language were explored, and the elder literature of England,the dramatic, as well as the ballad poetry,—and the glorious swan-like dirge of chivalry, the 'Faerie Queene' of Spenser, awakened a feeling of fresh delight in the English heart. In short, the old romantic tincture,-the Saxon colouring,-which had been stamped on English literature ages before, began to reappear, and the cumbrous phraseology of Johnson and his imitators was laid aside for a style more akin to the original genius of the language. The palimpsest was freed from foreign matter and the old characters were restored.

"It cannot be denied that the most expressive and picturesque and national parts of our complicated language are the remains of the Anglo-Saxon. They speak the wants of the national heart; they recall the imagery that surrounded the national childhood; they carry us back to the associations which blend with all our recollections of departed days; they touch the deepest chords of English feeling, and draw from them the readiest response, and the most powerful harmonies. They take us back to the rude old Saxon times, and the romantic manners of the Middle Ages. Now, it is precisely this element which is most suitable to a romance, and especially one whose scenes are laid in Germany; and a careful examination of the style of 'Hyperion' will show that this old Saxon element predominates in it to a very remarkable degree. And it is this element that makes the style so picturesque. The scenery of the Rhine, and the old ruins of the castles, stand in living light before the reader's eye, and are repeopled with the dim and dusky forms, conjured up from the romantic past. And the romantic legends and old Catholic usages reappear, and convent bells are heard, and Gothic architecture is reinvested with all its hallowed associations. It would be difficult, we fancy, to find a book more remarkable for this picturesque character than 'Hyperion.'

"Another point deserving of more particular remark is the literary criticism contained in the book. The author's mind and heart are full of the poetical literature of Germany; and he writes about it with the eloquence and enthusiasm of a lover. The criticisms, which he puts into the mouth of his hero, are plainly his own; and, without adopting them for ours, we hold it but justice to say, that they are marked by a clearness and

warmth which indicate a sagacious head as well as a sympathising heart. This love of German literature has given a German tincture to the whole book, which is far from being out of keeping with its general scope and aim. We do not perceive that the mistiness and obscurity which are the besetting sin of German authors have spread over the radiant pictures of 'Hyperion;' on the contrary, the author more than once takes occasion to reprove the supersublimated nonsense of the Transcendentalists. But it cannot be denied that the sentimental feelings, which belong more to German than to English poetry, are perceptible in the general tone of the work; and that this sentimentality occasionally transcends the bounds of English reserve. Nor are we prepared to vindicate the tone of expression in every case. We would by no means hold up 'Hyperion' as a model of style. With all its excellences it has defects-splendida vitia—which, in any attempt at imitation, would degenerate into intolerable faults. With this caveat we must say, that we have been borne away upon its golden tide of brilliant language, in spite of critical objections, and sometimes against our better judgment; and its rich discussions of letters and art have always given materials for reflection, and often feelings of delight. The translations from the German poets, which illustrate the literary conversations, are perfect gems in their way. Any one who has attempted the task of poetical translation from a foreign tongue will appreciate fully the excellencies of these, and will understand the difficulties to be overcome. They are-we have compared them all—they are perfect transcripts of the original, line for line, almost epithet for epithet, metre for metre, and rhyme for rhyme. And yet, with all this faithful adherence to the original, they are as free and unconstrained in their movement as if they were English originals. The highest form of translation is that which unites these two capital qualities; a form which, we need not say, has very rarely been attained in any age; a degree of excellence which, we had almost said, is more difficult of attainment than the beauties of original poetry itself.

"After the love passages, and their disastrous conclusion, Flemming, accompanied by his friend Berkley, a burly English bachelor, leaves Interlachen, on his way to Innsbruck. The

scenery on the journey is vividly painted. At length the travellers reach Salzburg, where Paul Flemming falls sick of a violent fever; during which he is watched and tended by his friend Berkley. On recovering from illness, the period of convalescence is cheered by discussion of literary matters, and the character of Hoffmann, in particular, is elaborately delineated. A translation of a humorous piece, by the latter, called the 'Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler,' occupies an entire chapter. The story of Brother Bernardus is interesting, because it is founded on fact, and presents an example of a species of insanity not uncommon among the excitements of this age.

"At length the hero determines to return to his native land, and engage in the labours and duties of the active citizen. He rouses himself from the dreams of poetry and love, strengthens his heart against disappointment, and, after one last and severe pang, leaves for ever the scene of his studies, his visions, his hopes, and his passion.

