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very difficult to separate his two characters of prose writer and poet: nor does it seem necessary that we should; for all his prose works bear the genuine stamp of his noble mind, and the holy fervor of his endeavors. His philosophical essays, though the investigations of later times have discovered some errors in his principles, have nevertheless exercised an immense influence upon the literature of his country, and may, upon the whole, be recommended for models of style in scientific composition. Like Thomas Babington Macaulay, he united high imagination with deep sagacity-a feeling of the tender and the touching, with a love of the sharp and the satiric; which, however, he seldom suffered to prevail, except on fitting occasions; when he did not content himself with flashes of wit and strokes of irony, which were only the accompaniments of his argument, as rain and tempest are of thunder and fire, but flayed his victim alive while he showed him in the wrong, and then anointed him with nitric acid and oil of vitriol. This was the way he served the celebrated Gottfried August Bürger, undoubtedly the greatest poet of the Göttinger Dichterbund. Unhappy man! there was a time, when, as a poet, he was the favorite of his countrymen, but he was not permitted the happiness of taking this consciousness to the grave with him, for some years before his death Schiller had shrewdly searched out the weak points of Bürger's poetical works, and displayed them to the notice of the German people.

As a historian, Schiller distinguishes himself by the brilliancy and vivacity of his pictures; but he wants that calmness and clear-sightedness which the chronicler of other times ought to pos

sess: in this respect he is far too dramatic, and not epic enough. But the scientific skill of a commander is visible in all his motions; he sees, as with the eye of an eagle from the cloud, the whole country spread before him; he makes himself familiar with its mountains, its vales, its forests, its strengths natural and artificial; he looks on the people and their condition

weighs the noble against the knave, and then proceeds to relate the fortunes of the land in its greatest contest for freedom with the great conquerors of modern times. Some German writers have questioned his accuracy, and charged him with high coloring. His greatest fault, however, appears to have been his love of country,-his love of national independence. He wrote in the spirit of a freeman: he sought out every means of making his readers wiser and happier, by making them more conscious of the causes of their own faults and follies, and more tolerant towards those of others, and at the same time more alive to the innumerable sources of delight that exist within themselves, and everywhere about them, covered, but not concealed by the thick veil of habit and custom. We fear that it never could yet be said of any popular and professed author, that the fulfilment of this desire was the predominant object of his writings. But we are of opinion, if ever it could be said of any one, it may of Schiller. We are certain, at least, that this is the predominant tendency of his works, when they are read in the spirit in which they were written, and with eyes not blinded to the wisdom of simplicity, and feelings not deadened to a perception of the innate goodness of our common nature.

L. F. T.

A DREAM.

A LOVELY Dream descended once to me,
Bright as some revelation sent from heaven,
Such as in olden time there used to be
To the rapt trance of seer or poet given.
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VOL. XI,NÓ, XLIX.

Alone, amid a far unbounded waste,

Faint, slow and sad, methought I held my way; Dark the wild path my bleeding steps had traced, Darker before them onward still it lay.

While through the shadows that encompassed it,
Shrouding alike its outset and its close,
Myriads of fearful phantom shapes did flit,
Doubts, terrors, passions, sorrows, sins, and woes.

They hemmed me round-they shook my soul with dread—
For every step they strewed a subtler snare-
For each that as I braved it shrieked and fled,
A thousand yet more fearful still were there.

And I had sunk, but for one glimmering Star,
Of Hope and Faith, that led the weary way-
But ah, through that wild gloom how faint and far
On my earth-darkened vision shone the ray!

When sudden, lo! beside me stood a Form,
Whether of heaven or earth I might not guess,
For oh, how bright methought it beamed, and warm
With earth's and heaven's mingled loveliness!

Thought on her brow, as on an ivory throne,

Sat pure and high, that scarce beseemed her youth,
While from her eyes a holy radiance shone
Of innocence and tenderness and truth.

Lowly, yet with rapt fervor, to my knee,
Half worship and half passion, did I bend
To that sweet Shape in which-so wondrously
All love and loveliness did seem to blend.

And gently then her worshipper to raise,

The Vision smiled, and stretched her hand-when, lo, As met our spirits in one kindling gaze,

Methought her being into mine did flow.

And into hers my soul did pass from me,

While each its separate self could yet retain

Blent and commingled thus mysteriously

That sacred Twain in One and One in Twain.

And I was changed-how gloriously!-as though
New life a new creation did inspire,

And through my veins meseemed did stream and glow
Swift tides as of some fine ethereal fire.

