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been expelled from the said seminary, on account of the gross immorality of his conduct. "After all, however," said Frederick Werner," Alexander Hohenlohe is a man of extraordinary prudence, and besides, he is a prince; and Baron Penkler, although allowing the "inconsistencies" of his highness' conduct, still believed that he had sometimes moments of pious enthusiasm.

Sometime after receiving this illumination, Mr. Wolff fell in again with the prince, who had by this time acquired the reputation of preaching like St. Bernard. The sanctity of his look, and the propriety of his language, according to the worthy missionary's account, compelled him to believe that his highness was now completely regenerated; and he listened therefore with interest to an account of his religious progress. He saw him one day composing a sermon in his usual fashion, viz. reading what he should write in the face of an image of our Saviour, and then committing the holy words to the paper before him. The same sermon he heard him preach, and was no doubt considerably surprised to find it to be verbatim the same as one which had been published sometime before by Michael Sailer. The next day Prince Hohenlohe was drunk; and his conversation, as on the former occasion, obscene. Soon after, his highness was ordained priest; and on the same day, a collection having been made for the purpose of building a new church for the Catholics in Zurich, the contributions were given into the custody of the prince. The curate at Zurich, Mr. Meyer, understanding this, wrote to his highness for the money; but his highness replied, that he had paid it to the president of the Catholic consistory at Stuttgard. The president, in reply to a letter from Mr. Myer, stated, that he had never received any thing of the kind; and that Prince Alexander Hohenlohe was a liar, a wretch, and something else.

Mr. Wolff, also, accuses the prince of stealing a silver cup, and a mass-cloth, and of breaking open his (the missionary's) letters.

I hear that since that time Hohenlohe performs miracles, and has become a Latin author. I think that his becoming a Latin author is the greatest miracle he has wrought, for I am most confident that Prince Alexander Hohenlohe does neither write German correctly, nor is he capable of writing Latin.

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During his stay at Rome he published a Latin poem, which he himself confessed to me was made by one of the Jesuists, in whose convent he lodged during his stay at Rome.'-p. 179.

Mr. Wolff's motives for making these disclosures, are thus described:

'I heard already at Alexandria, four years ago, that Prince Alexander Hohenlohe Shillingsfuerst, performs miracles, and by his prayers the sick and deaf, in France, Germany, England and Ireland, are healed. I paid no attention to that report, for I could not conceive that the imposture practised by a young man like Prince Alexander Hohenlohe Shillingsfuerst,

would remain veiled for a considerable time; a man who is known as an infamous liar and a hypocrite, not only in Germany, but declared to be such a one by the members of the court of Rome themselves. I paid, therefore, no attention to the report; but the fame of the pretended miracles of Prince Alexander Hohenlohe have reached the walls of Bagdad, and been proclaimed there as truth by Monsignor Pierre Coupery, the Archbishop of Babylon, and the miracles of that man are supported by the bigoted editor of the journal of Ami du Roi et de la Religion;' I can, therefore, no longer hold my peace.'-p. 173.

In closing this very interesting volume, we recur to its main topic, the state of the scattered remnant of Israel, and conclude our extracts and article, with the impressive reflections of the author, on the destitute condition of his brethren.

'Children of Abraham, in what condition do I find you every where ! why would you not hear your prophets of old? Moses came and called to witness heaven and earth, and laid before you blessings and curses, and desired you to hear the prophet like unto him. And the lyre of David sang upon Nehiloth and Shemimth; and upon Aijeleth Shahar, the mournful tunes which were uttered after him by the Son and his Lord: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" And Isaiah came, and told you of that Son, which was born to us-and sang the song of the well beloved'; and showed to you that Lord, who came from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah; and who was travelling in the greatness of his strength,→ and he mentioned to you the loving-kindness of the Lord, and the praises of the Lord, and the great goodness toward the house of Israel! And Jeremiah came, and announced to them the days which were to come, that he would make a new covenant with them, not according to the covenant he made with them, when he brought them out of Egypt; and he announced to them that branch of David, who was the Lord our righteousness; and Daniel told them what he understood of the books, aud informed them of that which the flying angel Gabriel informed him of the Messiah the Prince, and the time when he was to be cut off. And the herdman, and the gatherer of Sycamore fruit-the herdman of Tekoa cried; Though no prophet, no prophet's son, for the lion had roared, the trumpet had blown! The herdman of Tekoa cried, and prophecied: The virgin of Israel is fallen; she shall no more rise; she is forsaken upon her land; there is none to raise her up! The herdman of Tekoa prophecied, though no prophet, though no prophet's son, for the lion had roared, the trumpet had blown :

