el From Fraser's Magazine. GERMAN LOVE.*

riosity is altogether ungratified; we are told as much as there is any occasion for us to know.

EVERY human face, say the learned in these matters, carries written upon it the Yet although concealment be the rule, it story of its owner. The prevailing thoughts is at times suspended by peculiar circumhave shaped the organs; the prevailing pas- stances. More than one remarkable man, sions have furrowed the lines. No emotion, in the last and the present century especially, whether of joy or sorrow, passes off without has chosen to make mankind his confessor; leaving behind it the pencilled traces of its and has either shadowed out in fiction, or presence. It may be so. We need not related in actual narrative, his experiences quarrel with a theory which for the present outward and inward. Goethe and Wordsis no more than a speculation. The gener-worth considered it their duty to expose the ality of mankind are happily but indifferent structure and growth of minds which had phrenologist, and, for our time at least, are exercised so vast an influence over their conlikely to be spared a knowledge, which if it temporaries. Rousseau, from some unexever comes, will make the world intolerable. plained impulse, laid bare in his own person We have no anxiety to find a window opened the diseases of which the world was sick. into our consciences, to take the public It is idle to examine the motives of such behind the scenes, where we can be seen, things. Men of genius are sometimes stripped of our stage dresses, in naked simplicity; and still less have we a desire to pry curiously into the secrets of others. The living torrents which, for eighteen out of each four-and-twenty hours, stream along our streets, are made up of units, each of whom has a history that would infallibly interest us if we knew it. Every one of them is struggling, suffering, loving, hating, failing, succeeding, doing everything of which the most delightful novel is but a feeble about it the unmistakeable impress of counterfeit; and our feelings, if we were admitted to all these confidences, would speedily be worn threadbare by perpetual friction. Here, too, as in most other things, we have cause to think the world well made; that it is well for us all that we are allowed the exclusive custody of our own secrets.

driven to what they do by a force which they can neither resist nor understand; and in these rare instances, where a real mind is really revealing itself, the result is its own excuse.

Of a similar kind, and similarly also to be explained, is the little book which is the subject of the present article. German Love, from the Papers of an Alien, may not be strictly an autobiography, but it bears

The

reality. It is the work of an uncommon man, who has sought relief for some inward sorrow by throwing it into a narrative; and although the beauty of the story forbids us to wish that it had not been written, yet it is difficult wisely to speak of it. writer, whoever he may be, is highly gifted, Further, as we are able to keep our story both in intellect and feeling. The passionate to ourselves, so it seems as if, for the most outpourings of such a person are not to be part, we were intended to keep it to our-coldly criticized, and we should have preselves; as if human beings should be known ferred perhaps to pass by the book in silence, to one another only as they come in contact were it not, first for its most rare merit, and in action and life, while the rest lies between secondly, for the close and intimate aceach particular man and his Maker, or should quaintance which the author shows with be made known only where reserve is melted England and the most modern English literdown by affection. The interest which the ature. He calls himself an alien. He is world might feel in any given story is no suf-perhaps one of the many waifs and strays ficient reason for communicating it. All an- which these late years have cast upon our cient literature would not be too high a price shore, and his book is the explanation of his to pay for a knowledge of those first thirty exile. The subject of it is the common one years in which the carpenter's Son was sub--love and disappointment. But the love ject to His parents in Galilee. But our cu- and the disappointment are peculiar. The Deutsche Liebe. Aus den Papieren eines nature of them will be best seen by extracts, Fremdlings. Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus. London: if a translation can convey tolerably the Williams and Norgate. 1857. meaning of language which has been chosen

with elaborate care. The following is from | dian angel, as they loved to consider her. One day, when her illness was at its worst,

the opening page : "Childhood has its mysteries and its won- "She took five rings which she wore on ders, but who can describe them-who can interpret them? We have all passed through this enchanted forest. There has been a time with each of us when we have looked around in perplexity of happiness, and our spirits have steeped themselves in the fair reality of life. Then we knew not where we were, or what we were. Then the whole world was ours, and we were the world's. That was an eternal life, without beginning and without end; without interruption or pain. Our hearts were bright as the sky in spring, fresh as the fragrance of the violet, calm and holy as a Sunday morning.

And what disturbs this peace of God in the child? How is this innocent, unconscious existence brought to an end? How are we driven forth from this Eden of union and communion, and left desolate and alone on the outer earth.

Say not, thou with the solemn brow, say not that it is sin. Has the child learnt to sin? Say rather that we do not know, and that we must be resigned.

