hard bed to no boot; for I had unfortunately
in no language a grammatical learning. . . . .
Those who would advise me frightened me
out of my wits. I struggled for my version
as does an animal for its young, it suffers
them not to be touched by an indiscreet hand,
but licks them clean again. So it was with
me. Instinctively, and with great labour, I
tried to overcome all the corrections by a
deeper inducement, while people laughed at
my relucting, and said that I would never
come to a good issue. . . . . Had Byron still
lived, he would have praised my attempt,–––
praised and loved me for the book's sake;
for he was of a generous mind, propending
to all uncommon affections. He would have
bestowed on me his gentle, goodly graces;
and this would have exceedingly blessed me.
But now, as I have no friend yonder, and no
connexion, I am like a bird that flies from its
nest over the ocean, or a plant to climate in a
foreign land, must dole till it is rivetted in
the soil. Therefore, I beseech Mr. Longman,
who grants me the honour of publishing my
book, to get this little preamble inserted in
the Quarterly or Edinburgh Reviews, for
informing, that if there are still other Englishmen
who, as Byron would have done, are
inclined to preserve in their deep mind, and
protect such faithfully inspired feelings, I
should like they seen the pages of my Diary."

Describing in the body of her book the
ruins which are scattered on the banks of the
Rhine and the Main, Bettina hopes to awaken
poetical sensation in the following among
many similar passages:—

"The sun wheedlingly gets from our Lord,
that he may ripen hundredfold ears for the
children of men. Everything was contemplated,
considered, explained. The wondering
about former times, and that they reached
so palpably into our, made us quite stupefied
people; yea, I was afraid this old, coarse-
bony Time, would suddenly come over the
moment of presence, and swallow it up. . . . .
Yesterday the sky was blue, to-day, ruby-died,
and emeraldy, and then in the west, where it
covers the earth, it chases the light in saffron
garb out of its couch. For a moment, desirous
love may disport, seeing whole nature
slumbering soak."

At another place the friend of Goëthe
describes herself as "fancy's poor deluded
child warbling very wild and ardent notes to
the moon through the nubiferous gales that
bring her a cloud-cap or a beard, and again
snatch it away."

The following sample is from the last of
Miss Arnim's epistles to Goëthe, done into
English by herself:—

"Multitudes have passed by thee, hailing
thee with loud shouts of fame; the banners
they have flourished; kings have come and
touched the skirts of thy mantle, and brought
thee golden vessels, and laid chains of honour
on thy free neck. Thou knowest no more
that I planted all the gathered flowers, the
wild herbs in thy bosom, and laid my hand
upon it to fix them there. Thou knowest no
more of my hand withheld mid thy breast,
and that thou calledst me the wild hop which
would root there to wind its tendrils growing
up around thee, that nothing might be seen of
thee but only the wild hop. Lo! in this
double-wall of rock and mountain-depths
abides of echo the joyful call. Lo! my breast
is such an artfully framed double wall, that
ever and anon a thousand times the joyous
shouts of so sweet a tale echoes across thy
breath in which God-immortality hath blown
the breath of inspiration. Be pleased to hear
me sing once more the melodies of my fairest
paths of life, and in the excited rhythm of
momentary joy, where of spirit and sense the
vital sources stream into each other, and so
exalt each other, that not the inexperienced
alone become sensible and visible, but the
unvisible, unheard of too, be known and heard of.

"Is it of drums and trumpets the jubilating
chime which shakes the clouds?—is it of
harps and cymbals?—is it of thousand
instruments the tumult, that at command's call
disposing solves itself into the measure of pure
strains, forms warbling shapes, pronounces
accents of celestial influences, penetrates into
man's spirits, with hue and light espouses
sense and mind? Is it this genial power,
which running through the veins conjures the
blood the earthly to reject, to nurse, to bring
forth of supernal love, of supernal light, the
genuine fruit? Is it not thou who has
consummated it in me, when it fulgurates within
my soul? Yes, it fulgurates when I think of
thee! Or is it only shalms—museful and
weening, only gazing phantasy, not espousing
with its revelations what I have to confide to
these leaves? Whatever it be! all into death
this music of the first love may lead me. At
thy feet I plant the bass; it shall pullulate a
palm-grove for thee to wander in its shades;
all what of lovely and sweet thou hast said to
me, that I shall whisper from twig to twig
like soft carols of twittering birds: be your
kisses, your caresses, between us the honey-
dropping fruits of this grove: but the element
of my life, harmony with thee, with nature,
with God, of whose loss arises the abundance
of generation upwards to light into light,
decaying into light—be that the torrent the
most powerful, which encompasses this grove
to make it lonely with me and thee.

"Thou lookest upon me from celestial
heights; let it be unknown to me, for I would
not bear it; thou hast taken me from myself
—where stand I firm? The ground reels—
I feel myself no more on earth. My soul
buoys up, I do no more know any one, I have
no thought—I have no will but to sleep,
bedded in clouds, on the steps of thy celestial
chair. Thy glance keeping over me fire-vigil,
thy all-inarming spirit bending over me in the
blossom-carouse of thy love-carols. Thou!
lisping over me, nightingale-fluting the groans
of my languishing pants. Thou storming