others that we could name among the moderns; and if he had been, would rather pass as the philosopher of art than its representative. But because his natural endowments were completely those of the artist; because his whole life and training were those of the artist; because he has produced finer specimens of art than any other modern man; because he had the loftiest conceptions of the functions of art, and because he was completely possessed by the idea of art, and devoted to it with passionate, absorbing devotion. His whole outward and inward life were but one grand picture; a soft atmosphere of beauty surrounds all his works, and was the element which he breathed; and he saw in the issues and tendencies of art, a universality and grandeur of developement, which no man before him had ever seen so clearly, and no contemporary has so successfully embodied or expressed. What religion is to some men, or science to others, art was to Goethe. There is a certain philosophy whose favorite phrase is that men have each of them a mission upon earth. They are sent from the Gods to bear to humanity some fragment of the eternal goodness, beauty and truth. Thus, it was the mission of Moses to guide the Jews, of Luther to fight the world battles of Protestantism, of Washington to incorporate democracy, of Kant to establish metaphysics, and of Shakspeare to create the everlasting drama. Well, in the phraseology of this class of speculators, we may say, that it was Goethe's mission to embody the artistic strivings of the nineteenth century.

We shall not here enter into an abstract of Goethe's life, as presented in these charming volumes; nor attempt a criticism of his works, reserving oth topics for a future occasion; but we cannot omit recommending his writings in a body to the American public, as an admirable introduction to the study of art.

There is nothing in which this country is so deficient as in a proper appreciation of art; there is nothing which would do it more good, than a general diffusion of art. The activities of our people are strongly enough engaged in the various interests of religion, politics, and social improvement; but the

true regulator of all these, what would soften and harmonize, while it would lend a charm to all-the worship of beauty-we most irreligiously neglect. There are many men among us, it is true, excellent amateurs in the schools; we have also a few painters and poets who cherish a deep feeling of art, which they strive to express; but art is, as yet, in no sense a taste or an idea with the multitude, and is pursued by few with life-long and single devotion. There is not a professorship in any college or learned society, in any part of the land, that so much as embraces the subject of art. There are no grand and deathless models of art, in its several departments, anywhere to be found, and nine-tenths of our cultivated men, while they are, perhaps, as well-developed as the cultivated men of other nations in science and morality, have scarcely a glimmering of the vital and profound significance of art. We seek truth as energetically as others-we love goodness as zealously as others, but we do not, as we should do, cherish the sincere and devout sentiment of Beauty.

Yet the cultivation of this sentiment, a profound sense of the glory and magic of life, is as necessary to the full growth of a man or people as a knowledge of natural laws or the practice of virtue. Indeed, in the peculiar condition at which the culture of this nation has arrived, there is a special necessity for the influences of art. The uncouth discipline of the pioneer, in subjecting the wilderness, joined to the rough familiarity of democratic freedom, have bred other than fine and lofty tastes in the general popular habits. The refinement of our thought has not kept pace with its vigor. We are violent rather than strong, and the robustness and wild impulse of a consciousness of liberty and youth must be tempered and elevated by the genial regimen of artistic culture. The infant giant, cradled as he was in storms, and nourished amid the forests and rocks, by his own wild independent force, has now to train his spirit to an ideal beauty, that his form may glow with athletic proportion, and his limbs move in music.

If now, however, any one should ask us to define what we mean by art, we should be sorely puzzled for an an

swer. There are few things so utterly useless, and at the same time so hard to get at as a definition. Every body knows what is meant by truth, yet nobody is prepared to say what is truth; everybody knows what goodness means, yet nobody can furnish a satisfactory description of goodness in words. It is the same with art; and all we can do, therefore, is to speak of it in a general way. All we know is, that art is man's mode of giving expression to his feeling of beauty. It is man's mode peculiarly; for while the bee and the beaver almost rival him in mechanical ingenuity, and the angels surpass him in knowledge, he alone appropriates the domain of art.

Art, too, is an expression; not the mere consciousness that beauty exists, nor yet the vague desire to penetrate into the regions of the eternally fair and perfect, but an actual embodiment in outward forms, of the all-pervading spirit.

