New Testaments published by Bagster, would be a perfect Encyclopædia, or Panorganon, for such a scheme of coach discipline, upon dull roads and in dull company. As respects the German language in particular, I shall give one caution, from my own experience, to the selfinstructor: it is a caution which applies to the German language exclusively, or to that more than to any other, because the embarrassment which it is meant to meet, grows out of a defect of taste characteristic of the German mind. It is this: elsewhere you would naturally, as a beginner, resort to prose authors, since the license and audacity of poetic thinking, and the large freedom of a poetic treatment, cannot fail to superadd difficulties of individual creation to the general difficulties of a strange dialect. But this rule, good for every other case, is not good for the literature of Germany. Difficulties there certainly are, and perhaps in more than the usual proportion, from the German peculiarities of poetic treatment; but even these are overbalanced in the result, by the single advantage of being limited in the extent by the metre, or (as it may happen) by the particular stanza. To German poetry there is a known, fixed, calculable limit. Infinity, absolute infinity, is impracticable in any German metre. Not so with German prose. Style, in any sense, is an inconceivable idea to a German intellect. Take the word in the limited sense of what the Greeks called Συνθεσις ὀνομάτων - i. e., the construction of sentences - I affirm that a German (unless it were here and there a Lessing) cannot admit such an idea. Books there are in German, and, in other respects, very good books too, which consist of one or two enormous sentences. A German sentence describes an arch between the rising and the setting sun. Take Kant for illustration: he has actually been complimented by the cloud-spinner, Frederick

Schlegel, who is now in Hades, as a most original artist in the matter of style. Original,' Heaven knows he was! His idea of a sentence was as follows: We have all seen or read of an old family coach, and the process of packing it for a journey to London some seventy or eighty years ago. Night and day, for a week at least, sate the housekeeper, the lady's maid, the butler, the gentlemen's gentleman, &c. packing the huge ark in all its recesses, its imperials,' its wills,' its 'Salisbury boots,' its 'swordcases,' its front pockets, side pockets, rear pockets, its 'hammer-cloth cellars,' (which a lady explains to me as a corruption from hamper-cloth, as originally a cloth for hiding a hamper stored with viaticum,) until all the uses and needs of man and of human life, savage or civilized, were met with separate provision by the infinite chaos. Pretty nearly upon the model of such an old family coach packing, did Kant institute and pursue the packing and stuffing of one of his regular sentences. Everything that could ever be needed in the way of explanation, illustration, restraint, inference, by-clauses, or indirect comment, was to be crammed, according to this German philosopher's taste, into the front pockets, side pockets, or rear pockets of the one original sentence. Hence it is that a sentence will last in reading whilst a man

'Might reap an acre of his neighbor's corn.'

Nor is this any peculiarity of Kant's. It is common to the whole family of prose writers of Germany, unless when they happen to have studied French models, who cultivate the opposite extreme. As a caution, therefore, practically applied to this particular anomaly in German prose writing, I advise all beginners to choose between two classes of composition - ballad poetry, or comedy — as their earliest school of exercise; ballad poetry, because

the form of the stanza (usually a quatrain) prescribes a
very narrow range to the sentences; comedy, because
the form of dialogue, and the imitation of daily life in its
ordinary tone of conversation, and the spirit of comedy
naturally suggesting a brisk interchange of speech, all
tend to short sentences. These rules I soon drew from
my own experience and observation. And the one sole
purpose towards which I either sought or wished for aid,
respected the pronunciation; not so much for attaining a just
one (which I was satisfied could not be realized out of Ger-
many, or, at least, out of a daily intercourse with Germans)
as for preventing the formation, unawares, of a radically
false one.
The guttural and palatine sounds of the ch, and
some other German peculiarities, cannot be acquired with-
out constant practice. But the false Westphalian or Jewish
pronunciation of the vowels, diphthongs, &c., may easily
be forestalled, though the true delicacy of Meissen should
happen to be missed. Thus much guidance I purchased,
with a very few guineas, from my young Dresden tutor,
who was most anxious for permission to extend his assist-
ance; but this I would not hear of: and, in the spirit of
fierce (perhaps foolish) independence, which governed
most of my actions at that time of life, I did all the rest for
myself.

