literature; and though, in the proper sense of the word literature as a body of creative art, I cannot esteem it highly, yet as a depositary of knowledge in one particular direction -(viz. the direction of historical and antiquarian research), it has, undoubtedly, high claims upon the student's attention. But this is a direction in which a long series of writers descending from a remote antiquity is of more importance than a great contemporary body: whereas, for the cultivation of knowledge in a more comprehensive sense, and arrived at its present stage, large simultaneous efforts are of more importance than the longest successive efforts. Now, for such a purpose, it is self-evident that the means at the disposal of every state, must be in due proportion to its statistical rank. For not only must the scientific institutions, the purchasers of books, &c. keep pace with the general progress of the country; but commerce alone, and the arts of life, which are so much benefited by science, naturally react upon science, in a degree proportioned to the wealth of every state in their demand for the aids of chemistry, mechanics, engineering, &c. &c.: a fact, with its inevitable results, to which I need scarcely call your attention. Moreover, waiving all mere presumptive arguments, the bare amount of books annually published in the several countries of Europe, puts the matter out of all doubt that the great commerce of thought and knowledge in the civilized world is at this day conducted in three languages-the English, the German, and the French. You therefore, having the good fortune to be an Englishman, are to make your choice between the two last: and, this being so, I conceive that there is no room for hesitation--the "detur pulchriori," being in this case (that is, remember, with an exclusive reference to knowledge) a direction easily followed.

Dr. Johnson was accustomed to say of the French literature, as the

kindest thing he had to say about it, that he valued it chiefly for this reason-that it had a book upon every subject. How far this might be a reasonable opinion fifty years ago, and understood, as Dr. Johnson must have meant it, of the French literature as compared with the English of the same period, I will not pretend to say. It has certainly ceased to be true even under these restrictions; and is in flagrant opposition to the truth, if extended to the French in its relation to the German. Undoubtedly the French literature holds out to the student some peculiar advantages, as what literature does not? some even which we should not have anticipated; for, though we justly value ourselves as a nation upon our classical educations, yet no literature is poorer than the English in the learning of classical antiquities, our Bentleys even, and our Porsons, having thrown all their learning into the channel of philology; whilst a single volume of the Memoirs of the French Academy of Inscriptions contains more useful antiquarian research than a whole English library. In digests of history again, the French language is richer than ours, and in their Dictionaries of Miscellaneous knowledge (not in their Encyclopædias). But all these are advantages of the French only in relation to the English and not to the German literature, which, for vast compass, variety, and extent, far exceeds all others as a depositary for the current accumulations of knowledge. The mere number of books published annually in Germany, compared with the annual product of France and England, is alone a satisfactory evidence of this assertion. With relation to France it is a second argument in its favour, that the intellectual activity of Germany is not intensely accumulated in one great capital as it is in Paris; but whilst it is here and there converged intensely enough for all useful_purposes (as at Berlin, Königsberg, Leip sic, Dresden, Vienna, Munich, &c.)

it is also healthily diffused over the whole territory. There is not a sixthrate town in protestant Germany which does not annually contribute its quota of books: intellectual culture has manured the whole soil: not a district but it has penetrated Like Spring,

Which leaves no corner of the land untouch'd.

A third advantage on the side of Germany (an advantage for this purpose) is its division into a great number of independent states: from this circumstance, it derives the benefit of an internal rivalship amongst its several members, over and above that general external rivalship which it maintains with other nations. An advantage of the same kind we enjoy in England. The British nation is fortunately split into three great divisions; and thus a national feeling of emulation and contest is excitedslight indeed, or none at all, on the part of the English (not from any merit, but from mere decay of patriotic feeling), stronger on the part of the Irish, and sometimes illiberally and odiously strong on the part of

the Scotch (especially as you descend-below the rank of gentlemen). But, disgusting as it sometimes is in its expression, this nationality is of great service to our efforts in all directions: a triple power is gained for internal excitement of the national energies; whilst, in regard to any external enemy, or any external rival, the three nations act with the unity of a single force. But the most conspicuous advantage of the German literature is its great originality and boldness of speculation, and the character of masculine austerity and precision impressed upon their scientific labours, by the philosophy of Leibnitz and Wolf heretofore, and by the severer philosophy of modern days. Speaking of the German literature at all, it would be mere affectation to say nothing on a subject so far-famed and somuch misrepresented as this. Yet to summon myself to an effort of this kind at a moment of weariness and exhausted attention, would be the certain means of inflicting great weariness upon you. For the present, therefore, I take my leave, and am most truly yours, X. Y. Z.

Ir is not to be disputed that the company at Drury-Lane, both in tragedy and comedy, out-musters and overpowers that at the other house very considerably. CoventGarden can certainly get up a come dy of about four leading characters with great success; but when you overstep Blanchard, there is no other object left;" beyond Hyde Park,-all is a desart!" To show the straits to which the managers are driven, we have only to look at any comedy as acted at Covent-Garden: -the Rivals for instance. Well! There is Mr. C. Kemble in Captain Absolute, a fine spirited gallant gentlemanly rogue-good. There is Farren, in Sir Anthony Absolute tetchy, comic, and discreet, but des ficient in the fleshy acting of Dowton, the boiling, broiling old gentleman,

with a balustrade calf, and the blood in his face. There is Mrs. Davenport, in old Mrs. Malaprop-that antiquated, amorous old Linguist herself! Then there is Blanchard-no:

that scale is full!-On the other hand, there is Blanchard in-Acres! How unlike Bannister, and therefore how unlike Acres!-Poor Blanchard, with his keen visage and unrobust person, thrust into the fat-headed Country 'Squire,-" Alack, and awell a-day!"-Next comes Abbott, in Falkland,-we have no notion how this match came about. Then in David, there is inexperienced Mr. Meadows ("Oh, the green Meadows!") Some other nobody in Fag-Connor, Irish enough, but not easy enough, in Sir Lucius-and Atkins, Baker, and Parsloe, to fill up the hunt. At Drury-Lane we should