"And yet it is so sweet to look back into the spring-time of life-again to gaze into its sanctuary to remember. Yes, in the sultry summer heats, in the sad autumn and the cold winter, there comes here and there a spring day; and the heart says, I, too, feel as though it were spring: such a day it is to-day, and here I lie in the balmy forest, and stretch my weary limbs; I gaze upward through the green leaves, and think how it was with me in childhood.

"All seems a blank. The first pages of memory are like an old family Bible, the opening leaves faded, soiled, or crumpled. Only when we turn on, and come to the chapters which tell how Adam and Eve were driven out of Paradise, it begins to be clear and legible."

her hand, drew them off one after another, and looked so sad and yet so gentle, that I shut my eyes to prevent myself from weeping. The first she gave to her eldest brother, kissing him as she placed it on his finger; the second and third she gave to her two sisters, and the fourth to the youngest prince; kissing each of them also. I was standing by; I looked fixedly at her, and I saw that she had one ring yet remaining; but she leaned back and seemed exhausted. Presently she caught my expression; and as a child's eyes speak aloud, she saw easily what was passing in me. I did not wish for her ring; but I felt that I was a stranger, that I did not belong to her, that she did not love me as she loved her brothers and sisters; and this gave me a shooting pain, as if I had burst a vein or bruised a nerve. She raised herself up, laid her hand on my forehead, and looked at me so searchingly, that I felt she was reading my every thought. Then she drew the ring slowly off and gave it to me, and said, I had intended to have taken this one with me when I went from you, but it is better that you should have it, to remind you of me when I am gone. Read the words which are written on the edge, "As God will." You have a passionate heart and a soft one; may it be tamed by life, and not hardened.' She then kissed me as she had done her brothers. I can hardly describe my feelings. I was a boy then, and the gentle beauty of the suffering angel had not been without its charm for my young heart. I loved her as a boy can love and boys love with a devotion, a truth, a purity, which few preserve in youth and manhood; but I thought she was a stranger' whom, if I loved, I must not say that I loved. I scarcely heard her words; I only felt that our souls were as near as two human souls can be. The bitterness was gone. I was no more alone; I was not an alien, divided from her by a chasm. I was beside her, with her, and in her. I would not take the ring. If you would give it me,' I said, you must keep it, for what is yours is mine.' She looked at me for a moment, surprised and thoughtful. Then she replaced it on her finger, and again know not what you say. Learn to underkissing my forehead, answered softly, You stand yourself, and you will be happy and make others happy also.'"

We have next an exquisite picture of a German home, as it appears idealized in its simplicity: the loving mother; the great church, with its gilt cross; the palace Sopposite the gate, with the eagles on its pinnacles, and the great banner floating from its central turret. The family are intimate with the Prince, and the boy grows up the playfellow of the royal children. Among the latter is one, the Princess Maria, the eldest daughter, who had lost all use of Time passes. The Princess lingers on in her limbs, and with a heart complaint in life; the boy goes out into the world, and addition, has looked every day for death. at length returns as a young man, when he She is older than the rest, a sort of guar-is again thrown with her. A feeling rises

between them which is not love in the ordi- | friends,' he passionately pleads, I could nary sense of the word, but intellectual tell you volumes of tragedies. One loved a sympathy. Their minds are touched deeply maiden, and was loved in return; but he with the mystic philosophy of the fifteenth was poor-she was rich. Parents and relacentury. They discuss the Deutsche Theo- broken. Why? Because it is thought a tions despised him, and two hearts were logie, and from thence, and in the mystic misfortune that a lady's dress should be spirit, our own most modern English made from the wool of a plant in America, writers; Carlyle, Tennyson, Wordsworth, rather than from the fibres of a worm in and Matthew Arnold. They spend their China. Another loved a maiden, and was days in a Swiss cottage attached to the loved in return; but he was a Protestant palace. The misfortune of the lady throws she was a Catholic. Mothers and priests her off her guard. She sees no reason why Why? Because, three centuries before, disagreed, and two hearts were broken. the playfellow of her childhood should not Charles the Fifth, Frances the First, and be the companion of her age. At length Henry the Eighth played a political game at prudent people are alarmed. The delightful chess. A third loved a maiden, and was meetings are brought to an end. He is loved in return; but he was noble-she was recommended to travel, and wanders with plebian. The sisters were jealous, and two an aching heart into the Tyrol. Thither, however, his fate follows him. The Princess on the death of her mother has inherited an estate among the Tyrolese mountains, and there he again meets her. She has been warned in the interval. A marriage, even if her health had allowed it, was inadmissible between the high-born lady and the unknown student, and a philosophic friendship was properly considered dangerous. She tells him that they must see one another

no more.