This spirit is what we call beauty, and is co-eternal with the spirit of truth and goodness. Its source is God, whose infinite Love, flowing through the channels of His infinite Wisdom, becomes, in its external manifestations and workings, infinite Beauty. The universe of nature, therefore, is the embodiment of this trinal unity, wherein the elements are distinct, yet the same. It is not the result of mere goodness alone, but of goodness regulated by law; nor the result of wisdom alone, which would be mere mechanical skill, but of wisdom over

flowing with love; an outgrowth of the highest thought and affection, combined into organic harmonies. The spheres that roll their appointed way through space, with such mathematical precision and diffusive beneficence, are also illuminate with splendor, and make music as they go. Every form is instinct with a celestial life. There is a freshness as well as food in the grass, and a glory no less than perfume in the flower. Through the air there shines a radiance as of heaven; brightness and bloom smile on the whole face of things; even night is lit up by countless sparkles of stars: and a chorus of noble melodies ascends from every moving creature. For beauty is everywhere, like a subtle essence, pervading the whole with a visible and glorious charm.

Man, as the image of his Creator, strives to create for himself, and in every creative act imitates the Divine proceeding. He pours his passions into the moulds of the senses, where the laws of the intellect fashion them into forms of beauty. The process by which this is done is Art. It is not any mere utterance of his sentiments that constitutes art; it is not any cold adherence to form in such an utterance, that constitutes art; but it is the harmonious and living growth of the form out of the spirit.

But art is best learned in the actual contemplation, and we know not where to refer the reader for a better understanding of it, in its loftiest sense, than to the works of Goethe.

WE were forcibly reminded of a recent visit to the melancholy precincts of the Dead Letter Office, at Washington, by attending the funeral of a blue-eyed girl who, when she died, was just bursting into womanhood, like the blossoming bud into the flower. Her soulless yet still lovely form was borne to its fearful resting-place

amongst the worms on a day so made up of sunlight and life that it seemed impossible to realize the state of death before us, and not to wonder how that body could lie there without inhaling the balmy air, and once more renewing her existence-ended as it had been in the very morning of a holiday life ;but Death had sent his most relentless

yet most gentle messenger, Consumption, to bring her body to himself, and see her pure soul off on its journey, with thought-speed, towards heaven.

She had left them who loved her well for Him who loved her best; and while they wept she smiled, for her earth-hopes were not half formed when the Almighty called her away, and her spirit returned whence it came, in all its morning chastity.

But to return-or rather to commence our subject. During a late sojourn amongst the "collective wisdom" at Washington, we obtained, after many efforts, the entree to the dead letter office; and the morning at last arriving which was set apart for the visit, we left Coleman's at as early an hour as it was possible to gain admittance to the letter cemetery, and proceeded towards the post-office. The sky was hidden with clouds; a mist hung over the distant capitol, and the members wended their way towards it with heads bent down and solemn steps; but nothing could dampen the ardor which a permission to visit the department had given us, and our spirits rose, as the spirits of those about us fell below the zero of discomfort. Speaking of spirits, what a curious passage that is in Milton's works about mint juleps. It is a general belief that they were first compounded in the area of freedom south of Mason & Dixon's line: this is a false fact, which we will endeavor to explain in passing, to this otherwise enlightened generation, and show it that centuries - nay, thousands of years, have passed since they were invented by some genius amongst that ancient order of odd-fellows who used to be in such a tremor when Jupiter was

"Nid Nid Nodding."

Circe (the daughter of the Sun and Miss Per-se, a favorite of John Tyler, and maid of honor to Mrs. Neptune,)

was the first individual known to have used mint julep, though it is not supposed that it was her invention. She had it made very strong, and used it for the purpose of turning human beings into swine. It is note-worthy, by the way, that it has not lost its primitive power, even now, when it has grown "frosty with age."

Circe had a son who was christened Comus, who, with some alterations in his gait, followed in his mother's footsteps; and to the females whom he wished to attract from their path towards heaven he offered a mint julep, which, on tasting, turned their heads into those of brutes, and they were "led captive by the devil at his will."

