spring blossoms blighted and without promise of autumnal fruit. I will in no wise condemn the mourning of affection, least of all that of parents; I will not even say, true as it is, you grieve over the fading of the youthful blossom, as over something new, and consider not that since the creation, each year, a spring has died. I ask you only, is it not better that death, rather than life, should wither the roses in their cheeks? Is it not well to die at such an age, when the youth and the maiden fly from a world of ideals into a brighter world of ideals, when they bear with them only the bright morning dreams and fresh morning hours of the first life, and where a milder sun rises over them, than the dull, heavy, sultry one of earth's day of toil, where they, exchanging a passing for an everlasting youth, need no time to recover from a long and weary life, and death's angel bursts asunder the rocks that prevent us rising out of the cold, gloomy, intricate catacombs of life. And is not this the happiest of deaths? I answer, no! for in life's spring time, there is yet a nobler, that of the youth on the battlefield. Oh, ye thousands of mothers, sisters, and lovers, whose tears gush forth anew at these words, because the tears of the loving flow longer than the blood of the beloved, because you cannot forget the noble, fiery, innocent young hearts, that no longer beat upon your breast, but are lying unknown and undistinguishable by the side of other dead hearts, in one great grave, check not those tears! but when your eyes are dry, follow with a brighter and a clearer gaze the course of the warriors as they sank, or much rather are arisen. Father, mother, behold

thy son before his fall. Not yet palsied by the prison fever of life, he parts from you with a joyous farewell. Full of hope and power, without the weary sadness of the dying, he plunges into the fiery battle-death. Borne on by lofty aspirations and supported and inspired by the feeling of honor; in his eye the foe, in his heart the fatherland. Falling foes, falling friends, inflame his soul, and the rushing cataracts of death cover a trampled world with gloom and with splendour, and with a rainbow. All that is great in man stands forth boldly, and almost divine in his bosom, as in a hall of the Gods: Duty, Fatherland, Freedom, Glory. Now comes from the earth his last wound; can he feel that which takes away all feeling? No! between his death and his immortality, no pain can come, and his last joyful thought is to have died for the fatherland. Then he goes crowned as conqueror, into the broad land of peace. There he will not look back to earth for its reward; his reward he carries with him, but you share it; you know that no striving after good is altogether fruitless, or without benefit to mankind, and you may hope that from the ashes of the dead on the battle altar, will rise the phoenix of the holiest; and that the skeletons of the warriors, lying in unknown graves, are the anchors that, unseen, uphold the vessel of the State. Parents, will you again shed tears over your sons? Weep on, but let them be only tears of joy, for man's power, for the pure ardour of youth, for his scorn of death, as of life, yes, for your own human heart, that would rather bear the agony of those tears, than be without the joys of that self-conquest. Yes, be even proud, ye parents; you too have striven, for you too have made

a sacrifice in the colder season of life you have given up a heart that you loved, even more than your own, and have ventured it for the great heart of the fatherland, and, as your child's remained and your's broke, you only wished and wept, but repented not your offering-and with your wound, your offering lives."

From these miscellaneous writings we select the following pieces:

"Too much fortune or too much misery drives both men and nations to immorality; it is only in the extremes of heat and cold, that the pond fishes hide themselves in the mud."

"Tyrant, thou seest the sun of liberty sink in a sea of tears and of blood, that so lately shed its beams over the world; but thy hopes are vain. The material sun too, sinks amid blood-red threatening clouds, into the ocean, but in the morning it rises unextinguished, and day again dawns."

"Our body sinks into the grave, and in the lapse of time, the very epitaph on the gravestone wears away. What then remains? That for which both were formed, the soul."

66 Youth weeps, so also does old age, but the one is the morning, the other, the evening dew. Thus the youth praised the tears of young eyes. But when the hot meridian sun had dried up the morning dew, and scorched the flowers, and the youth was become an old man, he said, it is true that the evening dew

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lies cold and dark, throughout the long night, but then the sun comes and it glistens again.'

"The world was moved and troubled, everywhere was sorrow on the blooming earth; death-clouds of black poisonous incense rose with its offerings to heaven; man struggled fiercely with man, and both bled. But in the midst of the tumult there was a region of peace; the lark soared high in the blue sky, the nightingale thrilled forth its rapturous melody, and other songsters enlivened the grove with their lays, or warmed their naked young against their feathered bosoms. Poets, you too sing; be like the birds, and always inhabit the pure calm heights."

"Many flowers open to the sun, but one follows it constantly. My heart, be thou the sunflower, not only open to God, but obey him also."

THE FAR-SEEING UNBELIEVERS.

"We have armed our eyes with the telescope and have examined the heavens, and found them empty and void, and immensity is lonely and waste. Oh! you foolish ones, your telescope is turned upside down.”

THE GLORY OF GENIUS.

"Gift of genius, thou art like the dew that falls from heaven under the evening star; unseen and dark, it strengthens the flower through the long night, but when the morning dawns and it glistens brighter than the flowers, the sun comes and takes it away. Gift of genius, thou art like the dew. Hidden in the silent breast, thou, pure and cool, refreshest it a long time,

but when thou throwest bright hues and splendor on the world around, thou oftentimes soon disappearest and leavest a weary heart behind.”

Written the last day of the year, 1807, when was fought the disastrous battle of Jena, and Germany's hopes were for the time crushed.

"Strange year! Hast thou then had the green trees and nightingales and the whole short spring of earth? Thou standest silent and ashamed, but yet thou hast brought them, but we have not been able to see them through our tears.

Morning of the new year dawn quickly upon us, and as on another morning, may the rainbow of peace rise over the retiring flood. And may the beauteous star of love, that according to the calendar governs the year, not sink, as Hesperus, that precedes the night, but as morning star that heralds the dawn; and may love be the queen of the year."

"The more the love of God and of our fellow man abounds, the less self-love is there; the quicker a planet revolves round the sun, the slower it turns round itself."

DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SCIENTIFIC AND POETIC

ILLUSION.

"If the philosopher deceive thee, he gives thee a vapour of earth, that dissolves itself in rain; if the poet deceive thee, he gives thee a nebula of heaven that resolves itself into suns."