m, a discernment piercing the shows and symbols of existence, yet rejoicing in them all, both for their own life, and as signs of the unseen reality.
Not that Cervantes philosophized,—his genius was too deeply philosophical for that; he took things as they came before him, and saw their actual relations and bearings.
Thus the work he produced was of deep meaning, though he might never have expressed that meaning to himself.
It was left implied in the whole.
A Coleridge comes and calls Don Quixote the pure Reason, and Sancho the Understanding.
Cervantes made no such distinctions in his own mind; but he had seen and suffered enough to bring out all his faculties, and to make him comprehend the higher as well as the lower part of our nature.
Sancho is too amusing and sagacious to be contemptible; the Don too noble and clear-sighted towards absolute truth, to be ridiculous.
And we are pleased to see manifested in this way, how the lower must follow and serve the higher, despite its
have seen in Victor Hugo, and as good as Schiller.
Stello is a bolder attempt.
It is the history of three poets,—Gilbert, Andre Chenier, Chatterton.
He has also written a drama called Chatterton, inferior to the story here.
The marvellous boy seems to have captivated his imagination marvellously.
In thought, these productions are worthless; for taste, beauty of sentiment, and power of description, remarkable.
His advocacy of the poets' cause is about as effective and well-planned as Don Quixote's tourney with the wind-mill.
How would you provide for the poet bon homme De Vigny?—from a joint-stock company Poet's Fund, or how?
His translation of Othello, which I glanced at, is good for a Frenchman.
Among his poems, La Fregate, La Serieuse, Madame de Soubise, and Dolorida, please me especially.
The last has an elegiac sweetness and finish, which are rare.
It also makes a perfect gem of a cabinet picture.
Some have a fine strain of natural melody, and give you at once th