rion" is the very book, "Meister Karl's Sketch-Book " is not. But, still, we will record our vote in favor of the latter, and for an obvious reason; when we want poetry, we can get better stuff than "Hyperion," but when we want a genial, sunshiny companion, it is impossible to find a better than Meister Karl. To saunter through Europe, looking at all the fine arts with tears in our eyes; to be dropping "salt-pearls" into the Adriatic, when we ought to be filled with the glorious inspirations of Venice; to be sniffing in the Hartz mountains, or holding red bandannas to our eyes in the Alps; sobbing through the Louvre and whimpering through St. Peter's; in the Coliseum or the Forum, instead of remembering Cicero and Gracchus, and Trajan, to be dreaming of some faithless Mary Ann in Yankee-land; this is the spirit of Wertherism on its travels, and from all such, oh! genius of good cheer, deliver us! With such books as Bayard Taylor's Travels, Willis' gossipping sketches, Mrs. Levert's clever volumes, we have no fault to find; and doubtless there are many more of the same sort of books, written by Americans, of more or less merit. With works of this class, we have nothing to do at present; we are speaking of the Werther School as opposed to the Hilariter School. And, first of all, why do our friends of the latter class write books of travel? We will quote one of them on this point: "When I was in Europe in 18-," says Pynnshurst, (McLeod,) "I often communed with myself as to the nature of my duties towards my own land, the 'green forest land' of the poets; the land of the free and the home of the brave,' mentioned in our national anthem. I thought of volunteering to serve her in an ambassadorial character, for the ridiculously small

sum of nine thousand a year, and nine thousand outfit; but remembering that such a proposal might give rise to misrepresentation of motives, I determined to abstain from it. I next thought of marrying a princess, and then forming an alliance, offensive and defensive, with the 'land' aforesaid, much to its benefit, but I had to contend with so many old and deeply-rooted prejudices, that I failed in this too; and it is with sorrow that I feel obliged thus publicly to state, that though I resided in their dominions for some time, and though I waived ceremony and called on them first, not one of the reigning sovereigns of Europe ever asked me to tea! After this I formed various plans, but none met with better success than the two already mentioned. At last, one fine evening, as I ruminated on the shore of the Lac des quatre Cantons, a luminous idea smote me. I have it!' I exclaimed, Eureka! oh my country, I will write you a book!" And what is a "poor student" traveling into lands beyond the seas to do? As our author just quoted has shown there is but one resource, and if the book be a healthy one, let us heartily thank the giver! In this spirit Meister Karl and "Pynnhurst" have seen Europe, not making the trip over a via dolorosa, but finding flowers all along the way.

It has often occurred to us, what a glorious time these travelers would have had, if it had so befallen that they should have met in the Old World, and jogged along together. Pynnshurst with his love of Nature, Meister Karl with his love of Art; Pynnshurst with his enthusiasm, Meister Karl with his varied stores of learning; and both effervescing with the spirit of fun. Fun at the Carnaval; fun at the Heidelberg ball; fun at Havre; fun in the Jungfrau; everywhere, at all times,

in all degrees; from the gentlest paranomasia, or fun to the boisterous chorus of "We won't go home 'till morning" or the philosophic cheerfulness of

"A glass of lager-beer and a slice of Schweitzer-Käse."

How shall we describe thee, oh wondrous Meister Karl? Shall we say of him as was said of Burton, "he is a general-read scholar, a thorough-paced philologist, and one that understands the surveying of lands well. A severe student, a devourer of authors-his company is very merry, facete and juvenile; and no man in his time can surpass him for ready and dextrous interlarding his common discourse among them with verses from the poets, or sentences from classic authors."

The most marvellous thing about his writings is the amount of scholarship therein displayed; not in a pedant-vein, but in every instance, suggested, it would seem, by the very necessities of the case. We are free to confess that Burton and Southey bore us with their colossal piles of quotations-so unnecessarily, so conceitedly forced in, on every and any occasion.

Meister Karl sings in every language of Europe, and his numerous translations, so admirably executed, form part of his best contributions to our literature. A judicious criticism of our author thus speaks of his varied stores of learning and soul-refreshing wit: "Meister Karl starts with the reader upon an imaginary tour through Europe, but such a voyage en zig-zag mortal never took before. Time and space are nothing to our author. The boundaries between the real and the spiritual are completely broken down. The Rome of Pope Pius and the Rome of Julius Caesar are the same thing to 'Meister Karl.' He is as much at home with gnomes

