to be possessed with the devil. They trembled and prophesied publickly in the streets. One had the boldness to prophesy before me for an hour.'-(Vie du Maréchal Duc de Villars, p. 325.) The last circumstance of this nature which we shall notice, is what occurred around the tomb of the deacon Pâris, at the cemetery of St. Medard. Here we have miracles, convulsions, extasies, prophecies, visions, prayers, sermons, &c. &c., in short, all the wonders of Magnetism. The whole affair is too recent and too well known to require any detail on our part. Hume, in his Essay on Miracles,' has remarked, that after the account of these wonders was published by the Jansenites, in favour of whose opinions they were supposed to have been wrought, their openly declared enemies, the Jesuits, with all their ingenuity and seconded by the government, could never fully disprove them, or reveal the imposture. 6 We have only hinted at these scenes to show what may occur among honest, but weak-minded, credulous people, in a state of mental exaltation. Such instances are to be found in hundreds, and we need not, indeed, have gone out of our own country to seek them. In times of religious discord and persecution, we too have had our prophets and gifted men; and examples, as well attested as any thing of the kind can be, of their visions and prophecies having been fulfilled, of their speaking in strange tongues and their extacies; and though a German Journal of Magnetism now complains with justice, that Great Britain and America present a "tabula rasa" in regard to every thing connected with Magnetism,' a time has been when it was otherwise with us. We have had our sorcerers and witches, our prophets and miracle-workers. Our Fludds, Greatrakeses, Maxwells, Perkinses, &c. &c. have thriven amongst us in their own good time. Some of them were honest, well meaning men in their day and generation; but now their wonders have gone the way of all such things. So will it also fare with Animal Magnetism: we have seen enough of it to enable us to predict with confidence, that its wonders will also diminish and fade away as they are made the subject of more rigid and scientific investigation; and that this vast discovery,' which was to reform the human race,' will finally dwindle down to the common standard of earthly things, and become a very small matter indeed. But while we thus acknowledge our utter inability to believe that Animal Magnetism is any thing more than a mere creature of the fancy, we are far from pretending to set limits to the effects which may be produced on ignorant, credulous, suscep tible people, when they are labouring under disease and debility, whether of body or of mind. We have seen enough of the effects of the imagination and the passions in such cases, to convince us, that we do not yet know the limits of their influence: from the details which we have already given regarding the processes of the magnetisers, our readers will be enabled to judge how much both these are acted upon in magnetising. Much that appears supernatural is so to us only because our knowledge of nature is very limited many wonderful things take place around us which might cease to be wonderful if our vision were a little deeper. We have on record hundreds of 'well-attested' stories regarding ghosts, spectres, and strange things of every sort; which, though we can neither altogether disprove nor explain them, we continue to disbelieve; for they contradict what we conceive, from our own experience, to be the laws of nature. And a sober man, without believing all the wondrous things that the magnetisers and others of the same class relate, may still find much in them that has not yet been fully explained. 'We are fearfully and wonderfully made:' the acutest physiologist amongst us cannot explain the simplest function of our bodies; and who hath seen into the mysterious being of that immortal spirit which we feel within us, or known the laws to which it is subject in its connexion with our material part? It was nothing but matchless, unutterable vanity that made Buffon style himself a Genius equal to the Majesty of Nature.' There is enough in the meanest fibre of our bodies to convince us of our ignorance, to humble our pride, and fill us with reverence for Him who hath created all things, for whose power nothing is too great, for whose Eye of Providence no object in this vast universe is too minute! ART. VI.-Gesammelte Werke der Brüder Christian und Friedrich Leopold Grafen zu Stolberg. 