'It was a banner broad unfurl'd,
The picture of that western world.'

These, or words like these, in which Wordsworth conveys the sudden apocalypse, as by an apparition, to an ardent and sympathizing spirit, of the stupendous world of America, rising, at once, like an exhalation, with all its shadowy forests, its endless savannas, and its pomp of solitary waters well and truly might I have applied to my first launching upon that vast billowy ocean of the German literature. As a past literature, as a literature of

inheritance and tradition, the German was nothing. Ancestral titles it had none; or none comparable to those of England, Spain, or even Italy; and there, also, it resembled America, as contrasted with the ancient world of Asia, Europe, and North Africa.* But, if its inheritance were nothing, its prospects, and the scale of its present development, were in the amplest style of American grandeur. Ten thousand new books, we are assured by Menzel, an author of high reputation- a literal myriad — is considerably below the number annually poured from all quarters of Germany, into the vast reservoir of Leipsic ; spawn infinite, no doubt, of crazy dotage, of dreaming imbecility, of wickedness, of frenzy, through every phasis of Babylonian confusion; yet, also, teeming and heaving with life and the instincts of truth; of truth hunting and chasing in the broad daylight, or of truth groping in the chambers of darkness; sometimes seen as it displays its cornucopia of tropical fruitage; sometimes heard dimly, and in promise, working its way through diamond mines. Not the tropics, not the ocean, not life itself, is such a type of variety, of infinite forms, or of creative power, as the German literature, in its recent motions, (say for the last twenty years,) gathering, like the Danube, a fresh volume of power at every stage of its advance. A banner it was, indeed, to me of miraculous promise, and sudderly unfurled. It seemed, in those days, an El Dorado as true and undeceiving as it was evidently inexhaustible. And the central object in this interminable wilderness of what then seemed imperishable bloom and verdure,

* It has been rather too much forgotten, that Africa, from the northern margin of Bilidulgerid and the Great Desert, south wards everywhere, in short, beyond Egypt, Cyrene, and the modern Barhary States belongs, as much as America, to the New World—the world unknown to the ancients.

the very tree of knowledge in the midst of this Eden, was the new or transcendental philosophy of Immanuel Kant.

I have described the gorgeousness of my expectations in those early days of my prelusive acquaintance with German literature. I have a little lingered in painting that glad aurora of my first pilgrimage to the fountains of the Rhine and of the Danube, in order adequately to shadow out the gloom and blight which soon afterwards settled upon the hopes of that golden dawn. In Kant, I had been taught to believe were the keys of a new and a creative philosophy. Either 'ejus ductu,' or ' ejus auspiciis' — that is, either directly under his guidance, or indirectly under any influence remotely derived from his principles- I looked confidingly to see the great vistas and avenues of truth laid open to the philosophic inquirer. Alas! all was a dream. Six weeks' study was sufficient to close my hopes in that quarter for ever. The philosophy of Kant-so famous, so commanding in Germany, from about the period of the French Revolution—already, in 1805, I had found to be a philosophy of destruction, and scarcely, in any one chapter, so much as tending to a philosophy of reconstruction. It destroys by wholesale, and it substitutes nothing. Perhaps in the whole history of man, it is an unexampled case, that such a scheme of speculation which offers nothing seducing to human aspirations, nothing splendid to the human imagination, nothing even positive and affirmative to the human understanding — should have been able to found an interest so broad and deep among thirty-five millions of cultivated men. The English reader who supposes this interest to have been confined to academic bowers, or the halls of philosophic societies, is most inadequately alive to the case. Sects, heresies, schisms, by hundreds, having arisen