And I became, by gazing ever on

That radiant purity which thus on me

Like a soft halo from the Vision shone,

Almost like her through love's sweet sympathy.

High thoughts and noble sprang within my mind,-
Glowed my new heart with all of good and pure,—
Infinite love, for all of human kind,

Infinite power, to dare and to endure.

Then shrank the darkness, like a shrivelled scroll,
That late upon the desert path did brood,-
Shrank each wild shape that had appalled my soul,
From that blest Presence by my side that stood.

And all the mighty mystery of Life,

That once bewildered, stood revealed, in Love; As when o'er the dark Void's wild-whirling strife Creation's word of harmony did move,—

And lo! a world of bliss and beauty starts

To its bright being-and mid Eden's bowers First meet the throbs of loving human hearts,

And heaven is strewn with stars and earth with flowers.

So now beneath the Star's unclouded ray,

The guiding Star of Bethlehem's lowly Child, Hand clasped in hand, methought we took our way, Through the bright Paradise that round us smiled.

Such was the Dream-quick fled to heaven again!
Yet ah, 'twas not wild fancy's web alone,-
The desert and the pilgrim still remain,
Left darker by the light for ever gone!

LINES

TO TELL WHY I LOVE THE STARS, THE BIRDS, AND THE FLOWERS.

I LOVE the stars-for methinks their light,
Through the calm blue deep of the holy night,
Like glimpses of heaven to mortals gleaming,
Beams like the ray from the soft eyes beaming
Of my Lady bright.

I love the birds-for methinks I hear

In the gush of their melodies sweet and clear
The thrill of those accents whose joyous ringing
Sings to my heart like an angel's singing,
Of my Lady dear.

I love the flowers-for methinks they wear
The stolen hues of that beauty rare,

And their fragrance, its balm to the breeze bequeathing,
Breathes like the sigh from the sweet lips breathing
Of my Lady fair.

But oh, fairer to me and brighter far,

Is my Lady than flower or bird or star;

For within her soul dwelleth ever a light,

Of whose radiance all things that are fair and bright,
Methinks but the shadows are.

CATLIN'S NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS.*

THE publication of these splendid volumes must be eagerly welcomed by all those and their name is legion who enjoyed the opportunity and privilege of visiting Mr.Catlin's exhibition of Indian portraits and curiosities while he remained in this country; while to those who have been less fortunate it will go far to serve as some equivalent for their loss. It mayin truth be esteemed the most valuable work on the inhabitants of the vast untrodden west which has been as yet produced. For although many have rambled over the prairies, and dwelt in the tents of the Sioux and the Pawnee; and occasional travellers have given to the world their "Impressions of the West," or "Reminiscences of the Prairies," none other than Mr. Catlin has combined the pencil with the pen, and placed so vividly before the eye of the reader a double portraiture of the wild personages of whom he writes, and the scenes of his adventures.

Of the truthfulness of his representations there can be little or no doubt, for they have been confirmed by many of the inhabitants of the western frontier; and we had once in person the pleasure of witnessing a recognition of many of the landscapes and portraits collected by Mr. Catlin, by a party of Sioux warriors who passed through New York several years since, and whose likenesses afterwards adorned the walls of the Exhibition. Mr.Catlin himself seems peculiarly adapted to describe, as well as to paint, the life of the savage, and in the pursuit of his favorite study has become so enamored of the free and roving life through which it has led him, as to seem himself, if we may be allowed the expression, at least semi-indianized.

A perusal of his volumes can hardly fail to recall to the reader's mind the old fable of the man and the lion, and to suggest the idea that the lions have at last taken their turn at paint ing. He contrasts the regular habits and systematic progress of the whites

most unfavorably with the careless and hardy life of the sons of the forest; and, in his strong Indian partiality, hardly does justice to the bold and untiring backwoodsmen who are daily extending the boundaries of the eastern civilisation. He lays at their door the whole of the vices and bad habits of all the Indian tribes, while he forgets that they are at least as ready to receive as the whites to give, the evils of that civilisation, while its advantages they despise and consider as only fit for women and Pale-faces. Our author pours forth eloquent lamentations on the advances of the settlers, and paints in glowing colors the high spirit and noble traits of the savages who as yet have been almost unvisited by civilized man; and dilates in one place with great apparent satisfaction on the appearance and manners of a warrior of the Blackfoot tribe, Pe-toh-pe-kiss or

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Eagle's Ribs" by name, who "deliberately boasted of eight scalps which he said he had taken from traders and trappers with his own hand."

