watching! The next day I saw him in his bed. "Well," said I, 66 are you at last satiated with glory?" "Ah! my good friend," he replied, "you talk to me of glory, and I am dying in frightful torture!" Such was the end of one of the most illustrious of all literary men, and one of the most engaging of all social companions. He was alive to injury, but so he was to friendship. That with which he honoured my youth, was unvaried till his death; and a last proof that he showed me of it was the reception, full of grace and kindness, which he gave my wife, when I presented her to him. His house was perpetually filled with the crowd that pressed to see him, and we were witnesses of the fatigue he gave himself to reply suitably to each. That continual attention exhausted his strength; and for his true friends it was a painful spectacle. But we were of his suppers, and there we enjoyed the last glimmerings of that brilliant intellect which was soon to be wholly extinguished. For the Literary Magazine. PROCESSION OF THE HOST, AT ROME. By Kotzebue. A STRIKING spectacle in the streets is, when the host is carried by priests to dying persons. We should, if possible, see this in an open place; for in the narrow streets it produces much less effect, I suppose. I live in the Largo del Castello, a very large square, which is covered from morning till night with buyers, sellers, animals, carriages, popular exhibitions, and spectators. Close by me is a puppet-show, at the entrance of which the owner stands and entertains the people with his droll remarks. Some steps farther is a fish-market, and directly opposite to me the main-guard house. I do not exaggerate when I say that upwards of two thousand persons, besides the cattle, are usually assembled in this place. Suddenly the procession I have just mentioned appears: colours flying before. announce it to the eye; and the perpetual tingling of little bells, to the ear. It is surrounded by finely dressed priests, and often also by a military guard of honour; and clouds of frankincense ascend into the air before them. All the pious, whose road leads them this way, consider it a duty to follow the train, which, like a snow-ball, thus enlarges in its progress. The showman is directly silent; even the fish-women are perfectly still; not a sound escapes: all hats fly off, and thousands fall on their knees, beat their breasts, and cross themselves. The guards shoulder their arms, and a solemn tune is played as long as the procession is in sight. In the night the spectacle is still grander. At every balcony, and let it be remembered that there is no window without a balcony, a light suddenly appears, and the darkness is converted, as it were by magic, into broad day; for every story is illuminated; and below in the street a number of rockets are lighted, which, with a whizzing and loud report, salute the solemn procession. As I pursue it into the next street, the sight varies in its singularity. At one moment all is perfect darkness; and the next, as the procession enters, the whole street, on both sides, assumes a brilliant aspect : and thus the light appears to fly from house to house, and from balcony to balcony, in the most rapid succession, till, in the same order, it by degrees vanishes again, and every thing returns to its former darkness. I have frequently put the question to myself, whence comes it that this spectacle should fill me, who am a heretic, with a sort of awe, since I esteem it the greatest of all absurdities to believe that God can be carried in a box in the streets? I know not how to answer this otherwise than by the observation, that most things affect our weak minds, which occupy and influence such a vast multitude of people at the same time. Who, for example, feels much pleasure in seeing a single soldier exercise only for five minutes? But put twenty thousand soldiers in a row, and it amuses us for hours. For the Literary Magazine. POMPEII. By the Same. A GREAT and rich town, that, after lying eighteen centuries in a deep grave, is again shone on by the sun, and stands amidst other cities, as much a stranger as any one of its former inhabitants would be among his posterity of the present day;such a town has not its equal in the world. The feelings which seized me at its gate may be very faintly expressed by words, but admit, indeed, of no adequate representation. My foot now steps on the same pavement as was trodden on eighteen hundred years ago: the tracks of the wheels are still visible which then rolled over it. An elevated path runs by the side of the houses, for foot-passengers; and that they might, in rainy weather, pass commodiously over to the opposite side, large flat stones, three of which take up the width of the road, were laid at a distance from each other. As the carriages, in order to avoid these stones, were obliged to use the intermediate spaces, the tracks of the wheels are there most visible. The whole pavement is in good condition: it consists merely of considerable pieces of lava, which, however, are not cut, as at present, into squares, and may have been on that account the more durable. What must have been the feelings of the Pompeians, when the roaring of the mountain and the quaking of the earth waked them from their first sleep! They attempted also to escape the wrath of the Gods; and, seizing the most valuable things they could lay their hands upon, in the darkness and confusion, to seek their safety in flight. In this street, and before the house that is marked with the friendly salutation on its threshold, seven skeletons were found the first carried a lamp, and the rest had still between the bones of their fingers something that they wished to save. On a sudden they were overtaken by the storm that descended from heaven, and sunk into the grave thus made for them. Before the above-mentioned country house was still a male skeleton standing with a dish in his hand; and as on his finger he wore one of those rings that were allowed to be worn only by Roman knights, he is supposed to have been the master