depend materially upon the construction of the reader's mind; and with all our admiration of Schiller's genius, we think, that if these volumes fail to become popular, the true cause will be found to be inherent in Wallenstein itself. We are inclined to think, that in this country, the original series of plays founded on this subject, would now be extensively popular. They would be read, admired, and resorted to by those of refined feelings and vigorous imaginationsby those who love to have their emotions excited through the medium of their reasons-and who are capable of appreciating the merits of a lofty tenor of metaphysical poetry, which is totally inapplicable to the persons in whose mouths it is placed. But we cannot conceal from ourselves, that argue as we will, we cannot make the Wallenstein to be otherwise than essentially dull. It appeals more to the fancy than to the heart-to the understanding than to the passionsand considering it either as a drama, a poem, or an historical romance, there still remains in it the same vital defect-a deficiency of incident. We never felt this more strongly, than by the very unfortunate juxta-position into which the clumsy Reviewer before-mentioned has forced Wallenstein with Quentin Durward. Allowing that Wallenstein "may be better considered in the light of a romance "than as a drama;" that it is cast in "too philosophical a mould," he yet says, that he does injustice to the author of Waverly, by subjecting" one of his inferior works to a comparison with a production "of such elaborate merits on Wallenstein." Did it never strike the ingenious critic, who evidently piques himself not a little upon the institution of a comparison between two works which are essentially unlike, that, exclusive of its poetry, Wallenstein cannot for a moment come into competition in the point of merit with this inferior production of the modern Shakspeare? In few words, Quentin Durward is superior to Wallenstein, even in the very circumstance upon which the admirers of Schiller would rest his reputation--the art displayed in its construction. If there be any thing in the meaning of the word art, distinct from genius, it is surely to be found in the construction of the plot-in the connection of scenes one with another -and the tendency of all to bring on the catastrophe, and at the same time the degree of interest which attaches to every successive event as it passes before us. In this particular, the Wallenstein, without being deficient, can certainly not bear a moment's comparison with the spirit-stirring-exciting rapidity of events and incidents in Quentin Durward. Should the critic throw himself back upon the "adherence to nature" in the two authors, his own words supply bim with the refutation; and we have risen from a perusal of his remarks perfectly satisfied of what perhaps we might have remained in doubt, that Scott is still the master-genius of modern times; and that however eminent may be Schiller as a poet, that he was deficient in the extent of mind which should alone give him success as a dramatist, or as a romance writer. His genius was lyrical-reflective, and not creative-it could sport in the borders which separate the material from the immaterial world, and lead the spirit of his

reader into a train of grander and lofty speculations upon the mysteries of the spiritual universe, than his own meditations might have led him to- it could draw forth fresh sources of thought for the thoughtful-new trains of imagination for the imaginative: this power, combined with a perfect knowledge of the mechanism of his art, unparalleled skill in wielding the resources of his beautiful language, and moulding it to the most beautiful and harmonious combinations, have made Schiller's name a bright one among the stars of modern literature. As a poet, he is of the highest order; but we think it is only exposing him to unnecessary severity of remark, to force him into a comparison with one, who alone since the days of Shakspeare has grasped the whole breathing world within the vision of his mind; re-moulded its opinions, forms, and substances into a thousand new and beautiful variations, and called into life a host of beings, who seem to be more alive to us than those whose particulars history has preserved; and who from that assimilation, that kindred with our nature, must always more deeply affect the feelings and arouse the interests of mankind, than all the abstractions which, what we must bere call mere poetry, could ever create.

The Living and the Dead. By a Country Curate. Charles Knight.

We should have liked this book much better, without having been made acquainted with the profession of the author, who professes to be a “ Country Curate." It consists of a series of sketches of some of the scenes and feelings incident to the sacred calling of the priesthood, intermingled with others common to every other situation in life-some of a grave-some of a gay-and not a few of a more gossiping nature. It is to this mixture that we particularly object. It is unbecoming the author's character to pass so lightly as he does from the description of the agonies of a despairing mother over sons who have perished by the justice of their country, to the flimsy ridicule of the peculiarities of two " old maids." This mode of mingling together the sublime and the ridiculous, the pathetic with the humorous, is at all times reprehensible; but it becomes doubly so when the name of the Creator, and the duties of a Christian Pastor, are implicated in the narrative. The cratorios, as they are called, are bad enough from this juxta-position of the sacred and the profane; but it is seldom that we have been so offended with a sensation so like disgust as came over us in reading the pages now under our review. The following extract will justify our censure, and show at the same time the misapplied talents of the author:

