time, attributes to the versatility of his personifications at this period, and the ease with which he adopted the most opposite sentiments of different writers, the corresponding versatility in political opinions, and inconsistency of ideas on moral and religious subjects, which disgraced him at a future period of life. "Nature had undoubtedly endowed him with considerable abilities and talents; but they were obscured by his excessive vanity. He soon lost the finest bloom of youth, innocence, simplicity, and purity of heart. His mind was not stimulated by the wild pranks and gay thoughtless tricks of boys; he was a stranger to the sports of youth, which by absorbing the faculties for a time, give them a greater elasticity. Human life, not as it is, but as it appears in good and bad comedies, and in marvellous tales and novels,-amorous declarations tendered to grown-up young ladies, who provoked the youth in order to laugh at him; family circles that were amused by his errors, and an idle striving to feed his overweening vanity on such unhallowed grounds, these were the delusions under which Kotzebue reached the age of youth." Thus distinguished solely for his early licentiousness, and a quickness disgraced by obscenity and scurrility, he was forced to leave Weimar in his sixteenth year, in order to avoid the unpleasant consequences of a most shameless_lampoon, replete with immoralities. From this time his whole life was a scene of literary scribbling and disputation. Even his theatrical pieces were made the vehicles of private scandal ;-he introduced the worthiest characters upon the stage, in order to hold up their peculiarities to ridicule; he unfolded the most important family secrets to public view, and drove the sensitive and highminded to despair, by making them subjects of scorn. The fecundity of his pen was a general curse; he took the management of several periodical and critical works into his own hands, and disgraced them all by his virulence. The same conduct naturally producing the same consequences, Kotzebue was compelled to take refuge in Russia, from the indignation of his countrymen. In that country he was much caressed, and among other appointments, was made governor of the German the atre at Petersburg; he made an honourable marriage, was loaded with distinetions, lived among players, and might be regarded as at the very acmé of hu man felicity, according to his percep tions of what it consisted in, had he not, unfortunately for himself, about this period made the same discovery that Solomon had made before him, that all was "vanity and vexation of spirit." He therefore fell into deep melancholy. From this state, as real sufferings always cure imaginary ones, he was roused by the death of his wife, whom he professed to idolize; and after having vented a part of his grief in an account of his wife's last illness and departing moments, written with about as little taste, feeling, or delicacy, as Mr. Godwin displayed on a similar subject, he went to Paris to dissipate the remainder. Towards the end of the year 1790, shortly before Kotzebue quitted Paris, a pamphlet was published in Germany, which involved him, as its author, in very serious embarrassments, and rendered all his subsequent efforts to obtain a consideration founded on moral worth absolutely unavailing. It was entitled "Doctor Bahrdt with the Brass Forehead, or the German Association against Zimmerman. A Play in four acts, by Baron Knigge, 1790." This Zimmerman was the celebrated physician of Hanover, more especially known in this country by his Essay on Solitude. Kotzebue had become intimate with him at Pyrmont, and this play was set forth in the dedication, as being intended to avenge him against his many literary enemies. The dramatis persone were all men much respected in Germany, and whose literary fame was far from being confined to their own country. In the first act they are represented as meeting at Bahrdt's country seat, near Halle, in Saxony, and entering into a league against Zimmerman, which they seal with a solemn oath; the remainder of the piece is taken up with declarations from each of the conspirators, respecting the mode of attack proper to be adopted, and it is concluded by a mock apotheosis, of Doctor Bahrdt and his accomplices, which sets all decency at defiance. It would be difficult to conceive a more impudent, scandalous, and malicious production. Aristophanes himself might have been ashamed of it; and to add to its atrocity, the name which was falsely introduced in the title-page as its author, was that of a man who was universally esteemed both as a writer, and as holding an honourable situation in the state. At that very time he was on bad terms with Zimmerman, who had unjustly accused him of entertaining reprehensible political opinions, and who had had an action for defamation brought against him in consequence. To most persons, therefore, it