able. Schiller, when a boy, distinguished himself little from other boys. One or two silly anecdotes are told, by which his astonishing precocity is attempted to be proved; but our grandmothers can tell more wonderful things of us all; and, even although authenticated, they prove nothing. He was originally destined for the church, and had made some progress in his ecclesiastical studies, when his father changed his mind, and determined to make him a lawyer. The dry details of the juridical profession excited in Schiller nothing but the most unfeigned disgust, and he at last relinquished it altogether for one he ima gined more inviting-medicine. The whole of his col ers and shrubs. The exact manner of laying them out must depend upon the character of the ground; which is all the better of having an unequal surface, both as that affords more variety, and is advantageous to some kinds of plants. In placing hothouses, which are a great addition to every garden, we must choose their locality at first with a view solely to utility. They must stand on the spot which affords the best exposure. This first great object being attained, we must next consider how we can render them ornamental. It will generally be found, that by disregarding show in the first instance, we have obtained an opportunity of introducing a wider and more varied beauty into our garden, than we could have plan-lege life, however, seems to have been any thing but happy. ned beforehand. It is the analogy of nature-in sacrificing our immediate pleasure to the principles of honour and justice, we are invariably preparing for ourselves a more noble and lasting happiness. Confined to his chambers at Stuttgard, he was shut out from all the rest of the world; and for any knowledge he had acquired of men and manners, he was indebted entirely to books. Many of the estimates he had formed There are some ornaments which, although not neces- regarding them were, consequently, erroneous. Apparent sary to a garden, may, in certain situations, be introduced evil, however, frequently produces real good, and seemwith advantage. Where there is a great inequality of ingly inadequate causes have often occasioned the most ground, terraces laid out, and decorated with some archi- important results. Had it not been for the perverted tectural pretensions, are a valuable addition. When the discipline of the Stuttgard school, the "Robbers" might enduring growth of the plants has subdued them to the never have been given to the world; yet this work forms character of the scene, they much enhance the charms of an era not only in Schiller's history, but in the literature the garden. In more genial climates than ours, an oc- of Europe. There was never an author rose more sudcasional bust or statue, peeping from among the green | denly from obscurity to fame. Hitherto Schiller had passleaves, pleases the eye, and affords hints for meditation. ed for an unprofitable, discontented, and disobedient boy; Our variable weather causes them to moulder too quickly but the giant might of his nature now stood forth confessaway; and in winter, they gleam coldly and uncomforta-ed. "He burst upon the world like a meteor; and surbly through the leafless trees. In Italy, there is some-prise, for a time, suspended the power of cool and rational thing exquisitely refreshing in the play of fountains, and marble ornaments add both to their apparent coolness and to their beauty. With us they are unnecessary. "Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia." A small piece of water is, however, always an improvement to a garden. It is in keeping, for a supply of this element is required | in summer for the drooping flowers; and although it cannot be made to rival the beauties of a lake, there is yet something exquisitely pleasing in its transparency, and its 1 reflections of tree and sky. A summer-house is indis--not even Schiller himself has ever surpassed. pensable; but it ought to be of good stone and lime. Leafy bowers are fine things to read of, but they are plagued with insects. In general, too, they are stiff, and ought to be abrogated, with all the bare and stunted productions of what has been called the topiarian art. It is true that our brief and uncertain summer affords us but a short space for the enjoyment of the garden; but this is the very reason why we ought to make the most of it. In its embowered shades we can best concentrate our affections and thoughts, scattered and dissipated among the multitudinous cares of the world. There we can assemble our friends around us, or we may bask alone in the sun, until we seem to ripen with the fruits overhead, or sit in the breathless hush of midnight, looking at the pale moon, and the few intensely bright stars around her. It is not every one who can reach the solitudes of nature, there to commune with his own heart; but almost every one may have a garden, where he can lock out the dense crowd that jostles him in the streets. And if at times his thoughts be interrupted by the laugh from some neighbouring garden, or by