ing light had wrought. Shelley.
And I smiled, as one never smiles but once; Then first discovering my own aim's extent, Which sought to comprehend the works of God, And God himself, and all God's intercourse With the human mind. Browning
Tieck, who has embodied so many Runic secrets, explained to me what I have often felt toward myself, when he tells of the poor changeling, who, turned from the door of her adopted home, sat down on a stone and so pitied herself that she wept.
Yet me ae, Its window overlooked wide fields, gentle slopes, a rich and smiling country, whose aspect pleased without much occupying the eye, while a range of blue hills, rising at about twelve miles distance, allured to reverie.
Distant mountains, says Tieck, excite the fancy, for beyond them we place the scene of our Paradise.
Thus, in the poems of fairy adventure, we climb the rocky barrier, pass fearless its dragon caves, and dark pine forests, and find the scene of enchantment in the vale behind
re, at the same time, by the wild bugle-call of Thomas Carlyle, in his romantic articles on Richter, Schiller, and Goethe, which appeared in the old Foreign Review, the Edinburgh Review, and afterwards in the Foreign Quarterly.
I believe that in about three months from the time that Margaret commenced German, she was reading with ease the masterpieces of its literature.
Within the year, she had read Goethe's Faust, Tasso, Iphigenia, Hermann and Dorothea, Elective Affinities, and Memoirs; Tieck's William Lovel, Prince Zerbino, and other works; Korner, Novalis, and something of Richter; all of Schiller's principal dramas, and his lyric poetry.
Almost every evening I saw her, and heard an account of her studies.
Her mind opened under this influence, as the apple-blossom at the end of a warm week in May.
The thought and the beauty of this rich literature equally filled her mind and fascinated her imagination.
But if she studied books thus earnestly, still more frequently did she
o pay the seamstress; but I am not willing to have what I write mutilated, or what I ought to say dictated to suit the public taste.
You speak of my writing about Tieck.
It is my earnest wish to interpret the German authors of whom I am most fond to such Americans as are ready to receive.
Perhaps some might sneer at the notion oes of articles on German literature, giving room enough and perfect freedom to say what I please.
In this case, I should wish to devote at least eight numbers to Tieck, and should use the Garden of Poesy, and my other translations.
I have sometimes thought of translating his Little Red Riding Hood, for children.
If it could bo,—thus comprehending samples of all his efforts in poetry, and bringing forward some of his prominent opinions; Lessing's Nathan, Minna, Emilia Galeotti; parts of Tieck's Phantasus, and nearly the whole first volume of Richter's Titan.
With the Italian class, I read parts of Tasso, Petrarch,—whom they came to almost adore,—Ario<
etter than formerly, I cannot read so well les langues meridionales. I suppose it is that I am less meridionale myself.
I understand the genius of the north better than I did.
Dante, Petrarca, Tasso, were her friends among the old poets,—for to Ariosto she assigned a far lower place, —Alfieri and Manzoni, among the new. But what was of still more import to her education, she had read German books, and, for the three years before I knew her almost exclusively,—Lessing, Schiller, Richter, Tieck, Novalis, and, above all, Goethe.
It was very obvious, at the first intercourse with her, though her rich and busy mind never reproduced undigested reading, that the last writer,—food or poison,—the most powerful of all mental reagents,—the pivotal mind in modern literature, —for all before him are ancients, and all who have read him are moderns,—that this mind had been her teacher, and, of course, the place was filled, nor was there room for any other.
She had that symptom which