, and on this occasion he exposed himself both to wet and cold. In a state almost of

G

exhaustion, when his friends had given up all hopes of saving him, he composed a poem, "Die bezauberte Rose," which attained the prize given by the proprietor of the Urania Pocket-book, for the best poem offered to his acceptance. Schulze intended to show what he could effect in point of versification; in every other respect he regarded his production as imperfect. As a tale it is worthless, but we have seen nothing in German so smoothly written since the Oberon of Wieland. It exhibits the author as a complete master of his native language, and adds to our regret, that he was not spared till his knowledge was further enlarged, and his judgment matured. In the spring of 1817, he recovered so much, that he was able, to the astonishment of his friends, to bear the journey from Göttingen to Celle. This was the end of his earthly pilgrimage. He died there on the 26th of June 1817, in the twentyninth year of his age. In truth, his fate was sealed when the coffin of his idol was delivered to the cold earth. The barb of death then entered his heart, and though he struggled with it for a short season, it was only to make his agonies more visible, and at length to perish exhausted, and decayed. Fancy can picture nothing more melancholy than a lovely pair thus hopelessly following one another in quick succession to the grave. She sank resigned, withering and fading in the spring of life. He strung every nerve to escape, but even the vigour of a manly, frame could not avail him, and he also perished from disappointed affections. There was much gentle and generous enthusiasm, and more power in the sentiments of these young persons over their bodily frames, than we are accustomed to believe can be felt in affairs of the heart by any other people than ourselves. It is not denied, that in general there is more of that holy mysterious feeling which we delight to indulge in while it preys on our frames-more of the sacredness of love in general among us, than amongst the nations of the Continent; but Ernst Schulze, and his Cecilia, are an example of two young people perishing from a quiet, tender, and unrewarded attachment, equal to any

we can show as a proof of the poig nancy of our thoughts.

Schulze had nothing remarkable in his exterior; he was of the middle size, well proportioned, and firmly put together; his countenance was regular, with some noble features, but his eye, though brilliant, was unsteady. In his dress he was simple and unpretending; in his conduct, though somewhat volatile, he was regular and moral. His self-respect was without vanity, and his seriousness without concealment or reserve. He was frank and sincere, but not philosophical; a foe to falsehood and ambiguity of every kind; faithful in his friendships, and constant in his resolutions on important occasions, almost to obstinacy. He was sensible to affronts, but despised revenge. Of himself he took little care, and was always ready to make sacrifices, and submit to privations, when the end to be obtained by them was worthy of a noble mind. His enthusiasm was derived from genius, and never hurried him into one unworthy action. Of the probable consequences of his poetical attachment he was perfectly ignorant, and in this respect he is deserving our pity, for he was the victim of his own error. Such was Ernst Schulze as a man; we shall speak of him as a poet, when we have described his poem of Cecilia.

The public journals of every country record in general the crimes, and never notice the virtues, of its inhabitants. Hence foreigners are too apt to judge of every country by its Newgate Calendar. We have therefore been partly led to notice the generous enthusiasm of Körner,and how many Körners were there in 1813, though not all poets?— and of Schulze, as a sort of compensation for Sandt and Loehning, that it may not be thought the enthusiasm of the Germans always displays itself in crimes. Schulze was much more a dreamer than Körner; the fancy and reveries of the former were not of this world. The inspiration of the latter gave animation to his patriotism, and directed all his exertions for the deliverance of his country. Both are fair specimens of the general manner of feeling and acting of their.countrymen.

ON COLERIDGE'S "FRIEND."

MR EDITOR,

I HAPPENED Some time ago, by the merest accident, to fall in with a copy of Mr Coleridge's "Friend," which, though I had often heard it spoken of, at one time with the highest encomiums, and at another with ridicule and almost with contempt, I never had the good fortune to be able to peruse before. I have now done so, and the only return I can make for the pleasure and instruction which I have received is to use my feeble endeavour to call the attention of others to this eloquent and admirable book. In attempting to do so, I shall not be so bold as to venture on any abstract of the profound metaphysical speculations which form the greater proportion of the work; but, after offering a very few remarks on the objects which Mr Coleridge has had in view, I shall endeavour to win the attention of your readers to the "Friend," by bringing under their notice some of the less abstruse, and, at present, more generally interesting discussions, with which Mr C. has relieved, and rendered more palatable, the weightier matter which it has been his principal purpose to bring forward for the benefit of mankind. If, Mr Editor, in what I shall offer, I may seem to you to speak of Mr Coleridge's book in hyperbolical terms, I trust that you will not, on that account, deem my remarks unworthy of a place in your Miscellany. I give my fair and candid sentiments, and these, of course, are open to the animadversion of all those who may differ in opinion with

me.

The "Friend," Sir, appears to me to be the only work published in modern times which breathes the same lofty and profound spirit of philosophy, and is distinguished by the same originality and depth of speculation on the powers and destinies of the soul of man, as were ushered to the world in the brightest days of our literature. In addition to this, it is written with all the majesty and power of expression with all the free and fearless vigour of language and with all the copiousness of illustration, and beauty of imagery, which characterize the genuine old English style of our Taylors, and Miltons, and Hookers, and which were so lamentably fritters

ed away into the cautious and nerveless neatness and timid simplicity of the Popes and Addisons of an after generation. It is not little to the cre dit of Mr Coleridge, that, with so many temptations in his way, he has scorned to court mere popularity, which he might with the greatest ease have obtained, if he could so far have done violence to his natural propensities, as to have confined himself more to the surfaces of things, and endeavoured only to awaken our sensibilities and kindle our sympathies, by doling forth to us some eloquent pictures of passion, or some sparkling declamations upon themes of transitory interest. He has, happily for himself and for us, taken a higher stand, and pursued a prouder aim. He deals with severe but lofty themes. His object is to arouse the sleeping energies of the heart and soul to the contemplation of great and eternal truths-to lead us to ponder on the scope and destinies of our being, and to find our own scale in the universe-to seek out, by communing with our inner selves, those fixed and immutable laws of thought and action which Heaven has permitted our minds to perceive and know-to bring these to bear upon the different branches of knowledge, and thus lead to the "formation of fixed principles in politics, morals, and religion." These are great and difficult themes, possessing few attractions, for those who are contented to live and move in this world with the least possible trouble to themselves, and who are very little disposed to pester themselves with matters requiring the deepest thought and the severest selfexamination. The consequence has been, (as Mr Coleridge himself must clearly have anticipated,) that his book has been read by few, and has produced but little effect upon most of those who have given themselves the trouble of perusing it. It is not to this age, nor to such men, that Mr Coleridge must look for his reward, yet he must even now feel a proud consciousness, that there are individuals capable of appreciating and of profiting by his labours, and that by these his name will never be pronounced without a feeling of reverence and admiration.

These brief and imperfect remarks cannot be better illustrated than by the following eloquent passage froin