'That in the day that I shall visit the transgressions of Israel upon him! I will also visit the altars of Bethel; and the horns of the altar shall be cut off.

And the angels in heaven sung near the cradle of the holy child of Bethlehem, "Glory to the Highest, and good will towards man!" and the Shepherds adored, but alas ye would not hear, even when ye saw that the hour was come, the hour of the anguish of his soul; and it breaks my heart to reflect how from year to year the holy land of promise decayed.'_ Pp. 199, 200,

ART IX.-1. The Village Patriarch: a Poem. London: Bull. 1829. 2. Poems, Original, Lyrical, and Satirical, containing Indian Reminiscences of the late Sir Toby Rendry, M. R. S. London: Boyle. 1829.

3. Glastonbury Abbey: a Poem. Longman. 1828.

4. The Harp of Innisfail. By D. S. L. London: Robins. 1829. 5. The Age: a Poem. In Eight Books. London: Hurst, Chance, and Co. 1829.

A MAN who appears on the stage, without being able to act, gets hissed, and is at once rewarded with his proper share of ridicule; a man who goes into a society, in which he only hopes to pass muster by mimicking the actions of his superiors, is, without much courtesy, immediately pushed out; a painter, whose vanity makes him believe some miserable daub worthy of public exhibition, is cured of his insanity by seeing every body laugh at his performance; and, lastly, a man who offers bad articles for sale at the same price for which good ones may be purchased, is, or deserves to be, whipped. Now, the three first of these personages could not be punished by any statute law in any nation of Europe, and their punishment, consequently, has to be measured and justified by different principles than those employed in judging other offences. But the consequence of this is, that a vast deal of confusion has been introduced, and offenders of the above class have to be punished over and over again, before they can be made to understand their criminality, or acknowledge the authority of the court which condemns them. Certain it is, however, that a country would little deserve to be termed civilized, if it had no critics; and most surely would a people sink fast back into barbarism, if they had not spirit enough to show their scorn of all corrupters of their stage, their manners, or their arts. Besides this, which is a kind of patriotic duty, it is exceedingly proper that the public should always stand on the strictest etiquette with those who desire its patronage, for being, as is well known, the best patron in existence, it is greatly derogatory to its dignity to suffer the absurd solicitations of imbecile vanity, without an expression of its anger or disgust.

We have not yet mentioned bad poets, but it is on them, we believe, the wrath of the offended public most properly falls; for they alone, in the generality of cases, are impelled by mere naked vanity to intrude themselves on its notice. From time out of mind has this unfortunate, and, as it would seem, foredoomed race of miserable mortals, been warned, both by precept and example, to avoid their ruinous temptation, but all to no purpose, and even to the present day of improved taste and knowledge, they continue their wittol-headed employment with as much stupid obstinacy as ever. Unlike other people, who offend from

want of good sense or taste, nothing short of death can make them sensible of their mistake, and while a single round of hisses is amply sufficient to drive an unfortunate player, mortified and abashed from the stage, a maudlin poet, whom we should imagine, by his professions, to be endued with, at least, equal modesty, will stand the ridicule of friends and foes, without any abridgment to his assurance. Were there a possibility of effecting a cure in these brain-sick people, it would have been done long ago. But while alchymists, astrologers, diviners, and all the sublimer species of folly-stricken students have been cured or killed, these spawn of idiot vanity have withstood every attempt at improvement, and have as great assurance in appearing before the public, as if they had as much common sense as other people.