the small happy voices of children, this will but give a heartier and more human turn to his musings, teaching him how many thousands are unconsciously sympathising with his happiness. MEMOIR OF THE POET Schiller. SCHILLER was born in the year 1759, at Marbach, a small town of Wurtemberg. His father had been a surgeon in the Bavarian army; but at the time of Schiller's birth, was employed by the Duke of Wurtemberg to superintend the laying out of various extensive pleasure grounds. His mother was a baker's daughter, and neither of his parents seem to have been in any way remark criticism." His tragedy, which appeared when he was in his twenty-second year, and which he published at his own expense, not being able to find any bookseller that would undertake it, was, in a few months, translated into almost all the modern languages, and became the universal topic among literary men. It is not our purpose at present to enter into its peculiar merits or defects; but this much we will say, that, however great its faults may be, it possesses beauties which no other German author Soon after this, he became acquainted with Dalberg, the superintendent of the theatre at Manheim; and in 1783, two other tragedies—the “ Conspiracy of Fiesco," and "Cabal and Love"-were brought upon the stage there with the greatest success. He now left Stuttgard finally, and renounced at once divinity, law, and medicine, for the more alluring charms of a literary life. “All my connexions," he says, in a letter to a friend, "are now dissolved. The public is now all to me, my study, my sovereign, my confident. To the public alone I henceforth belong; before this, and no other tribunal, will I place myself; this alone do I reverence and fear. Something majestic hovers before me, as I determine now to wear no other fetters but the sentence of the world, to appeal to no other throne but the soul of man." He remained at Manheim for nearly two years, during which time he became the editor of the " German Thalia,"-a publication principally devoted to theatrical criticisms, essays on the nature of the stage, its history in various countries, and its moral and intellectual effects. He gave a good deal of his time to philosophical pursuits, of which he had been always fond, and produced the "Philosophic Letters," in which it appears that scepticism often interfered with his fairest visions, and threw a shadow across his soul, even in its loftiest moods. As his genius expanded, and his name became more and more known, Schiller began to long for a wider sphere of action. He accordingly removed first to Leipzig, and afterwards to Dresden, where he completed his tragedy of "Don Carlos," on which he had been engaged for some time, and gave it to the world in 1786. This is the first of his plays that bears the stamp of full maturity, and may safely take its place among the finest compositions of a similar nature. It is as much superior to the "Filippo" of Alfieri, as the "Othello" of Shakspeare is to the "Cato" of Addison. It was received with immediate and universal approbation. Yet, notwithstanding its celebrity, he now grew tired of writing for the stage, and for a considerable number of years turned his thoughts to other subjects. He published a number of smaller pieces, which are esteemed by the Germans as forming one of the most valuable portions of their miscellaneous poetry. Soon afterwards the "Ghostseer" made its appearance, a novel in two volumes, but of unequal merit. Though his studies were thus multifarious, and his productions so voluminous, Schiller did not live as a solitary recluse or morose bookworm. His manners were frank, simple, and unembarrassed, and his dispositions social and conciliating. He resided in the midst of a numerous circle of friends in Dresden, and that circle was greatly enlarged by a visit he paid, in 1787, to Weimar, at that time the very Athens of Germany, and subsequently to Rudolstadt. In the former he became acquainted with Herder and Wieland, and in the latter with Goethe. His first interview with Goethe was rather unpropitious. Goethe was always jealous of his own literary renown, and Schiller was a formidable rival. But by degrees his better feelings overcame all others, and a friendship was formed, which was never interrupted till death put an end to it. Schiller, meanwhile, was busily engaged in historical researches, and in the following year the first volume of his "History of the Revolt of the United Netherlands" was produced. It is to be regretted that this work was never finished, for it would have ranked as the very best of Schiller's prose compositions. Soon after its publication he was appointed professor of history in the University of Jena, whither he immediately went; and, in the February following, married a lady to whom he had been for some time attached, and with whom he seems to have lived a happy and virtuous life. Hear how he himself expresses it: "Life is quite a different thing by the side of a beloved wife, than when forsaken and alone. Beautiful Nature! I now, for the first