"I have caught hold upon your life (she says), forgetting how slight a touch will rob the flower of its petals. In my ignorance of the world, I never thought that a poor sufferer such as I could inspire any feeling stronger than compassion. I welcomed you warmly and frankly because I had known you so long, because your presence was a delight to me, because (why should I not confess it?) because I loved you. But the world does not understand this love, and does not tolerate it. The whole town is talking of us; my brother the Regent has written to the Prince, and requires me to end our intimacy. I am very sorry to have caused you so much suffering: say only that you forgive me, and let us part friends."

Such words can produce but one effect. She is speaking at a disadvantage; a summer twilight amidst mountains and lakes and yellow moonlight are poor supporters to prudence. The old struggle begins again

between man and the world; the individual soul fluttering against the bars of its prison, and crying out against social despotism.

hundred years ago, a soldier slew another hearts were broken. Why? Because, a who was threatening a king's life in battle. He was rewarded with titles and honor, and his great grandson atones with a blighted life for the blood which was then shed by him. Each hour, say the collectors of statistics, some heart is broken; and I believe it. But why? Because in all but each other unless we are connected by some all cases the world will not permit us to love peculiar tie. If two girls love the same man, one must be sacrificed. If two men love the same woman, one or both must be sacrificed. Why? Can one not love without wishing to appropriate? ›››

Since, however, there is no alternative, he asks her whether, rather than submit to separation, she will brave the world's displeasure. They love each other with all their hearts. Let them marry. She is silent for a time. At length she says:

"I am yours. God will have it so. Take me as I am. While I live, I live for you. May God join us again hereafter in a fairer world, and reward you for your love!'

"And days and weeks and moons and years are gone (he says). My home has "When I recal the stories of my become strange to me, and a strange land is

with less intensity of passion. Only real life can provide materials at once so simple and so beautiful. Whether, however, it is well for us to dwell in this way over sufferings which in some degree fall to us all,whether the wise man does not rather let the dead bury their dead, and live-not in a past which is beyond his control, but in a present and future which are in some degree his own-is a furthur question. The heart knows its own bitterness; it is rare that we can wisely advise others, far less undertake

my home; but her love remains for me; and as a tear falls into the ocean, so has my love for her dissolved in the living ocean of humanity, and interpenetrates and envelopes millions-millions of those strangers whom from my childhood I have so loved. Only on still summer days, when I am lying alone in the green forest of nature, and know not whether beyond its circle there breathe any other men, or whether I am solitary upon the earth, then the past stirs again in the churchyard of memory. Dead remembrances rise up out of their graves. The omnipotence of passion flows back into my heart, and streams out to judge them. If the author has found any towards that fair being who again is gazing on me with her deep, unfathomable eyes; and then my affection for the millions' is lost in my affection for the one, and my thoughts sink baffled before the inscrutable mystery of the finite and infinite love."

With these words the book ends. Were it a fiction, the story would have been made more complicated, or would have been told

true comfort in writing this book, it is well. German literature has received a fresh ornament; and a noble nature has shaken off some portion of its distress. But sorrow, if a good medicine, is a dangerous food. There is a luxury of grief, which, like opium, seems to soothe, yet is stealing into the veins like poison, and the victim sinks at last in despair.

S ST. PAUL'S JOURNEY TO DAMASOUS.-Allow | tional view of the Greek Church, from a woodme to ask what ancient authority exists, either cut of the conversion of St. Paul, which has in soulpture or painting, for representing St. been described to me by a friend, who saw it in Paul as having been on horseback when travel- an old Russian Primer taken from a corpse on. ling on his memorable journey towards Damas- the field of Alma. cus?

In our translation of the Bible, the expressions used are "as he journeyed" (Acts Ix. 3., πopeúεσtαι); and the Apostle himself says, I made my journey (Acts ΧΧΙΙ. 6., πορευ quève). The same words, we see, are employed both in the Greek and English in the two passages. Lord Lyttelton in his Observations on St. Paul's Conversion, uses the phrase: "Those in company with Saul fell down from their horses, together with him." Doddridge expresses himself much in the same manner: "He fell to the ground, being struck from the beast on which he rode, as all that travelled with him likewise were. In the recent valuable work (by Conybeare and Howson), The Life and Epistles of St. Paul, the writers say: "We know not how he travelled: there is no proof that he was on horseback, although it is very probable," (vol. I. p. 91.).

In Reuben's noble picture, now at Leigh Court, which Waagan terms a masterpiece, St. Paul is represented as having been thrown over the head of his spirited long-maned horse; and the horses of three of the attendants rearing and running away.