The predatory habits of the Indians are denied by Mr. Catlin, almost on the same page in which he strives to account satisfactorily for the plundering of a party of traders on their way to Astoria; whose horses were stolen by the "Crows" because the party did not choose to traffic with them, and dispose of goods intended for another market. The defence of the plunderers reminds one of Le Balafré, in Walter Scott's Quentin Durward, who offers to maintain at the point of the sword that "driving a spreagh or so is no robbery." In this one respect we are inclined to think that our author is carried away by his enthusiasm; and though he says that he was welcomed generally in their country, and treated to the best they could give him, without charge for his board; that they often escorted him through their enemies' country at some hazard to their lives, and aided him in passing mountains and rivers with his baggage; and that

Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the North American Indians. By Geo. Catlin. Written during eight years travel amongst the wildest tribes of Indians in North America, in 1832, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, and 39. In two volumes, with four hundred illustrations, carefully engraved from his original paintings. New York: Wiley & Putnam, 161 Broadway. 1841.

under all these circumstances no Indian ever betrayed him, struck him a blow, or stole from him a shilling's worth of property, yet it appears somewhat problematical whether his character as a "medicine man," derived from his skill in painting, did not contribute to his safety at least as much as any abstract principles of honor or morality in his red friends.

This over-enthusiasm for savage life forms almost the only fault we have to find with Mr. Catlin. It is, however, to this very enthusiasm that we owe his very admirable and entertaining work, and the still more valuable drawings that accompany it. We have no right, and certainly no disposition, to criticise a trifling defect, naturally, if not necessarily, incidental to the very merits to which we owe so great a debt of gratitude. Had he been like other mortals he would probably have lived a quiet and decent citizen of his native State; and the tribes of the more remote western territories might perhaps for ever have remained unvisited by any one capable of thus portraying to the world their habits and features. It is a well known fact that the interesting tribe of Mandans, to whom a large portion of our author's first volume is devoted, and whose peculiar religious rites tend in a manner to afford an additional confirmation to the received account of the early history of the world, exist now only on his canvass and in his pages. Since the visit of Mr. Catlin they have been swept by disease from the face of the earth, and little else than a few ruined huts now remains to tell that a people once existed there. So may it perhaps be with many others of the nations among whom he dwelt; and in a few centuries, the races of the forest and prairie will in all apparent human probability be numbered among the things passed away for ever.

The style of Mr. Catlin is free, bold, and manly, though careless and uncultivated; without any effort at refinement or effect, he tells the story of his adventures; and if we are sometimes led into a suspicion that he indulges a little in the traveller's standard privilege, we must allow him to make his own apology, which he does most amply at the commencement of his work: "If," says he, "some few of my narrations shall seem a little too highly colored, I trust that the world will be ready

to extend to me the pardon which it is customary to yield to all artists whose main faults exist in the vividness of their coloring rather than in the drawing of their pictures; but there is nothing else in them, I think, that I should ask pardon for, even though some of them should stagger credulity, and incur for me the censure of those critics who sometimes unthinkingly or unmercifully sit at home at their desks, enjoying the luxury of wine and a good cigar, over the simple narration of the honest and weather-worn traveller, who shortens his half-starved life in catering for the world, to condemn him and his work to oblivion, and his wife and his little children to starvation, merely because he describes scenes they have not beheld, and which consequently they are unable to believe."

After so frank a statement as this, we ought, in all fairness, to receive Mr. Catlin and his adventures with an open and kindly spirit; and, should we find anything in his pages rather hard to digest, apply to it the granum salis which from the days of antiquity has formed the sovereign remedy for all narrations bordering on the confines of the marvellous.

It is not an easy thing to give in a few of the pages for which we are writing these presents, even an outline of the contents of two goodly octavo volumes; and we must confine ourselves to a strong commendation of the original work itself to a place in every library making any pretensions to an American character; and to a very brief notice of the long and varied journeys of our enthusiastic explorer.

The design of visiting the remote Indian tribes was engendered in the mind of Mr. Catlin, as he says, by seeing a delegation of some ten or fifteen "noble and dignified-looking Indians," from the wilds of the Far West, who passed through Philadelphia, where he had established himself as an artist. The sight of these singular beings inflamed at once the ardent mind of the artist, who, as he remarks, was seeking for some branch of his art on which to devote a whole life of enthusiasm; and he was seized with a desire to visit their country, and to become their historian and their painter.

This resolution once formed, he lost no time in putting it into execution; and having made all necessary preparations, he left his parents and family,

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