and sylphs as with gentlemen and ladies. He flatters Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos in the same breath. Now he is before the terrible Vehmgericht of Westphalia, and now before the Tribunal Correctionel of Paris. Now he is tramping behind the returning crusaders, or joining in a procession of the boeuf gras, or marching into Worms with Luther and Van Hutten, or heading a Lola Montez riot in Munich. Sometimes we find him dreaming away a day in old Provence, or swinging in a gondola on the Grand Canal of Venice, or putting to sea with the furious Berserkers, or holding an ethical dialogue with the Devil, upon the summit of Strasbourg Cathedral. Intermixed with his curious scenes are innumerable dissertations, legends, songs, &c., &c., on the most incongruous subjects, and in styles that baffle description. Quips, cranks and puns, of all kinds and in all languages, fly around us like hail stones, and pelt us until human endurance can go no further. Then, in the midst of his wildest mirth, our author will sail off in a poetical rhapsody on Undines and Fays, and fresh-water spirits in general, and having gotten below the surface of things, he will burrow through the land among Elves and Robolds and Salamanders, and perhaps emerge again into this "weekday" world under the feet of some frail nymph, who dwells within the sound of the bells of the Notre Dame de Lorrette. * * * * A love-song may be founded upon a Neo-Platonic idea, or treated after the manner of the Minnesinger or the Troubadour. A squib at some modern superstition may be written with the simple faith of Doctor John Dee, or traced back through the wild beliefs of ancient Middle Germany; through the Cabala, the Talmud, the mysteries of

Egypt, until it vanishes among the fragments of early Sanscrit literature. So wide a sweep of knowledge, gathered from the study of books and the observation of travel, is possessed by no living writer of our language. It was said of one of the Schlegels that he could read anything from Plato to a primer; such must be the adaptability of Mr. Leland's mind."

So much for Meister Karl as to what he writes about, and how; but his crowning merit is, that the morbid melancholy of this age is not reflected in any of his writings. However grave the subject may be, he always manages to keep up our interest by his own unflagging, manly cheerfulness. His most elaborate criticisms will never tire the reader, and no man can peruse one of these articles without receiving much information, much that is suggestive, much of original thought, and a bracing, wholesome tone of mind all the while. It was incidentally that we came to speak of his other recommendations apart from his healthy cheerfulness, and as the latter point is the one to which we desire principally to advert, we will let Meister Karl speak for himself in this behalf. In Graham's Magazine for February, 1858, he thus discourses: "A few cotemporaries have done us the honor to be astonished that a reckless spirit of lightness, of exuberant merriment, and of gallantry, should have inspired the editorial pen of 'Graham' to such light results, in place of certain scholarly or exclusively 'literary' articles, which they were complimentary enough to expect. For the kind intentions and compliments, we sincerely return all thanks. But we have long been very seriously and earnestly convinced that what this country needs infinitely more than any kind of earnest erudition, is a

rational cultivation of genial, cheerful thought. We are too dismal. There is too much sour seriousness, and too much neglect of life and beauty, and the indefinable, yet, very practical and commonsense, spirit of pleasantness in our social relations. We do not laugh enough, or, if the word laughter seem trivial and foolish, let us say that there is too little of that joyous feeling which abounds everywhere in Nature, is continually taught by her, and yet, is always driven away by the artificial, moping, melancholy man. If there is one subject more than another which it is the duty of an editor, not wholly devoted to politics and price currents, to set forth, it is THAT OF JOYOUSNESS." In his own inimitable style, he thus goes on to show the effects of this morbid, moping, melancholy spirit. He shows the deviations from the early Churchteaching, which was strongly joyous and ever cheerful and hopeful. He shows the direful effects of this furore in the middle ages, and winds up with this blythe, bird-like strain: "Hilariter! fall in with us, ye merry men-hilariter! Leave us not to plod along alone like a minstrel with no company but his harp-hilariter there! joyously now! * * * Come on-the road is wide enough for all; the wind and the sun do no harm; sweep on in the bold crusadehilariter!"

We had intended to notice Mr. Leland's theory of criticism, which is admirable, and really deserving all attention, but with the simple statement of it, we will rest its merits: "Under the head of Art, Mr. Leland includes all the works of the imagination--whether poetry, painting, sculpture or musicregarding them all as but different methods for expressing the same family of ideas. It may, perhaps,

*

startle the reader that we claim this to be the only philosophical system of criticism. Our claim is, nevertheless, just, and we defy any man to point to another that wears the semblance of a system adapted to all the phases of art that ever occurred, or that ever can occur. * * * We do not pretend to say that researches so deep as his could, by any artifice, be made popular, for the very reason that so few can appreciate the value of any philosophy. A full understanding of his system would require labor akin to that by which the author developed it, and a mind of almost equal philosophical clearness." His papers on Art ought to be collected, and his entire system, in its theory, and the results of the application of the theory, should be given to the world.