Comus once met a young lady who refused to drink, (vide Milton's works.) after he had thus eloquently addressed her:

"

And first, behold this cordial JULEP here, Which flames and dances in his crystal bounds,

With spirits and balm and fragrant syrups mixed;

Not that Nepanthes, (cherry cobbler, probably,) which the wife of Phanes,

In Egypt, gave to Jove-born Helena,
Is of such power to stir up joy as this-
To life so friendly, and so cool to thirst."

Bravo! The julep seems to stand before us, fresh from the Phoenix or Delmonico's, while the mercury in that thermometer twenty feet off shrinks, like Father Ritchie from the resolutions of '98, at the bare sight of that pyramid of ice, where the delicious liquid from which it rises is sparklingly reflected like rubies and brilliants in the sunlight.

Milton does not actually mention "mint," but he does balm, a species of it; besides, what he meant is "clear to the meanest capacity," for we all know that a julep is not a julep without mint. It is, therefore, clear that this is no modern invention, and the southerners lose the honor;-no great loss of laurels, however, for the tempted lady says farther on

"Hence with thy brew'd enchantments !And wilt thou seek again to trap me here With liquorish bait, fit to ensnare a brute ?"

Speaking of bait reminds us of an who had a lingering perfume of bread, "odd fish" whom we met recently, chant for bringing up families of cats butter, and boarding-school, and a penand bringing down

CARLYLE.

Odd enough vocations to meet in one person; but perhaps she cultivated one subject for the purpose of procuring

claws to scratch the other. She possessed one right, however, to criticise Carlyle, which some of his critics do not, having read some of his works; and when she suggested-bless her innocent soul!-that you had to read a thousand words to obtain an idea, it was no less rational than many a criticism which we have heard from grown up men. She was more fortunate with Carlyle's words, however, than Solomon was with his lady acquaintances, having found an idea in a thousand. We hope her opinions will not reach Carlyle, as we confess to the weakness of being somewhat fond of his writings, and it might make him give up his trade, "a maker of books," when he became thus convinced that his calling and election to that work is not sure.

To make use of a mercantile phrase, we know of no writer whose works should be read this side up with care" so much as Carlyle's.

Let one, for instance, open any of his works at random, and come upon half a page of writing at high pressure, about Gigmanity, with all his lexicons and reference-book aids he will find it difficult to discover what Carlyle is driving at; yet had he read the works in order, and seen the origin of that word, he would have found clearness and a remarkable expressiveness in said half page, and with pen in hand, find it necessary to write four or five sentences himself to express the meaning of that one word, and then perhaps without much approach to its biting severity and force. Every work-almost every chapter which Carlyle has written contained something of this sort, to which he afterwards refers, by word or hint, making what is read more thrillingly expressive to him who is familiar with that which is already written, but a dead letter to him who is not. We are inclined to impute to this want of order in reading his works, much of the strange criticism and sneers which are thrown at him-even sometimes by men who have a thinking faculty; but we must leave this subject, with the suggestion, that those who wish to read Carlyle understandingly must begin with his Miscellanies, and leave Sarton Resartus, which is generally

read or dipped into first, until the very last.

Speaking of Carlyle reminds us of petrifactions, and more particularly of the petrified human body recently exhibited at that el dorado of country cousins, the American Museum, for is he (Carlyle) not a stone of stumbling and rock of offence to many?

It (the petrified) was not so great a curiosity as you probably imagined, dear reader, for we had a charming cousin who was "petrified with hor ror" because a strange man took hold of her in the street-and young ladies always mean what they say, you know

yet she was not exhibited, beautiful petrification though she was:-again, if the ministers are to be credited, most of us are more wonderful than Barnum's mummy, for we live, move, and have a being, with stony hearts in us; and are not the diseases known as stone and gravel incipient stages of petrification? Why, we are half-inclined to start a new theory, and make Silliman, Lyell & Co. hide their diminished heads, by proving that all rock strata is but departed mortals-dead lovers, for instance, become sienites(sigh-a-nights ;) defunct police-officers, and young ladies trap-rock, departed Jews, flints, young gentlemen who buy gold watches at the Broadway auction stores, verde antique and soap-stone; and let us hope the Mexicans will become boulder-stones than they are men, while the true American turns into free-stone, of course.

