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"Episychidion," is (as the advertisement of the Editor rather haughtily expresses it)" sufficiently intelligible to a certain class of readers, and to a certain other class, it must ever remain incomprehensible." This is a character somewhat repulsive, or at best, astounding; but the most guiltless of Greek need not frighten himself: the poem is no satire upon ignorance, and there are passages in it which all but ignorance itself may both comprehend and enjoy. This shall at once be shown by an extract. We cannot promise more than one; for, when once our hand is in at transcribing such verse as poor Shelley's, we are sure to outstrip our first intention; but here our readers' patience, and even delight, will keep pace with us.

The islands of Tasso, Camoens, and Fenelon, are barren, gloomy, silent, and scentless deserts, compared with this "Eden of the purple

east.

It is an isle under Ionian skies,
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise.

The blue Ægean girds this chosen home,
With ever-changing sound and light and foam,
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar;
And all the winds wandering along the shore
Undulate with the undulating tide:

There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide;
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,

As clear as elemental diamond,

Or serene morning air; and far beyond

The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer,
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year,)
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls
Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls
Illumine, and with sound that never fails,
Accompany the noonday nightingales :
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs;
The light clear element which the isle wears
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,
And falls upon their eyelids like faint sleep;
And from the moss violets and jonquils peep,
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain
Till you might faint with that delicious pain;
And every motion, odour, beam, and tone,
With that deep music is in unison:
Which is a soul within the soul-they seem
Like echoes of an ante-natal dream.-

It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea,
Cradled and hung in clear tranquillity;
Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer,
Wash'd by the soft blue oceans of young air.
It is a favour'd place. Famine or Blight,
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never light
Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they
Sail onward far upon their fatal way:

The winged storms, chaunting their thunder-psalm
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,
From which its fields and woods ever renew
Their green and golden immortality.

And from the sea there rise, and from the sky
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright,
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight,

Which sun, or moon, or zephyr, draws aside,
Till the isle's beauty, like a naked bride,
Glowing at once with love and loveliness,
Blushes and trembles at its own excess.

Contrary to our intention, we must proceed from this general survey of the island, to inspect the "lone dwelling" which the poet has prepared for the " lady of the solitude."

It scarce seems now a wreck of human art,
But, as it were, Titanic; in the heart
Of earth having assumed its form, then grown
Out of the mountains, from the living stone,
Lifting itself in caverns light and high:
For all the antique and learned imagery
Has been erased, and, in the place of it,
The ivy and the wild vine interknit
The volumes of their many twining stems;
Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems
The lampless halls; and when they fade, the sky
Peeps through their winter woof of tracery
With moonlight patches, or star atoms keen,
Or fragments of the day's intense serene,→→
Working Mosaic on their Parian floors.

And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers
And terraces, the earth and ocean seem

To sleep in one another's arms, and dream

Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we
Read in their smiles, and call reality.

Is poetry like this to be lost, because its author was disinherited? or even because, finding the world still wicked and miserable, notwithstanding all the schemes for its amelioration to which ages had given birth, he boldly suggested another plan, and indefatigably recommended it to practice? Our neglect of this writer entails a heavy debt on our posterity: but we may venture to predict, that they will discharge it with cheerfulness, and with interest.

THE RETROSPECT.

ALAS! for him, that in the lonely hour,
Hath never of sweet Science made a friend!
Hath never won the Muses to his bower,
Nor, by the magic lore, their favourites penn'd
Of old, been e'er enspirited to blend

His burning soul with theirs, and taking wing
From the advantage height of those proud thoughts,
Which long ago made heaven their home, to spring
Still upward, where the virgin mind consorts

With beings angelical, and, like itself,
Mateless till now!-Alas! for the vain elf,

Who leaves fair Wisdom's records on the shelf,

And gropes through life with an unlighted lamp,

Vile as an unwrought gem,-a metal without stamp !

MAGNET, VOL. IV. PART XXIII.

M

ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF E. T. A. HOFFMANN.