Foote was such a reward as we never yet saw offered by government for the discovery of a murder. Grimaldi was exquisitely frightful in a wild Indian slave to the enchanter. His legs appeared to grow immediately from under his ears, and his arms to sprout out of his knee-pans. We rather think his fingers have tenpenny nails instead of ordinary mortal ones-and that his toes are hooked like a parrot's. But this is mere surmise. Mrs. Davenport was impressive in the wife and mother; but this excellent actress never deserts her duties. Mr. T. P. Cooke looked like one of those American Indians, who used the tomahawk and rum-bottle so unmercifully at the English Opera House a few years ago.

true

The music was not striking. None of the tunes have risen up and floated upon the memory since we heard them-which proves that they are not Covent-Garden compositions. Those bits of music in Harlequin and the Ogress haunt us like the fairies which they were intended to accompany.

We almost forgot to remark, that Miss Love sang a song, which even the galleries thought low. It was too deep for us.

The spectacle at Drury-Lane is Chinese-and is called the Chinese Sorcerer, or the Emperor and his Three Sons. It is sadly inferior to the piece at Covent Garden in every point but that in which we expected it to fail-viz. in the scenery. Mr. T. Dibdin, the author, seems to have made a compound of old Surrey Theatre pieces, and to have determined to astound and to surprise-if not to delight. The story would poze a sphynx. But as critics are supposed to know every thing, we shall attempt to unravel what really appears not capable of being unra velled. We have looked into all our old tea cups for inspiration-but a man must be indeed in his cups before he can muster up a Chinese enthusiasm.

Fong Whang (the reader must prepare for a set of names fit to twist the mouth into a letter S) is enacted by a Mr. Thompson, and is a magician, who opens the piece on a canvas cloud, licensed to carry two, for Mr. Knight, his attendant, by

name Hi-Ho (a name often ejaculated by the audience during the per formance), rides in the fog-van with him: this latter gentleman is quite a new character to the stage, being no less than a Yorkshire China-man Fong Whang and Hi-Ho begin, like Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Christopher Hatton, in the Critic, with a long scene of information and mutual admissions. It appears that Quang-Fi, the emperor's wife, has been imprisoned by old Fong for some years, and that the emperor's three sons, Zam-Ti, Kan-Fu, and Pe-Kin, have also been obscurely brought up by Fong. The Magician waves his wand, and the scene changes to a splendid interior of the emperor Kien Long's palace. There is much courtly magnificence about. In short, Long is on his throne, with Mandarins about him sufficient to superintend all the grocers' raisin-boxes in London. A very light and fanciful ballet is here performed, in which the pretty figurantes are tastefully grouped, and in which Noblet and his wife (formerly Miss Lupino) dance up to the spirit, vigour, and agility, of any favourite on the Italian boards. Miss Tree, sister of the sweet singer, and the Byrnes, also add much to the beauty of the ballet by a charming pas de trois. FongWhang introduces himself to the emperor, and surprises old Kien (Long Kien we mean, for the name provokes confusion at Drury Lane) with the information that his three sons Kan-Fu and Co. are living. The Magician urges the emperor to disguise himself, and to accompany him to their place of abode.

The next scene is delightfully picturesque,- a lake with a Chinese city in the distance; a pagoda, and its reflection in the water, are admirably managed, and the effect of sunshine is original and perfect. Mr. Stanfield is the artist, and, we must say, he has proved himself to be an artist of very great genius. He promises to make Drury a dangerous rival to Covent Garden in its scenery. Unfortunately, the dialogue in this part is lamentable indeed, and seems written in a purposed poverty, as though the Manager were determined at one and the same time "to show our eyes and grieve our hearts.”

Mr. Cooper, Mr. Penley, and Mr. Harley, are the three brothers; and, to our minds, three burglary boys in the condemned hole, the night before hanging day, are enviable personages, compared with these performers under the burthens of such parts. The first has been brought up by a fisherman, the second as a shepherd, and the third, having followed his own course, is a bad toy-maker, and a worse jester. The latter is in love with Bri-Ti, which is the Chinese for Miss Cubitt. Fong Whang very wisely resolves to humour the humours of these three hopefuls: he therefore, by magic, enables fisherman Cooper to angle in the lake, and get a bite from a casket, which really turns out a bite; for he discovers an inscription in it, informing him that if he again throws it into the water, he will better his next nibble; that, in short, he will have his wish realized. He accordingly pitches in the casket, and wishes for a golden galley, manned by knights in golden armour; an odd fancy enough. We should as soon have wished for a roasted tiger stuffed with tenpenny nails! The galley, however, attends him; and the knights land, arm the fisherman, clap on his head an extinguisher-helmet, and take him a board! Mr. Harley and Miss Cubitt are unaccountably taken prisoners by the Tartars, who little suppose they have caught one of their own tribe in the lady. Mr. Penley, the final brother, is thrown into the lake. The Chinese Yorkshireman, however, at the head of a file of the emperor's pigeon-toed Coldstream, rescues Mr. Harley and Miss Cubitt- and terminates the first act.

The second act (our readers are interested, of course, in the progress of this Bohea-romance-this Chinadish of weak tea) commences with a beautiful scene-an illuminated marine pavilion, painted by a Mr. Roberts. Here the audience is given to understand that the law of the land is, that any shipwrecked person cast on that shore may marry the Princess of China-O-Me by name, as a lady near us very prettily guessed when she heard the salutary and wise law. If, however, O-Me should not like him, he is to have his hair cut off, and his head with it. Kan-Fu, Mr. Penley (our readers