time, fully enjoy it, live in it. The world again clothes itself around me in poetic forms; old feelings are again awakening in my breast!" In his new office he devoted himself with double zeal to history; and in 1791 his chief performance in this department of literature appeared-the "History of the Thirty Years' War." It has its imperfections, but Germany can boast of no other historical work equal to it; and, in saying so, we do not forget Müller. It was in this year that the first severe fit of sickness overtook him he had ever experienced; and though he overcame it in the present instance, the blessing of entire health never returned to him. His disorder was in the chest, and was probably induced by his severe habits of study; for though tall, he was not robust, and his frame was too weak for the sleepless soul that dwelt within it. He was obliged to give up his professorship, but a pension was settled on him of a thousand crowns. As his health partially returned he resumed his activity, and was for a while deeply involved in all the mysticism of the Kantean system of philosophy. He published several treatises upon the subject, but they are now the least remembered of all his works. Escaping from this vortex, he seems to have projected the writing of an epic poem, and Frederick the Great of Prussia was to have been his hero; but it was a scheme upon the execution of which he never entered. His old partiality for the drama returned, and for several years he consecrated his brightest hours to the tragedy of "Wallenstein." His place of study was in a garden in the suburbs of Jena, where he commonly retired about sunset; and Doering informs us, that, "on sitting down to his desk at nights, he was wont to keep some strong coffee or chocolate, but more frequently a flask of old Rhenish or Champagne, standing by him, that he might, from time to time, repair the exhaustion of nature. Often the neighbours used to hear him earnestly declaiming in the silence of the night; and whoever had an opportunity | of watching him on such occasions—a thing very easy to be done from the heights lying opposite his little gardenhouse on the other side of the dell-might see him now speaking aloud, and walking swiftly to and fro in his chamber, then suddenly throwing himself down into his chair and writing; and drinking the while, sometimes more than once, from the glass standing near him. In winter he was to be found at his desk till four, or even five o'clock in the morning; in summer, till towards three. He then went to bed, from which he seldom rose till nine or ten." "Wallenstein" was at last produced, a drams in eleven acts, divided into three parts, each of which may be considered a distinct play. It was the most splendid production he had yet published, and was received accordingly. It was given to the world at the close of the eighteenth century, and may safely be rated as the greatest dramatic work of which that century can boast. Beside it the tragedies of France are cold and insipid; and at the time of its appearance, England was enjoying the vulgar horrors of the "Castle Spectre !" "Wallenstein" has been very well translated into French by Benjamin Constant; and the two last parts still better into English by Messrs Coleridge and Moir. Soon after its publication, Schiller removed to Weimar, where his "Mary Stuart," his "Maid of Orleans," his "Bride of Messina,” and his "Wilhelm Tell," successively appeared. Of these, the most deservedly popular were the second and the last. At the first exhibition of the "Maid of Orleans," in Leipzig, Schiller was in the theatre. When the curtain dropped, at the end of the first act, there arose, on all sides, a shout of Es lebe Friedrich Schiller! accompanied by the sound of trumpets and other military music. At the conclusion of the piece, the whole assembly left their places, went out, and crowded round the door through which the poet was expected to come; and no sooner did he show himself, than his admiring spectators, uncovering their heads, made an avenue for him to pass; and as he walked along, many held up their children, and exclaimed, That is he! This must have been a moment worth a life of misery. among the latest of his brilliant hours. In the spring of 1805, in the forty-fifth year of his age, his old malady returned with more than its original virulence. On the 9th of May, it reached a crisis. He became, for some hours, delirious; but, towards evening, his senses were restored. Some one enquiring how he felt, he said, "Calmer and calmer;" he soon afterwards sunk into a deep sleep, and awoke no more. H. G. B. THE DRAMA. It was FANNY KEMBLE is a little girl of very considerable genius. There is nothing awful, or overwhelming, or mysterious, or prodigious about her,—nothing to make grave gentlemen of forty gape in stupid wonder,—er calm, judicious, and hackneyed critics, like ourselves, feel our faculties benumbed, and our minds confused, by her unprecedented powers; but there is something about her which makes it pleasant to see her act, and which gives