AMONG the numerous authors who have, during the last ten years, distinguished themselves in Germany, Hoffmann may be ranked as the most remarkable. He was a man of so extraordinary a kind, that even if he had never written a line, he might still be justly regarded as one of the most striking characters of his age. No doubt can be attached to this fact, when it is known that Hoffmann shone in the following opposite, and in some instances apparently conflicting, characters.-He was allowed to be one of the first lawyers of his time; an elegant scholar, deeply read both in ancient and modern literature; a profound natural philosopher; an eminent musical composer; the first pianoforte player in Europe; a caricaturist of incomparable humour and talent; a man possessed of an enchanting gift of conversation; a wit whose power was at once admired and dreaded; and, to sum up all, the leading author of his day.

The man who in this manner concentrates within himself as it were a society of distinguished men, is, beyond doubt, a character of the extraordinary cast, calculated to awaken the liveliest interest, and worthy of the minutest investigation.

Ernestus Theodore Amadeus Hoffmann was born in the year 1778, in Koeningsberg, in Prussia, a place which already boasted of having produced a Kant, a Hippel, and that deep and mysterious writer Haman, surnamed the Magus of the north. Of the earlier years and education of Hoffmann but few particulars are known. He studied the law at the university of his native town, and devoted the greater part of his leisure hours to the study of music. In the year 1806, we find him at Warsaw, which at that period belonged to Prussia, filling the situation of a Prussian counsellor. The arrival of the French suddenly interrupted his professional career; and when he returned to Prussia, he found himself in his own country, without either fortune or the prospect of obtaining one. Thus situated, he had recourse to his great musical talents. He now began a rambling musical career, successively figuring as teacher, composer, and director, frequently shifting his residence from place to place. It was at this time, that his talent as a writer first began to unfold itself. He wrote a variety of articles for the Leipzig Gazette of Music; but these did not usher him into public notice so favourably as when he had formed them into a collection of three volumes, which he published in the year 1813, under the title of Phantasiestuecke ueber die Kunst von einem reisenden Enthusiasten, in Jean Callot's Manier (Rhapsodies on Art, by an itinerant Enthusiast, in the style of Jean Callot).

The effect of this book was felt like an electric shock throughout the whole of Germany; and it is more than probable, that the high fame Hoffmann acquired by this work, induced the Prussian government to invite him from Dresden, where he then filled the situation of leader of the Opera, to Berlin, in order that he might re-assume his former official career. He accepted of this flattering invitation in the year 1815, and filled the office of Counsellor of the Court of the Chamber until his death, which occurred in the summer of 1822.

During the whole of this period, his fame continued increasing from year to year, nay from month to month; for being now secured against temporary cares, his genius found leisure to unfold all its powers, and his works followed each other with greater rapidity than even those of the "great unknown."

A prominent feature in the character of the Germans is a strong propensity to works of imagination. The love of the wonderful, of the awful, and the mysterious, is the consequence of this inclination; which is not extraordinary among a nation who, from being excluded from political activity, feel the want of one of the most powerful conductors of the restless activity of the mental powers. When the mind is denied sufficient scope in the existing world for the display of its energies, it creates for itself a visionary sphere, which it peoples with the aerial beings of its own fancy. When this propensity is indulged, under the control of a matured judgment and a refined taste, it is capable of producing the most extraordinary specimens of human genius. This union of qualities has characterized many of the Germans, more particularly Goethe, Fouqué, and Tieck, of which the celebrated Tales of the latter bear abundant evidence.

This also is the province in which the genius of Hoffinann developed itself with the greatest power. There are few, if any, writers who possess so strongly the gift of captivating equally by the power of imagination and the charm of style; and there are none who possess so strong a faculty of disclosing the most secret recesses of the human heart, of making the mind recoil with horror from itself,-of transporting the reader into a new and magical world, of which he feels himself at once an inhabitant and yet a stranger. Yet, when he has erected this fabric of the imagination, he delights in the power of destroying the whole creation by one stroke of his magic wand, and that wand is the keenest and boldest irony.