of the house, who had just opened the back garden gate with the intent of flying, when the shower overwhelmed him. Several skeletons were found in the very posture in which they had breathed their last, without being forced by the agonies of death to drop the things which they had in their hands. For the Literary Magazine. THE FORCE OF NOVELTY. ONE primary source of pleasure to the human mind, both in its acts of perception and conception, is novelty. This is felt most evidently by children; and often so exquisitely, that the pleasures of association, however cultivated in after life, never equals them. But, as we grow up, the mind becomes callous to mere novelty; or rather, from experience, scarcely any thing seems new. Stronger stimulants must be applied, to excite its jaded sensibility, and supply, drop by drop, that delight which flowed in a constant stream on the cheerfulness of youth. There is a refined degree of novelty, which acts in a lively manner on the mind, and often, by sympathy, on the nerves; for which we may 360 venture to coin the name of unexpectedness. This character must naturally consist in sudden change, whether in the course of our sensations, or of our ideas. There is another primary source of pleasure to the mind; which is repose. It is chiefly by the alternate operations of the love of ease and of activity that the complicated machine of man is wrought up to "Les hommes ont un what it is. instinct secret," says the wild and melancholy Pascal, “ qui les porte a chercher le divertissement et l'occupation au dehors, qui vient du ressentiment de leur misere continuelle. Et ils ont un autre instinct, qui reste de la grandeur de leur premiere nature, qui leur fait connoitre, que le bonheur n'est en effet que dans le repos." It is to the pleasure of repose that we refer some part of that which arises from uniformity, symmetry, and fitness, though much undoubtedly depends upon association, where the mind anticipates the cause of its perceptions, and lets them pass without effort or laborious attention. And this is perhaps the secret link, which connects the sentiment of beauty with mathematical theorems, or mechanical contrivances. How differently the mind is affected by what has the character of unexpectedness, and what, on the contrary, keeps the imagination in repose, has often been illustrated with respect to visible nature, and the art of painting. One must be deaf, or averse to the "concord of sweet sounds," who is not aware of the use which is made, in music, of the two principles, unexpectedness and repose, and of the difference in the states of feeling which they produce. Let any man compare the character of a lively spirited movement, full of change and transition, which strike any ear in the general effect, though only a microscopic one, to use as bad a term as picturesque, can distinguish them in detail, with that of such music as is described in the following lines; lines which, had they, and those among which they stand, been found in Lucretius, Ac veluti melicæ voces, quando auribu' sese Insinuant, animæque resignant mollia Composuere metus omneis, faciuntque dolorum Obliviscier, ac dulci languescere leto. What answers to picturesqueness in poetry and eloquence is the qua lity called animation; which often gives a charm to incorrect writing, that more faultless productions cannot reach; and which, though of a subtle and undefinable nature, will often be found to resolve itself into unexpectedness. For the Literary Magazine. USE OF THE FINE ARTS. THE use of the fine arts seems to be this: when men are altogether barbarous and ignorant, it is of much importance to prevail with them to exert their faculties with regard even to the most trifling objects. A marvellous tale told them in a song produces this effect. All the efforts of the fine arts are adapted to the passions. It is necessary they should be so to excite the attention of barbarians. They have only an indirect tendency, therefore, to render mankind rational. They foster and soothe the passions of love, ambition, and vanity; but they also teach men to admire skill and ability, and to take delight in something else than war, gaming, gluttony, and idleness, which are the vices of all savages. As succeeding artists improve upon each other, their countrymen become more discerning and skilful, till at last a great proportion of mankind learn to take delight in the exertion of thought, and in the pursuits of literature and of knowledge. When this object is accomplished, the fine arts have done their duty; and an important duty it is, seeing they are the means of alluring the human race to the pursuit of intellectual improvement. In themselves, however, and without regard to this object, they are of little real value; for a man is not a more excellent being when his ears are tickled by music, than when he hears it not; and we derive no greater improvement from an important truth, when it is conveyed to us in rhyme, than when it is conveyed in prose. To be a good judge of painting or of music, a man must no doubt possess a certain degree of intellect; but this degree is so moderate, and is capable of being acquired in so many other ways in a literary age, that the production of it, by means of these arts, affords no adequate reward for their laborious cultivation. In Scotland, for two hundred years past, they have had almost none of these arts. They have no splendid musical establishments. They have banished music from their religion; and it is little valued either by the enterprising or the speculative part of the nation. They have had a few good painters, but little attention has been paid to their works. They have few collections of paintings; and their most intelligent men have no knowledge of the beauties of the art, and give it none of their attention. Their poets have also been few; because poetry is held in little estimation, and the cultivation of the art is accounted a waste of time that produces no respectability. Yet the Scots are so far from being a barbarous people, that their