good promise of excellence yet to be. As soon as the excitement and curiosity which have attended her first sea son in town, and her first provincial tour, have subsided, the truth of this sober and rational statement will be come apparent to persons whose inexperience occasioned their being more easily carried away by the current than we were. Miss Kemble has now played four of her principal parts-Juliet, Belvidera, Isabella, and Mrs Beverley and she has acquitted herself in each in a highly cre ditable and respectable manner. To say that she had, in any of them, equalled the matured powers of Miss O'Neill, or made even a far-off approach to the grandeur and sublimity of Mrs Siddons, would be flattery of the grossest description. Yet, let it not be supposed that we have any inclination to damn with faint praise. Miss Kemble, we are given to understand, is not nineteen ; and to suppose her, at so early an age, capable of achieving the highest conquests of the drama, would be to suppose her something more than human. Her person is not yet nearly filled up, her voice has not acquired half its strength and volume, and her features are still far too girlish for the display of those mightier passions which agitate the breast of man or woman. In many instances, Miss Kemble shows us more what she wishes to do, than what she does. If this be obvious, even in our small Theatre, we should think it must have been necessarily much more obvious at Covent Garden. But let it be observed, that Miss Kemble has hitherto played, both there and here, under very favourable auspices. If an actor or actress once contrives to excite public interest, the promiscuous audiences assembled in consequence are ever ready to take up and applaud the slightest points they may happen to make, while efforts of a higher description, made by others who have ceased to attract by their novelty, are passed over in entire silence. Frequently have we seen pet performers or stars praised to the echo for traits of acting which indicated no genius whatever, just as we have seen some pompous triton in a small literary coterie throw all the minnows that surrounded him into Es convulsions of delighted laughter, with one small shake of his tail. Nothing is more disgusting to a man of comEmon discrimination, than to perceive the idiotical manner in which a mob of boobies award their commendation. There is an immense number of fat, officious, Cockney boobies among a London audience; and, when once Fanny Kemble's wheel was set in motion, these poor drivels pushed in their fingers on every spoke, anxious to enjoy the good-natured and paltry vanity of aiding in accelerating its motion. But we men of Edinburgh take the credit to ourselves of being a cooler and more sagacious race; and. we do not scramble over each other's heads, or break each other's ribs, at the pit door, to see one whom we are not pretty well assured is worthy the price thus paid for her. Miss Fanny Kemble's face is not beautiful, her voice is not musical, her elocution is not perfect, her figure is not commanding ;-consequently Miss Kemble is not calculated to burst upon you, and to command your attention, whether you will or not. The next question, therefore, comes to be-Is Miss Fanny Kemble calculated to gain upon you? We think she is-Her face, though not beautiful, is expressive; her voice, though not musical, is touching in its lower tones; her elocution, though not perfect, may be improved; her figure, though not commanding, is graceful. We have already said, that owing to her youth, she wants many physical requisites for the delineation of the stormier passions; and we may now add, as explanatory of this, that in every scene which requires much energy of action, she is obliged to strain her voice and distort her countenance, in order to bring out any thing like her own conceptions of the manner in which it should be performed. Still, her own conceptions are often excellent, and though they are sometimes more like a sketch than a finished picture, they yet show what could be done had the artist the full command of her own resources. In the calmer scenes, where good taste and lady-like feeling are the chief requisites, Miss Kemble never disappoints. This is a very excellent foundation for any actress to rest upon, for it implies the presence of those finer susceptibilities which are at the root of all genius, and without which there may be some display of vulgar power, but never of high and genuine talent. As an instance of what we mean, we would particularly refer to Miss Kemble's no#tion of the manner in which Isabella, overcome by the unremitting, warm, and respectful attentions of Villeroy, sought at length to yield a half consent to become his wife. The words are these: "6 my pleasures are Buried, and cold, in my dead husband's grave; And I should wrong the truth, myself, and you, "Where am I going? You cannot think it; 'tis impossible!" Miss Kemble will perhaps be surprised to hear that we consider this the finest thing she has yet done in Edinburgh. There was no stage