"Sunday, Sept. 17.--- But,' said she to me this morning, the doctrine of the Resurrection is so wonderful, so surprising, so unaccountable, so unnatural !' There are many operations of nature,' was my reply, 'quite as wonderful, as 'surprising, as unaccountable, and as unnatural. It is the frequency of their occurrence which deprives them of their force, Look here,' said I, and pointed to a beautiful Bignonia, which was blowing luxuriantly in the window; that very • flower shall teach you a lesson. To me it appears so striking and so lovely a

symbol of the change that awaits the Christian, that I never can look at it without gladness of heart. A few months since it was a small, dry, shrivelled root, without taste or smell, no bigger than a nut. Who, viewing it for the first time, would imagine it possible that such a dusky, diminutive particle, would produce a flower? By and by a leaf appears, another follows; then comes a stalk, its bulk • increases rapidly; a shoot is visible, another, and another; at length the stem, then the flower is developed, and blooms in wild luxuriance. It is now at its meridian. • It will shortly shed its flowers, and droop, and wither, and gradually die away: • but only to undergo the same mysterious operation, and revive with increased beauty in a succeeding spring. Tura to an egg. Who would conceive, to that simple unpretending-looking object, by the simple operation of heat, vitality could be communicated; or from that smooth surface would burst an animal fledged and ⚫formed, furnished with all the appliances of existence,---and instinct with life and • motion? These are, in my opinion, operations of the Deity but little inferior to • the resurrection of the dead; as wonderful, as surprising, as unaccountable. Why, then, should we doubt that the Power which has performed the one can perform ⚫ the other? Inspect nature herself. She is an annual resurrection. Year after year does she typify to man his own frail fleeting existence, his maturity, his decay, 'his decease, his immortality. Winter is the death of nature: the woods are silent; the trees are divested of their foliage; the meadows are no longer green--no blossom, no flower appears ;---look where we will, all is desolation and decay. It is nature in her sepulchre. Anon she bursts the cearments of the tomb; the Divinity breathes upon her face; the gales of spring awake her to existence; and welcome sunbeams, and budding flowers, and smiling skies proclaim the • resurrection of the year! Such is the magnificent spectacle constantly presented to 'man---cold, heartless, insensible man. And with such striking proofs of the ' resurrection of nature; O! how can we, for one moment, doubt the truth of our own?'

"Monday, Sept. 25.--- I have been diverted this morning almost against my will. A poor woman came to me from Trowbridge to request my interference with the Secretary of a Benefit Club to which her husband belonged, and from which, though disabled by disease, he could obtain no relief. After some preliminary conversation, I observed, You are very fortunate at Trowbridge, in having for your Minister so celebrated and so gifted an individual as Mr. Crabbe.' 'It's in what 'that I'm fortunate?' asked she, with her sharp, blue, interrogatory nose. 'In the ' ministry of a man so justly famed as Mr. Crabbe.' Ah! Mr. Crabbe! You've heard of him, I dare say; he's a great Pote. Perhaps you've read his books of verses? I never did; I haven't time. They say he's made a mint of money by 'his Potery. I'm sure it's more than he'll ever make by his sermons. They are so very d------y' and she pursed up her thin, spare, skinny lips till her mouth was like the top of a vinegar cruet. Besides he is so stiff and solemn; no life in him.' "Well, but that does not affect the matter of his sermons,'

"'O! ah! He's a great scholar, I dare say. Too much learning by far for me; for I can't understand him half my time. There was a sermon he preached us, all about the Queen of Sheba---very fine, I make no doubt---I'm sure there was'nt one word in ten that I ever heard before! Then it's nothing but question and answer. Quite provoking! I said to him one day, it's a shame for your reverence to stand up in the pulpit and put question after question, when you know it's an unpossible thing for any poor creature to get up and give an answer to ye. It's all on one side, as a body may say. You have made it all your own way.---Ay---ay, it's very well for the great folks in London: but poor creatures so illiterate about their future state as I am, would'nt care if they was never to hear again one of your Pote Parsons." "

In addition to this, we cannot but think it a breach of that confidence which is necessarily entrusted to the priesthood, to make the characters and the peculiarities which its members learn during

the performance of their duties, the subject of a work wherewith to entertain the world, or fill the writer's pocket. It is in vain that he may plead the excellence of his design, the purity of his morality, or the orthodoxy of his religion, as exemplified in his delineation, in extenuation of his conduct. Good the work cannot do, from the mixture which we have adverted to. Evil it may work, from the feeling of contempt which it is likely to produce towards the order, one of whose professors, like the author of "the Living and the Dead,” shows himself to be gossiping, tasteless, and we fear, with more of piety on his lips than in his heart.