20 vols. 1820-25. Hamburgh, bei Perthes und Besser. THE poets of Germany, if sometimes the most original, are also the most imitative of all the sons of song. Klopstock, in his Ode which describes the race between the two muses of his native land and of England, wisely veils in a cloud of dust the issue of the contest. Not only, however, did he leave the victory undecided; he felt too conscious of his own obligations to the muse of Britain to deny her older standing, and greater experience in such competitory warfare. For some time the German German poets had been content with French models, which, while they taught them elegance of composition, crippled the energy of invention; until the two Swiss writers, Bodmer and Breitinger, demonstrated the superiority of English literature. The influence of such example was not unfelt, and a bolder spirit of originality inspired the writers of Germany. No sooner was the impulse given by Klopstock, than the electric shock communicated itself from breast to breast, and every heart kindled with emulation and patriotism. Of all those who may be considered as having caught the spark of inspiration from the noble enthusiasm of the poet of the Messiah, no writers are more deserving of notice than the two Stolbergs, whose works we make the subject of our present article. The Stolbergs were imitators of Klopstock, and, at a later period, of Bürger. Had they, however, been only imitators; such, for instance, as were the followers of Pope in our country, we should not have thought of bestowing this notice upon them. They wore not the mantle of those poets only, but also imbibed their spirit. In the times of old, we know there were schools of the prophets in which was taught the prophetic art; but this instruction was so far from precluding inspiration, that it presupposed it as a necessary condition. The Stolbergs, particularly the younger, were poets by nature; the direction of their genius was, however, probably, determined by the example of their great predecessor. 'The more original,' (says Frederick Leopold Count Stolberg himself,) the more animated a man's works are, the more clear and profound are his thoughts; and the more strong and flowing his sensations, the more certain we may be that the man is more excellent than his writings. Whoever is of secondary order, either in poetry or philosophy, exhausts himself on paper. The works of a compiler are always superior to their author; with whom I have no wish to be acquainted, even though he should collect something valuable for my amusement. We cannot long stand to admire an artificial fountain, where the water issues through the mouths and breasts of dolphins and mermaids; though we repose with delight on the bubbling source, and under the cool shade of the dripping rocks where the stream first takes its rise. O Klopstock! Thou mighty river of our age and country, how often have I been strengthened and refreshed and inspired with new life by thy stream; which, flowing full and exhaustless, directs its bold course to the ocean of immortality!' The personal history of the Stolbergs is not, like that of Klopstock, full of interest. They had no early difficulties to contend with; no trials of the heart to surmount. They were in in nowise self-taught, and were in possession of rank and riches. The elder lived, married, wrote poetry, and died. Of the younger, indeed, his conversion to the Roman Catholic church forms a subject for serious reflection; but with respect to the rest of his life, the more briefly it is told, the better. In one particular, however, they are both deserving of eminent consideration. Scarcely ever was there an instance of fraternal affection so strong as that which existed between the Stolbergs; and less frequent still are the instances of so equal a spirit of poetry belonging to two members of the same family, and those two, brothers. So intimate was this union, that it is impossible to allude to the life of one without comprehending that of the other. Of the two, Christian Count Stolberg, born the 15th October, 1748, at Bramstedt, in Holstein, (the family seat) was the eldest, but the inferior poet. Of his devotion and attachment to his brother's person and genius, we may form some conception from the following enthusiastic lyrical effusion upon the twenty-eighth anniversary of Frederick Leopold Count Stolberg's birth, which happened to be the first time that they had ever spent the day apart. It is entitled The seventh November. To my Brother.' The following is a translation of this affectionate effusion. Up! take thou eagle's wings, and fly, To him, who is to me What never mortal was to mortal. Red gleams already wake, Which called thee, dear one, into life! That hoverest on my panting lip; What never mortal was to mortal. Pillow thee gently on his lips; There There let thy honey trickle, and my form Then suddenly wake him with the throbbing wing Say, ever dawned a thought to thee or me, As, through the power miraculous The chord of Lute untouched the Singer's tones O Mother Nature! thus Ah! thou who art to me, What never mortal was to mortal! And thou my Bride !' (Oft, in the silent night, ye visit us; Sister and Bride! Guided by them, Soar I to thee, O'er land, and o'er sea, to thee, to thee! Pours.. gushes out to thee My overflowing heart. Brother to us the lovely lot Is fallen, our heritage is fair! But |