trick in it, and it went directly home to the feelings of the audience, the more directly that the transition was unexpected, but admirably managed. In the business of the stage, Miss Kemble has been excellently schooled, and certainly she could have had few instructors superior to her own father, who walks the boards more completely like a gentleman than almost any performer we recollect. We have heard this knowledge of stage business charged to Miss Kemble as a fault, but this is absurd. One might as well accuse a lawyer of being too intimately versed in the technicalities of his profession, which are just as necessary to his success in it as the highest abilities. Miss Kemble's attitudes and by-play are, of course, studied to a certain extent, but so, we presume, is every thing of much merit in this world, at least we scarcely know any thing worth having that is to be had without study. Miss Kemble is young, and likely to improve. If she does, in any fair proportion, she will unquestionably be a great actress ;if she does not, she will at least remain what she is at present-a pleasing and elegant one, with here and there flashes of genius breaking through. She will also enjoy the advantage in two or three years, of ceasing to be what she is now, too young for the great majority of parts she plays. We have not yet seen Miss Kemble in comedy, but she is to appear as Lady Townly this evening, and will next week, we believe, sustain the part of Beatrice, which she has not hitherto performed in London. Her abilities will thus be more completely placed before us, and we shall be able to add, to our present remarks, some others of interest next Saturday. Old Cerberus. ORIGINAL POETRY. TO JULIANA. I summon thee with spell of power, Now thy hand is lock'd in mine, Now the silver light I kiss Little heed we time or tide, Vision! must it still be so? Though its name be link'd with thine, Other words of praise have won thee;— Rests the smile that was my pride. Yet, sweet, if I do thee wrong, Since thou know'st I only live In the hope that thou to me More than thou ere hast been, will be. H. G, B. Watch the change of the season From winter to spring; If the flowers that we cherish If the rainbow's past glory And the thorn-chain be bound To murmur and weep, Its life over thee. When moonlight is gleaming And the night wind is streaming When meteor lights, sweeping, And the cypress is weeping Alone in the shade ; When the voice of the fountain In melody springs, And one bird from a mountain In solitude sings— Oh, remember that I, Where man hath not been, May be hovering nigh, To bless thee unseen ;- If the dreams come the lighter That trouble thy rest, If the hopes gleam the brighter We often may meet, Though I change like the billow Which breaks at thy feet. ALASTOR. ΤΟ WHEN health is declining In silence and tears;-- Glide over the brain, And the dawn of the morrow Is usher'd in pain ;When hope does but linger, A spectre in gloom, Whose pale chilly finger Points on to the tomb ;When the past but returns As dreams that are fled, And the lonely lamp burns At the foot of the deadOh, look out in the midnight With love-searching eye, Though evading thy sight, Will my spirit be nigh! LINES ON LIFE. By Lawrence Macdonald. CALL on the viewless winds for woman's sighs, With man's frail bark upon its billows toss'd, While mental darkness crowds to fill the sail !— LITERARY CHIT-CHAT AND VARIETIES. PORTRAIT OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.-Our readers will learn with pleasure that Mr Watson Gordon-whose admirable portrait of Sir Walter Scott we described ten days ago-has now nearly finished a painting of a similar size, and of equal excellence, of the Ettrick Shepherd. It is by far the most striking and characteristic likeness existing of the author of the "Queen's Wake." It has been painted, and is to be engraved, expressly for the Literary Journal. It gives us much pleasure thus to have it in our power to present our readers with so excellent a likeness of one whose extraordinary genius is universally acknowledged, as well in England as in his own country; and who, from the commencement of the Literary Journal, has been one of our most valued and constant correspondents. The engraving will be ready in a few weeks, and we shall give our readers due notice of its appearance. Among other novelties announced for immediate publication, are the following:-The Separation: a novel. By the authoress of Flirtation. The story of which is reported to be founded upon a recent extraordinary affair in high life.-The Personal Memoirs of Pryce Gordon, Esq. who, it is understood, has seen much of men and manners, both at home and abroad, during the last half century. -Wedded Life in the Upper Ranks: a novel.-The Oxonians. By the author of the Roué.-Frescatis; or Scenes in Paris.