After these harsh remarks, we have no hesitation in saying, that, independently of this feeling which we have expressed, because we entertained it, the Living and the Dead is a book of very considerable interest, and would more than agreeably amuse a leisure hour. The chapter on "Sermonizing" is a humorous exposition of some of the resources of churchmen in preaching; and had it been written by a layman, we should have hailed its appearance with very great pleasure, as unexceptionable in matter, style, and object.

The next is entitled Mr. Benson, and is a sketch of the celebrated Rector of St. Giles. This is not liable to the objections made against the last, as it would perhaps be too punctilious to remonstrate against one clergyman showing up another, whether for praise or blame. "Love Matches" is a very pretty chapter, and is strongly recommended to the perusal of the selfish animals of the present day, who are designated by the name of "young men." It may perhaps call back to their minds some of the tenderness and generosity of feeling which did occasionally inspire the breasts of the youths who were our contemporaries. The world may be much wiser, but it is certainly much more interested. "The Wages of Sin," and "the 'Leading Idea," are both good in their way; but the next," Joanna "Baillie," again arouses our wrath. What right has any one to publish his reminiscences or observations upon living personages ?-to make them ridiculous, in the eyes of the public, by detailing the caprices, or the singularities of their tempers, manners, and dispositions of circumstances. The mania for private scandal is strong enough in all conscience without a clergyman setting the example of narrating facts or observations glanced in the familiarities of private intercourse. The Medwins of the day we abominate; and we shall not fail to mark with a brand, those who are guilty of this tattling sin, though we despair of checking the evil. It is founded in the corrupted taste of the times; but once more we say, a clergyman should not pander to the gratification of the polluted appetite.

"The sorrows of a rich old Man," are very entertaining; but annexed to them we find another of those unjustifiable exposures of private families, in an account of some circumstances connected with Lady Byron. This has, as usual, been extracted by the regular vehicles of administering slander-the daily papers, and has called forth an indignant remonstrance from some of the parties affected. We therefore say no more, in reprobation of the author's conduct,

than to observe, that we suppose after all, it will be to these little bits of gossip to which his work will chiefly owe its success. We regret this the more, as there are few works recently published, which have otherwise given us so much gratification. To those who are not possessed of our scruples, "the Living and the Dead" will be a volume more than usually fascinating.

Narrative of a Survey of the Intertropical and Western Coast of Australia, performed between the years 1818 and 1822, by Captain Phillip P. King, R. N. &c. &c. in 2 vols. illustrated by plates, charts, and wood cuts.---Murray.

Books of travels are always valuable, even if they are not very interesting, for it does sometimes happen, even in this age, when so many exist who succeed in writing about nothing; there are still some few who continue to make even the most spirit-stirring occurrences dull and vapid by their manner of narrating them. Captain King is not one of these. He had a plain tale to tell of the expedition upon which he was employed, and he tells it well and manfully. There is no attempt at fine writing in his volumes, every thing is clear, straitforward, and intelligible; and his narrative of the voyage does him almost as much credit as the spirit and perseverance with which his plain account makes it evident that he conducted it; and those who take it up for the purpose, either of instruction or amusement, will meet with ample gratification.

A good, and apparently minutely correct chart of the coast which Captain King surveyed, accompanies the book, which is further decorated by some very pretty engravings; one in particular (vol. I. p. 169), a view up the River Hastings, at its junction with King's River, is very beautiful, and would form an admirable subject of a scene at one of the great theatres for one of the more elegant species of melodramatic pantomime. The scenery delineated in it is highly pleasing and romantic, and is just such a place where we should expect to see a fairy bark, conducted by swans gracefully floating, and bearing in it one of those lovely creatures of which Miss Foote, in her better days, was so charming a representative.

The title conveys as much information respecting the object of the work as we can afford room for. The adventures which Captain King and his companions met with, are better fitted for the purpose of giving an idea of it, and they do not seem to have been few, owing to the barbarous state of the Aborigines which he met with in exploring the coasts. The following adventure met with by Mr. Roe, (the son of the Rector of Newbury) from whom Captain King derived no inconsiderable assistance, is a trifling specimen of " the fears all, cares all," that visit the bold mariners who engage in such adventures.

and

* We were much amused with the pompous manner in which the worthy Captain relates his naming the various bays, creeks, capes, &c. He has duly honored all the great men of his acquaintance, and it is but fair to state that he has by no means forgotten his friends, e. g. "Two flat-topped hills were named Mounts Bedwell and Roe, "after the two midshipmen who accompanied me."