The same also would appear to be the tradi

In various pictures of modern date, and also on the pediment of our metropolitan cathedral: That stupendous frame,

66

Known by the Gentile's great Apostle's

name,"

he is represented by the sculptor Bird, as falling from his horse. This piece of sculpture contains eight large figures, five of which, be side that of St. Paul, are on horseback.

Walpole, when speaking of this work, is not very complimentary: "Any statuary (he says) was good enough for an ornament at that height, and a good statuary had been too good."

St. Paul, it will be recollected, carried letters from the high priest to the synagogues in Damascus. The political state of that city, where his name was known, was at the time somewhat critical; his journey was, therefore, invested with some importance.

The length of the journey may be computed at 136 miles, which is travelled by caravans in about six days. St. Paul's position, therefore, and the distance to be traversed, are material facts in forming an opinion on this question, and lead us to infer that the journey would not be performed on foot.-Notes and Queries

From

Memoirs of Marshal Marmont, Duke of arsholm The Athenæum. Ragusa, from 1792 to 1841-[Mémoirs du Maréchal Marmont, &c.] From the Original Manuscript of the Author. Vol. v. Paris, (Perrotin.)

moirs",

humble suggestion, in a strategic sense, was all that the mighty Dukes or Marshals ventured to interpose between the will of the Emperor and the obedience of the vast human organization at his command.

The Duke of Ragusa remained for some Ir was originally announced that these time in Paris before entering upon the cam"Memoirs," ocupying "ten volumes," paigns of 1813. Two months and a fortnight would extend over the period from 1792 to of the courtly indolence of the capital formed, 1832,-we are now informed that Marmont he says, an epoch in his life. The brilliance brought his narrative down to the year 1841; of the Empire was new to him. For nine and the publishers promise to complete the years he had sojourned in camps, while Nawork in " eight large volumes." The Mar-poleon, "in servile imitation of the past,' shal of the Empire, therefore, may be expected had been ordering uniforms for the grand to become the critic of the Citizen-King. officers of the state, compiling tables of preBut why was it intended at first to suppress cedence and codes of etiquette, and busying these later chapters ?-and why has that de- himself with a theatrical restoration of termination been revoked? The Marshal ancient ceremonies. Marmont was not unhimself desired that his chronicle should be conscious of the humiliation imposed on a produced to the public literally as it was soldier by compelling him to wear a Macawritten. It is to be hoped that the editors ronic costume, and to contrast his scars with have not ventured to be discreet,-for any the silken softness of a lady's page. A exercise of discretion on their part might Marshal of the Empire was no more than a materially impair the value of the "Me- private in Napoleon's camp, and a liveried as a new quarry to supply the his- servant at Napoleon's court. Meanwhile, torical architect. Hitherto we have detected what were the reflections then passing no traces of reserve or mutilation. The nar- through every serious mind? That the Emrative itself is an unchecked commentary peror was a political suicide-that the Grand on characters and events, while the illustra- Army no longer existed-that thousands of tive correspondence throws a thousand lights Frenchmen in Prussia and at Dantzig still and shadows on the civil and military policy suffered miserably from the consequences of of the Emperor Napoleon. Some of his his insane ambition, that enemies were mulmost characteristic letters are here preserved. tiplying and friends becoming fewer:-yet We see him here as he was seen by his mar- France, affirms Marmont, was not unwilling shals,- -we follow his plans as they were to give Napoleon one more opportunity of reoriginally traced on paper,-we understand, gaining his position in Europe. even more clearly than before, that it was the mortal disease of vanity which reduced him, until he became, at St. Helena, the attenuated shadow of his former self. In 1813, after the wreck of the Grand Army in Russia, the repulse in Spain, the eruption of discontent in France, he still boasted of his power to arbitrate between empires and to determine the destinies of Europe. The Marmont, high in command, restored to glory of Lutzen gave a new stimulus to this the Imperial confidence, still full of ambitious infatuation. Moscow was remembered as illusions, then entered upon the German an accident-Salamanca as an insignificant campaign of 1813. He describes particularly variation from a course of victory; -success the entire series of incidents leading up to was present, and Napoleon, with new hosts the Battle of Lutzen-details which must in the field, prophesied for himself a new have a special interest for the military reader. Austerlitz and a new Marengo. Neither After the first great conflict, he lay down to Marmont, nor any other general admitted to rest on the ground: the military council, ever seems to have "Suddenly, I heard the approach of cavalry hazarded a doubt of the Imperial policy; a-the Prussians were coming down upon us.

"It was hoped that he had been corrected, and that France might at length enjoy the consciousness of power in the bosom of repose. Levies were made without difficulty, An immense and even with enthusiasm. demand for horses was responded to without murmurs and without delay. All went forward so rapidly that it seemed as if armies were starting out of the earth."