All this might be easily proved by the "doctrine of correspondences," but we hand the theory over to Dr. Barret, Mr. Locke and the "Sun" newspaper, with the hope that Espy and Dr. Shew will not be near to throw "cold water" on their efforts. Puff medical

Dear dyspeptic reader, if you call on this same Dr. Shew he will be kinder than Hamlet's ghost, and tell you some secrets of your soul's prison-house, of which your philosophy probably never dreamed, for which you may fee him if you please, but will thank him until you are put down to petrify.

We know a young gentleman who wished he was petrified one morning, and this is a fact which is a fact. The youth had had the misfortune to fall in

a

love, and the disease increased to matrimonial crisis, which crisis occurred one evening in the midst of his "five hundred dear friends ;" and as the hours passed on he took wine with a few of them. At the witching hour of night the bride retired, and soon after he followed to the bridal chamber, with an indistinct idea that a straight line was not the line of beauty. Opening the door he took four galvanic steps forward and fell down on the bed.From a dream that imps were dancing Polka's in his brain, he was awakened by the sunshine; no one was in the room, and he was lying on a bed dressed. Some moments passed before he became conscious of his relative position, of his peculiarly perplexing predica

ment."

Poor girl! she wept bitter tears for many a long hour. Her bright dream of a journey towards heaven on a flowercovered pathway was turned for the moment into a nightmare vision of a drunkard's career; the congratulations of that morn seemed to her soul like bitter irony, and her tear-drops answered their smiles.

Speaking of matrimony has put us in mind of love, for it is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, so it is but a step from love to matrimony. Is it not strange that this love, which has been prosed and poesyed for so many centuries, should never have been defiaed more clearly and philosophically than it has? Shakspeare says it is a madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Mr. Dewey says that the lightness and frivolity with which it is often treated resembles the mists seen from the mountain tops, hiding the profoundest depths of our natures, and hundreds of others say a hundred pretty and witty things about itbut what is it? a difficulty, which Coleridge makes the nearest approach to overcoming of any writer we know; and we refer those who are interested in the subject to that author's "Improvisatore," strangely enough left out of many editions of his works, but certainly to be found in the one volume edition of Coleridge, Shelly and Keats' poems;" but Coleridge there says that love is not passion, nor friendship, nor a combination of both, and that he who thinks the reverse never loved. Now, we have loved; at least a

certain soul which it pleased the higher powers to place in some of earth's purest clay, used to be ever present in our day and night dreams, and a certain pair of blue eyes used to play over the foolscap, and sadly marred our first attempts at book-keeping, and there was ever a still, small voice which whispered one and one make one, causing many errors in our calculations, and much annoyance to Smith, Jones & Co., our long-time-ago respected task-masters; yet, as the lawyers say, we take exceptions,-as thus :

Passion, love, friendship, in their working together for good, let us compare to the earth, a tulip, the air. Love takes root in passion and grows in friendship, as the tulip takes root in the soil and grows in the air, distinct from both yet fed by each, literally, with the addition of sun-light to one and soullight to the other, a new, beautiful and sublime combination of both. The being without passion in his nature is as capable of loving as the tulip is of growing without earth, while he who is created without the capacity for friendship, cannot in his soul-garden cultivate the love which grows with our growth and strengthens with our strength through all time, no more than we could cultivate the tulip in our flower-garden without air. On the other hand, he who sneers at love on account of its passionorigin, resembles one who tears up the tulip by the roots, to show the dirt it grew in.

Speaking of living in air reminds us of a bear story. It runs thus: A friend, whom we will call Smith, being out on a hunting excursion near MauchChunk, in Pennsylvania, grew weary towards the middle of the day, and seeing a spring some fifty yards away, he laid down his rifle and bag, and went to take the cold water cure for his weariness. On raising his head and looking round, he was not a little startled to see a huge bear making towards his game bag from the woods he had just left. To reach his rifle before the bear reached him was out of the question; the bear was already nearest, so he took to his heels, and the bear took to her paws after him, passing over the bag as too small game for her attention. Smith, after running about three hundred yards, looked round and saw that that mode of escape from Mrs. Bruin's embraces