Mr. Leland is still a young man, just in his thirty-fourth year. He assisted Dr. Griswold in the edito

rial charge of the "International" during its brief but brilliant existence; he has translated Heine's marvellous book of travels-the "Reisebilder "-and is now devoting his fine powers to the editorship of Graham's Magazine.

That Mr. Leland's writings are, in all respects, healthy in tone, and that to him we are to look for greater works in the future, there can be no question. "Meister Karl's Sketch-Book" is the very book for the genial scholar; racy, learned, instructive and mirthful, it is the best protest against our fashionable Wertherism, and would that it had more imitators! The example which this book has given is a good one; we are too dismal; we need the energizing influence of joyousness, and we hail with delight every effort like this to remove the burden from our spirits, and to let in the gladsome, vitalizing sunshine upon our lives and hearts!

A brow whereon the calm of thought,
Like moonlight over snow is wrought,
The blest result of cheerful moods,
Won from the quiet solitudes

Of thy still spirit, flowing not
From outward things,
And independent of the lot

Which fortune brings;

A beauty and a nameless grace,
Which awes, restrains, and yet beguiles,
And in thy heart, and o'er thy face

A bliss too deep for smiles.
Such charms can hardly appertain,
To grief, mortality, and pain,

To earthliness and earth,
But only visitant below,
And come to cure or banish woe,
Thou art of heavenly birth.
So at least my fancy deems,
Such thou appearest in my dreams,
But a lovelight in thine eyes,

Shining oftentimes through tears,
Like a silver-veiled sunrise,

Or a dew-dimmed flower appears ; But thy rarely breathéd sighs, And even more the low replies, Whispered yesternight to me, When I lowly questioned thee, Prove thee beauteous Isabel,

It is our melancholy task to chronicle, as one of the most impressive events that have occurred since the issue of our last number, the death of our distinguish ed fellow-townsman, the venerable Dr. SAMUEL GILMAN. While on a visit to his daughter and son-in-law, in Massachusetts, the State in which he was born, he sunk under a sudden attack of violent and painful disease, drawing his last breath in his native air. His mortal remains were brought back hither and deposited in the ground belonging to the Church which he sustained and cherished so fondly and so long, amid the tears and lamentations not only of a congregation which has grown up under his care, but of a vast crowd assembled to assist in his solemn obsequies.

For nearly forty years a resident among us, he held a high position in all our religious, social and intellectual circles, and his loss will be deeply and extensively felt. No one was more actively or zealously ready to promote all enterprises having for their aim the progress and improvement of our city and its institutions. He has been for more than a quarter of a century intimately connected with all the efforts after reform, the educational movements and literary projects, undertaken among us. Prompt with his tongue and his pen to aid every philanthropic plan of action, he spared no sacrifice of time and labor in the advancement of every scheme for the general good.

His patriotism was ardent and hopeful; and while he loved our whole country with expansive soul, he gave his especial adherence to the home of his adoption, and exhibited the most sincere and unshaken fidelity to the South and her policy.

His religious views were so free from asceticism, that no man probably mingled more in our varied social life. Yet his gentlemanly self-respect, his frank simplicity, his feminine delicacy, and his Christian propriety of demeanor were so

remarkable, that his very presence, without offering any check to innocent gaiety, served, imperceptibly but most forcibly, to repress all tendencies to impropriety, indecorum, or excess. His gravity and intelligence fitted him for the loftiest intercourse with the learned and wise of our country, while he was a favorite companion with the youth of both sexes, and a most welcome guest to convivial and patriotic meetings of every kind.

His life and character present indeed a combination of qualities so rarely met with in any one individual, that we can not hope to see his place filled adequately. Our loss in him is truly and in a peculiar manner, irreparable.

His literary labors commenced early, and some of his first papers were pub lished in the North American Review during his residence in Harvard University, in which he graduated with honor, and before his removal hither. His last Essay appears in one of the recent numbers of the Southern Quarterly Review. In the meanwhile, he may be said to have contributed to almost every one of our periodicals. He takes a very respectable rank in several of the departments of fine writing. His "Village Choir," and his "Reminiscences of "A New England Clergyman and his Lady," his excellent but somewhat eccentric Tutor, Rev. S. Peabody, and Mrs. Peabody, display much talent as a humorist of shrewd observation and graphic description. His reviews of the writings of the Scotch Metaphysician, Thomas Brown, exhibit his capacity for accurate discrimination and vigorous reasoning. His article on Lexicography and his comments on Everett's orations, show his close and successful study of Philology, and his thorough understanding of our good old English tongue. His poetical powers are attested by his Cambridge Commencement verses and his spirited odes on several occasions.

As a pulpit orator he was clear, simple, impressive. His sermons were varied in thought and style, as in subject.