since it is the Genevese philosopher who has revealed to the world the gospel of sensibility, upon him most of all will that gift be lavished with which he seems all at once to have endowed French society. His handwriting is kissed: things that belonged to him are converted into relics. "There is not a truly sympathetic woman living," exclaims the most virtuous of the beauties of those days, "who would not need an extraordinary virtue to keep her from consecrating her life to Rousseau, could she be certain of being passionately loved by him!" All this has the semblance of passion, but little depth. It would seem, in truth, that the eighteenth century was too frivolous ever to be truly moved. And nevertheless it has been moved, it has had a passion, perhaps the most noble of all that of humanity. Pity, in the times that precede it, appears almost as foreign to polite society as the feeling for nature. Who, in the seventeenth century, was agitated if some some poor devil of a villager was crushed by the taxes, if a Protestant was condemned to his Majesty's galleys? Who troubled himself about the treatment of the insane, about the régime of prisons, the barbarities of the rack and the wheel? The eighteenth century, on the contrary, is seized with an immense compassion for all sufferings. It is kindled with generous ideas; it desires tolerance, justice, equality. Its heroes are useful men, agriculturists, benefactors of the people. It embraces all the nations in its reforms. It rises to the conception of human solidarity. It makes itself a golden age where the philosopher's theories mingle with the reveries of the mere dreamer. Every one is caught by the glorious chimera. The author of "La Pucelle" has his hours of philanthropy. Turgot finds support in the salons. Madame de Genlis speaks like Madame Roland or Madame de Staël. Utopia, a Utopia at once rational as geometry and blind as enthusiasm,the whole of the French Revolution is there already. The eighteenth century has received the name of the philosophical century, and with good reason if an independent spirit of inquiry is the distinguishing feature of philosophy. It rejected everything in the nature of convention and tradition. It declared an implacable war on what is called prejudice. It desired truths that stand on their own legs. It sought in man, in the mere nature of things, the foundation of the true and the good. The doctrines of this epoch are not exalted, but they have that species of vigor that the absence of partiality gives. The problem of problems, for this century, is how to live; and to the solution of that problem it brings only natural methods. The men of those times, to use the expression of the brothers Goncourt, "keep themselves at the height of their own heart, without aid, by their own strength. Emancipated from all dogma and system of belief, they draw their lights from the recesses of their own hearts, and their powers from the same source." There are some who "afford in this superficial century the grand spectacle of a conscience at equilibrium in the void, a spectacle forgotten of humanity since the Antonines." The Countess de Boufflers, with whom M. Sainte-Beuve has lately made us acquainted, had maxims framed and hung in her chamber; among them might be read such words as the following: "In conduct, simplicity and sense. In methods, justice and generosity. In adversity, courage and self-respect. Sacrifice all for peace of mind. When an important duty is to be fulfilled, consider perils and death only as drawbacks, not as obstacles." See what thoughts made up the daily meditations of a woman of the world. Adversity was supported with cheerful courage. Old age was accepted without pride or effort, without surprise or consternation. One detached one's self little by little, composed one's self, conformed to the changed condition, extinguished one's self discreetly, quite simply, with decorum, and so to speak with spirit. Let us take care when we speak of the eighteenth century—let us take care not to forget the trials of the emigration and the prisons of the Terror! I have spoken of the greatness and the debasement of the epoch that the brothers Goncourt set themselves to interpret. If there is some contradiction between the two halves of the picture, I am not far from thinking that this very contradiction might well be a proof of correctness. Human judgments are true only on the condition of perpetually putting the yes by the side of the no. The truth is, one can say of the eighteenth century what our authors somewhere say of the Duchess of Mirepoix: in default of esteem it inspires sympathy. The French century above all others, it has our defects and our qualities. Endowed with more intelligence than firmness, argumentative rather than philosophic, didactic rather than moral, it has given lessons rather than examples to the world, examples rather than models. It was not entirely fixed, either in good or in evil. However low it fell, it was far from making an utter failure. Carried to extremes, it showed its strength most of all in extremity. It is an assemblage of contradictions where all happens without precedent, and it is safest to take nothing in it too literally. JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER. SCHILLER, JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON, a German dramatist, lyric poet, and prose writer; born at Marbach, in the duchy of Würtemberg, November 10, 1759; died at Weimar, May 9, 1805. At the age of twenty-one he became a surgeon in the army. His drama, "The Robbers," was commenced at the age of nineteen, was acted in 1782, and was put upon the stage at Mann. heim in 1782. In the autumn of 1783 he was invited by Dalberg to come to Mannheim, as poet to the theatre. While there he produced his translation of Shakespeare's "Macbeth," and several other works, and began the composition of "Don Carlos," which was not, however, completed until 1786. After eighteen months at Mannheim he took up his residence for a time at Dresden. In 1788 appeared the first and only volume of his "Revolt of the United Netherlands," bringing the history down to the entrance of the Duke of Alva into Brussels, in 1567. This work procured for Schiller the appointment of Professor of History at the University of Jena, whither he removed in 1789, and where he remained for about ten years. During this period he wrote his principal prose work, the "History of the Thirty Years' War." To this period also belong most of his lyrics and ballads, and several of his dramas, including the trilogy, "Wallenstein's Camp," "The Piccolomini," and the "Death of Wallenstein." In 1799 he removed to Weimar, where the six remaining years of his life were mainly passed. "William Tell"— the last, and by many held to be the best of his tragedies was produced in the last year of his life. Besides his dramas, ballads, lyrics, and historical works, the minor writings of Schiller are numerous. His principal dramas are "The Robbers," "The Conspiracy of Fiesco," "Cabal and Love," "Wallenstein's Camp," "The Piccolomini," "The Death of Wallenstein," "Mary Stuart," "The Maid of Orleans," "The Bride of Messina," and "William Tell." The "Life" of Schiller has been written by several persons; the best in the English language are by Thomas Carlyle and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. TO LAURA. LAURA, above this world methinks I fly, And feel the glow of some May-lighted sky, |