This, perhaps, may seem obscure. But Hoffmann was a dark and fantastical being, and himself obscure and mystical; if we represent him in his true light, we can only represent him as a mysterious and fantastical being.

In his first work, Hoffmann presented to the world his ideas on music. Our limits will not allow us to enter into details;. but the essays entitled Gluck, Don Juan, and Creisleriana are of great importance. The latter is an admirable satire on female dilettanteism in its most ridiculous form, where an affected love of art is merely assumed for a vehicle of coquetry. Shortly after this, appeared his extraordinary novel entitled "The Devil's Elixir."* The mystical principles of Catholicism are here represented under the veil of a fiction. Though the charm of Hoffmann's style is particularly displayed in this work, and chiefly in the beginning, where its effect is quite enchanting, yet Hoffmann's faults, which we shall have occasion to criticise, are chiefly contained in this novel.

Soon after appeared, at short intervals, two volumes of tales, entitled Nachtstuecke (Night Pieces), which were inferior to his former

This work has been recently translated into English; but we have had no opportunity of forming a judgment as to the merits of this translation.

productions; Leiden eines Theater-Directors (The Sufferings of a Manager), a most spirited dialogue, a species of composition in which Hoffmann was particularly happy; Klein Zaches (Little Zaches), a tálé which had immense success; Die Serapions Brueder (The Serapion Brothers), in four large volumes. This latter work, which contains some of the best specimens of Hoffmann's genius, resembles in its form the "Decameron" of Bocaccio, and the "Phantasus" of Tieck, consisting of a number of tales, connected by a most beautiful dialogue.

Whilst Hoffmann was engaged in these literary pursuits, he fulfilled all the duties of his charge, which was by no means a sinecure, and found leisure to compose an opera called Undine, which Fouqué had expressly written for him, founded on his own charming tale of that name. The music of this opera met with high success, and is still à favourite with the public of Berlin. In private life, the brilliancy of Hoffmann's wit afforded a daily entertainment to his friends, while the power of his humorous pencil equally delighted the public. His pianoforte playing will never be forgotten by those who were happy enough to hear him. He rarely played by note; but, following the wild impulse of his extraordinary genius, he seemed capable of renewing the wonders related of the Orpheus and Amphion of yore.

Besides some works of imagination which appeared after his death, he also wrote two tales; one called Die Prinzessin Brambilla (The Princess Brambilla), the other, Meister Floh (Master Flea); and a singular work entitled Lebensansichten des Kater Murks (Reflexions upon Life, by Murks, a Tom Cat). In these latter works, the writer appears more and more fantastical, and they are decidedly inferior to his earlier productions. Hoffmann also composed five or six operas, which met with the approbation of the critics, as well as a great many pieces of music, songs, &c.; among the latter of which, three Italian duets are distinguished for their extraordinary beauty. To this must be added, his caricature drawings, which, we are sorry to state, are dispersed, as no collection of them was ever formed.

*

The splendid talents of Hoffmann procured him an immense number of readers; but we must confess, that his gifts are rather dazzling than satisfactory; and, excepting the charms of a wild imagination, and a style full of fire and energy, there remains but little to stand the test of sound and impartial criticism. In fact, his works are deficient in moral dignity; and his art has no objective power, or, in other words, it has not the capacity of representing external objects with internal fidelity. It is in vain that we search, in his writings, for that grandeur which elevates us above ourselves, or for that love which disposes us to resignation. They are the mere productions of an imagination, which, with all its power, is still faulty and unsound, and which is perpetually hurrying him away from his subject. Conscious of it, he tries in vain to appear the master of his talent, by employing the means of irony against himself.

The influence Hoffmann had on German literature was pernicious, as indeed is evident from what we have already observed. Nevertheless,

* Tre Duetti Italiani, per due voci, di soprano e di tenore, coll' accompagnamento di pianoforte. Berlino, da A. M. Schlesinger, editore e mercante di musica.

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