country has been one of the most fertile nurseries of intelligent and accomplished men. Not only are those who remain at home of a sober and well-informed character, but crowds of well educated and active young men are daily issuing forth to all quarters of the globe; and by their literature and their assiduity, obtaining possession of important stations in every country. It is evident, therefore, that in mo dern times at least, as high a degree of civilization and of intellectual improvement as has yet appeared in the world, may exist where the fine arts are almost entirely neglected. For the Literary Magazine. CHARACTER OF LUTHER. By Roscoe. IN order to form a proper estimate of the conduct and character of Luther, it is necessary to consider him in two points of view. First, as an opponent to the haughty claims and gross abuses of the Roman see; and, secondly, as the founder of a new church, over which he may be said to have presided till his death, in 1546, a period of nearly thirty years. In the former capacity we find him endeavouring to substitute the authority of reason and of scripture for that of councils and of popes, and contending for the utmost latitude in the perusal and construction of the sacred writings, which, as he expressed it, could not be chained, but were open to the interpretation of every individual. For this great and daring attempt he was peculiarly qualified. A consciousness of his own integrity, and the natural intrepidity of his mind, enabled him not only to brave the most violent attacks of his adversaries, but to treat them with a degree of derision and contempt, which seemed to prove the superiority of his cause. Fully sensible of the importance and dignity of his undertaking, he looked with equal eyes on all worldly honours and distinctions; and emperors, and pontiffs, and kings, were regarded by him as men and as equals, who might merit his respect or incur his resentment, merely as they were inclined to promote or obstruct his views. Nor was he more firm against the stern voice of authority, than against the blandishments of flattery, and the softening influence of real or pretended friend ship. The various attempts which were made to induce him to relax in his opposition, seem in general to have confirmed, rather than shaken his resolution; and if at any time he showed a conciliatory disposition, it was only a symptom that his opposition would soon be carried to a greater length. The warmth of his temperament, seldom, however, prevented the exercise of his judg ment; and the various measures to which he resorted for securing popularity to his cause, were the result of a thorough knowledge of the great principles of human nature, and of the peculiar state of the times in which he lived. The injustice and absurdity of resorting to violence, instead of convincing the understanding by argument, were shown by him in the strongest light. Before the imperial diet he asserted his own private opinion, founded, as he maintained, on reason and scripture, against all the authorities of the Roman church; and the important point which he incessantly laboured to establish, was the right of private judgment in matters of faith. To the defence of this proposition, he was at all times ready to devote his learning, his talents, his repose, his character, and his life; and the great and imperishable merit of this reformer, consists in his having demonstrated it by such arguments, as neither the efforts of his adversaries, nor his own subsequent conduct, have been able either to refute or invalidate. As the founder of a new church, the character of Luther appears in a very different light. After having effected a separation from the see of Rome, there yet remained the still more difficult task of establishing such a system of religious faith and worship, as, without admitting the exploded doctrines of the papal church, would prevent that licentiousness which, it was supposed, would be the consequence of removing all ecclesiastical restraints. In this task, Luther engaged with a re solution equal to that with which he had braved the authority of the Ro mish church; but with this remarkable difference, that, in one case, he effected his purpose by strenuously insisting on the right of private judgment in matters of faith, while in the other, he succeeded by broaching new doctrines, to which he expected that all those who espoused his cause should implicitly submit. The opinions of Luther on certain points were fixed and unalterable. The most important of these were the doctrine of the real presence in the eucharist, and the justification of mankind by faith alone. Whoever assented not to these propositions was not of his church; and though he was ready, on all occa. sions, to employ arguments from scripture in defence of his tenets, yet, when these proved insufficient, he seldom hesitated to resort to more violent measures. This was fully exemplified in his conduct towards his friend Carlostadt, who not being able to distinguish between the Romish doctrine of transubstantiation and that of the real presence of Christ in the sacrament, believed, with Zuinglius, that the bread and the wine were only the symbols, and not the actual substance, of the body and blood of Christ. Luther, however, maintained his opinion with the utmost obstinacy; the dispute gave birth to several violent publications, till Luther, who was now supported by the secular power, obtained the banishment of Carlostadt, who was at length reduced to the necessity of earning his bread by his daily labour. The unaccommodating adherence of Luther to this opinion, raised also an insuperable bar to the union of the Helvetic and German reformers; and to such an uncharitable length did he carry his resentment against those who denied the real presence, that he refused to admit the Swiss, and the German cities and states, which had embraced the tenets of Zuinglius and Bucer, into the confederacy for the defence of the protestant church; choosing rather to risk the total destruction of his cause, than |