We have not here taken into account the positive mischief which is occasioned by the misemployment of time, and the utter perversion of all the little sense with which the pseudo poet may be endowed. But this is a very serious subject of consideration, and one which, even if the public were ready to forgive the insult offered it, should attract the attention of all sober-minded and benevolent men. The making of verses is certainly a very harmless thing in itself, but, in nine instances out of ten, it makes the writer a felo de se in his intellect, and, if he have any, a bankrupt in his fortune. We solemnly, therefore, exhort all parents and guardians to thoroughly weed out such a vice at its first appearance in their family, and we hope his majesty's ministers will take into their wise consideration, to issue an order to put down all schools and colleges, royal or otherwise, in which the mischievous custom of verse-making is encouraged. We hope by this means, and our occasional assistance, the evil will be prevented from again coming to such a head, as it did in the time of our predecessors, whose just anger was so often excited by the frequent offences of this kind, to which they were witness.

We have said thus much to satisfy our conscience, and prevent the occurrence of any evil from the indulgence we may show to some of the verses before us; but having done this, we are ready to confess our belief, that, notwithstanding the miserable absurdities which have come forth under the shape of minor poetry, critics have not always behaved with due discretion in judging its merits. By one of those vulgar dogmas, as common almost among philosophers as among the illiterate, it has been laid down as a maxim, that nothing short of the most perfect excellence can make a poem worth reading; that there can be no composition which, if it give not the highest degree of pleasure, can afford any, and that no man is a poet who does not possess the divinest faculties of the soul in full harmony and perfection. Now it is one thing to treat of the excellence of an art, of the honor which belongs to its best masters, or of the noble qualities of mind and being, required to attain the highest expression of its spiritual beauty; it is one thing to do this, and to decide

respecting the degree of enjoyment its productions are to afford us, or whether there be any fixed quantum of delight which attaches to only one degree of excellence, and a failure in fully producing which, completely renders a production intolerable. Such, however, is the confused manner in which critics have been accustomed to judge of poetry, that the distinction here made has seldom seemed to enter their minds, and the consequence has been, that they have frequently shown themselves insensible to many real beauties in the lower species of poetry; have indiscriminately condemned, where a more careful judgment might have discovered something to approve; and scorned to acknowledge themselves pleased, when pleasure was not converted into rapture. We shall not stop here to enter into any lengthened remarks on the subject, as it is our intention, on a very early occasion, to offer our opinions on the present state of poetry in general. But we cannot help observing, that an injudicious severity of criticism, in respect to poetry, may, to cure an evil, destroy some of our most humanizing pleasures. The cultivation of a true poetical talent, even if it be far below excellence, can hardly fail to produce much enjoyment to its possessors; and if it be the result of a generous and fine nature, will endanger neither their common sense nor daily prudence. It is only where poetry is the production of aping vanity or affectation, that it makes a man idle or ridiculous. The perception of beauty, a deep delight in its enjoyment, and an ardent wish to communicate the pleasure to others, all of which are among the elements of a poetical mind, can never produce any injury to the heart and understanding; and if they be not united with the high and mysterious faculty of imagination, though they may miss much of their perfection, they are still worthy of cultivation, and may be made fruitful in musical and gentle thought. It would be a noble thing for society, could its very spirit be bathed in these elements of poetry, and so far are we from wishing to discourage the production of even its lightest and simplest species, that we require an author only to prove himself master of any one genuine poetical principle in his constitution, to offer him the right hand of our fellowship. Let not, however, any mere pretender to the divine art take courage from this. The one sign with which we should be satisfied, must be stamped on the heart, soul, and brain of the man, giving us not a moment's trouble to discover whether it was worked in by art, or formed there the moment the spirit of life had breathed upon his clay.

But we must now turn to the Publications before us, by noticing which we shall be paying off a debt which we have been willing to settle before proceeding to a more serious consideration of the subject of poetry. The first of the little volumes on our list, comes in the very questionable form of a versified treatise on politics and political economy,-subjects with which, of all others, we most abhor to see a poet pretend to any acquaintance. A principal

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