"It is obvious, from the preceding sketch of 'Hyperion,' that the book will and must encounter a variety of critical opinions. The sentimental and melancholy tone that pervades it will not be listened to by many, in the throng, and pressure, and stirring practical interests of the present age. The scenery and embellishments are as remote as possible from the circle of American life; and the thoughts and feelings are too ethereal to be readily grasped by minds intent upon the exciting themes of the day. The impassioned part of the romance partakes of the same general character. It is a book for minds attuned to sentiments of tenderness; minds of an imaginative turn, and willing and ready to interest themselves in reveries as gorgeous as morning dreams, and in the delicate perceptions of art and poetry;-minds tried by suffering, and sensitively alive to the influence of the beautiful. Such readers will recur to it, as they come back again and again to a picture of Allston, which recalls the atmosphere and picturesque ruins of some distant land, around whose name are thickly clustered associations of poetry, valour, and romance. They will read it, as they gaze with pleasure, not unmixed with sadness, upon the shifting

splendours of the clouds in the horizon, illuminated by the setting sun." *

The traveller with an artistic eye, who journeys in the footsteps of Paul Flemming, will repeatedly feel the singular fitness of this beautiful matter-of-fact Romance for illustration. It leads us through some of the most picturesque scenery of Europe; and everywhere we have occasion to observe and admire, not only the graphic power of the Author's descriptions, but, in numerous instances, their severe truthfulness-that loving transcription of Nature and observation which is, if we mistake not, one of the native tendencies of true genius.

Upon the Rhine, where the narrative opens, it is carried forward so briefly and rapidly, that it would be difficult to confine illustration within due limits. More than thirty years have elapsed since Professor Longfellow heard the Rhine-Song of the Students, and chronicled the legend of the garrulous Widow of Andernach. The Street Crucifix, as described in the second chapter, no longer exists there; the Chateau of Stolzenfels, which "beckoned him with its hollow eyes," has undergone a painful restoration; but Heidelberg still merits his eulogiumthat, "next to the Alhambra of Granada, it is the most magnificent ruin of the Middle Ages."

Paul Flemming reappears in Switzerland. We toil after him up the great St. Gothard road, through the village of Amsteg, over the Devil's Bridge, to the summit of the Furca Pass. Here, and at the Rhone Glacier, his descriptions are charmingly truthful; the somewhat strained reference to the glove-like appearance of the latter may be forgiven for the sake of the bold and beautiful metaphor which it introduces-"the gauntlet of ice which, centuries ago, Winter, the King of these mountains, threw down in defiance to the Sun." Then comes Interlachen; and then Landeck, in the Tyrol (en route for Innsbruck). The Tyrolese capital is one of the most beautifully situated cities in the world. The fine and rapid stream of the Inn flows through its midst, and it is environed by mountains which retain in their crevices, at midsummer, brilliant patches of the "everlasting snows." The Church of the Holy Rood contains the celebrated tomb of Maximilian and the twenty gigantic bronze statues of * North American Review, January 1840.

the house of Hapsburg. It is lighted, and that very imperfectly, only on one side.

At Salzburg the traveller may still drive to the "Golden Ship" in the Square, opposite the great marble fountain, where poor Flemming underwent a delirium and a slow recovery; and then may track him to his loved and lovely St. Gilgen. Here, most of all, one sympathises with his ardent affection for the place and the people. Here stands the broad white-washed front of the inn where he lodged. Depicted on its front, though the worse for the lapse of time, is the bear-fight he describes, and the sun-dial; and in front is the "magnificent broad-armed tree, with benches and tables beneath its shadow." We are not sure that the Lake of St. Wolfgang, with its surroundings, is not the most lovely retreat that we know upon earth. The features of its scenery are upon that precise scale of magnitude which is thrillingly impressive, without being oppressive. The place is little visited by the crowd of summer tourists. It is cheap, and the people are civil, hospitable, and hearty.

From St. Gilgen to Wurtemburg is a long flight. Stuttgard is a beautiful city. The market-place, surrounded by houses of picturesque design and noble proportions, and, for the most part, from 300 to 500 years old, is unique. Had Flemming travelled now-a-days, he would have gone to the splendid Hotel Marquhardt; but his reference to the "old Gothic cathedral, with its narrow lancet windows and jutting buttresses, right opposite" his hotel windows, points clearly to the fine old building now called the "Hotel Munk." Within its walls, doubtless, he once more heard the voice of Mary Ashburton.

"And here ended Paul Flemming's (for a time) unsuccessful courtship. Popular report avers the publication of this fascinating book to have been the occasion of the Dark Ladie's ultimate confession that Flemming was the Magician. If we have willingly allowed ourselves to believe this story without caring much to have it disturbed by strict inquiry, Professor Longfellow and the public will, we hope, smile at us, and forgive us !"*

• Francis Frith: Preface to an Edition of Hyperion, illustrated with twenty-four photographs of the Rhine, Switzerland, and the Tyrol. London: Alfred Bennett. 1865.