-And, Foreign Exclusives in London. The first number of the Library of General Knowledge, which has been for some time announced by Messrs Colburn and Bentley, on the popular plan of cheap monthly publication, will make its appearance, we understand, on the first day of next month. The subject adopted for the commencement of the undertaking is one of universal interest to Great Britain-the Life of Lord Byron. The execution of the task, it appears, has been confided to Mr Galt, who was the companion of his lordship during one period of his foreign travels, and who is reported to be the possessor of such materials as will be found to add considerable novelty to the other attractions which a work of this nature, published on the plan in question, must possess. We understand that "The Denounced," by the author of "The O'Hara Tales," will be published in a few days. The work consists, we are told, of two tales, which describe the severity of those laws which were enacted and enforced during the reign of William and Mary against the Catholics. The contentions that were continually taking place between the proscribed papists and the emissaries of the government have doubtless afforded good scope for the author's powers. The work is to be dedicated to the Duke of Wellington. CHEAP LITERATURE Among the many proofs of the increasing demand for literary information may be mentioned the sale of the cheap editions of the English Translations of the ancient classic writers. We are informed from good authority that nearly twenty thousand volumes have already been sold of Valpy's beautiful pocket edition of the Classical Library, now in the course of publication, and in which have already been given English Translations of Demosthenes, Sallust, Xenophon, and Herodotus. The first volume of the History of England, by Sir James Mackintosh, will appear on the first of next month. THE JUVENILE LIBRARY.-(From a Correspondent.)-Besides one or two other collections of a totally distinct nature, Messrs Colburn and Bentley are about to publish that great desideratum, a Juvenile Library, in cheap monthly volumes, with suitable illustrations. The truism, that when the young are removed from their schools, or studies, with the character of having completed their education, they are in general deplorably ignorant of almost every thing which their immediate intercourse with the world requires they should know, is too notorious to need argument. To simplify information-to afford facilities to parents and teachers-to prepare juvenile minds for more complicated and extended relations than mere education (even with all its modern improvements) has ever contemplated;-such are the objects of this Library, which is formed to supply a regular succession of volumes that shall be eligible to place in the hands of the young, to guide their steps, to strengthen their moral character, and, by the great force of example, to smooth their way to knowledge, and its concomitant, happiness. The conduct of the work is to be confided to the able Editor of the Literary Gazette, assisted by a large circle of talented friends. CHIT-CHAT FROM LONDON.-There appears every probability that a Metropolitan cemetery, on the model of Père la Chaise, will speedily be commenced. A public meeting on the subject was held a few days ago, which was attended by many noblemen and gentlemen of influence.-The fuss that has been made about the death of M'Kay the pugilist is quite ridiculous. Every body knows that boxing is a sport countenanced by the first authorities in England, and a prizefighter takes the chances of death just as a soldier does who receives the king's pay. The one uses a musket, and the other his own fists, and both kill or are killed equally lawfully. It would be the grossest injustice to punish Byrne by what would be nothing less than an expost-facto enactment.-Mr Charles Bell has resigned his professor ship in the London University. His reasons are understood to be the THE CONTRAST.-1st. The Giant Angling. His angle was a peacock's feather, And he lay in his bed and bobb'd for fleas, Theatrical Gossip.-The most recent novelty is Taglioni, a new WEEKLY LIST OF PERFORMANCES. SAT. The Slave, & Life in London. Venice Preserved, & Brother and Sister. Romeo and Juliet, & Teddy the Tiler, TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS. WE are glad that F. acknowledges the unfairness of " pressing us to death with wit," without affording us the means of answering, which we deem particularly cruel. The packet is perfectly safe, and will remain so.-Our friend at Woolwich will hear from us soon. We have already reviewed the volume he has sent us.-The novel called "The Writer's Clerk" is the production, we believe, of a person of the name of Kelly. Not having read the work, we can give no opinion upon its merits." A Letter from Oban" in our next. "A Poet's Feelings," by " W. M." of Glasgow, and "The Pride o' the Glen," by " M." of Arbroath, shall have a place." The Harp of Grief," the Lines by " T. C.," and the Verses from Glasgow in praise of Ale, are inadmissible. ERRATUM IN OUR LAST.-In the notice of the Illustrations of the Waverley Novels-speaking of Lucy Ashton and her father rescued from the bull by Ravenswood, the artist's name should be Landseer, instead of Leslie, |