appeared highly improbable that Knigge should take upon him the task of chastising this imaginary junto of Zimmerman's enemies; for, after all, it was only in the imagination of the author that such a junto ever existed. But others thought, or affected to think, that he assumed the mask of generosity in order to wound Zimmerman more severely in this secret manner. Whilst public indignation was every where roused, and the police of several states interfering to stop the circulation of this atrocious libel, the Regency of Hanover felt itself particularly compelled to take every possible step for the discovery of the audacious libeller. Klockenburg, who was at the head of the police in Hanover, enjoyed the esteem of his superiors, and the confidence of his fellow citizens, and lived on the best terms with Zimmerman, against whom he never wrote a syllable. In this farce he was, however, ranked among his enemies, and accused of the most odious vices. This imputation distressed him to such a degree, that he lost his senses, and died in a state of insanity. Several persons were suspected. Zimmerman himself was consider ed as the author, but generally absolved, on account of his known regard for morals and decency. Others still suspected Knigge, although it had been proved that the pamphlet had been printed without his knowledge and concurrence. Suspicions fell upon Doctor Bahrdt, at Halle; Mauvillon, at Brunswick; Frederick Schultz at Mittau, and others; but none upon the real author. Many innocent individuals were involved in the affair, exposed to judicial proceedings, and disturbed in their domestic peace." At length in the midst of all this ferment, Kotzebue was discovered to be the author, and stood before the public, loaded with infamy, amidst a tissue of the meanest falsehoods, and the most revolting hypocrisy. By the most servile flattery to Catherine of Russia, he averted the punishment which hung over his head, and which he so richly deserved. But from that moment the public withdrew its esteem from him, and though the sarcastic, and sometimes humorous wit of his comedies, continued to excite a laugh among those who either read or witnessed the performance of them, the name of their author was never more pronounced, except with the utmost contempt. It is not our intention to follow Kotzebue through the remainder of his life, clouded as it was by the disgrace under which he laboured. One of the most important events of it, viz. his banishment into Siberia, by order of the emperor Paul, he has already made known to the public, in a very minute account, intitled, in his usual spirit of egotism, "The most memorable year of my life." After his return from his dreary exile he took up his residence at Berlin, where the natural compassion excited by his sufferings caused him to be received in society with somewhat more of outward respect than had been shewn to him of later years. Here he increased his literary assiduity, but not his literary prudence. It was at that moment a peculiar epoch for Germany. In the cause of liberty all her leading states had combined together against the gigantic encroachments of the French, then extending even into Russia. Kotzebue fanned the sacred flame, by which every breast seemed animated with his utmost breath, and put the whole strength of his facility and practice into the Russico-German weekly journal, which he began to publish in April 1813, one month after the Russians had driven the French from Berlin. This journal obtained a wide circulation, not so much for its manner of treating the subjects it embraced, as that the subjects themselves were as dear as life itself to the Germans; and as it helped to spread favourable news, to excite pleasing hopes, and combat apprehensions, it was generally read and applauded, and most of all in those places where French spies were most anxiously watching to prevent its circulation. This journal lasted however only a few months. It closed with the armistice; and how were the feelings of his countrymen revolted when they saw it succeeded, almost immediately afterwards, by a " History of the German Empire," from the same author, in which all the opinions he had before professed to maintain were disavowed, and all the notions he had affected to venerate were held up to ridicule and censure! Immediately after the publication of this work, which drew down the deadliest rancour of his countrymen upon its author, Kotzebue was appointed by the Emperor Alexander Russian Consul at Konigsberg. Being afterwards sent on a sort of literary mission to his native country, he injudiciously enough took up his residence at Weimar; but when we consider that he was influenced, in so doing, by some of the most laudable feelings of the human heart, by attachment to his aged mother, and to the friends and relatives of his youth, we are ready to forgive him the imprudence of returning to a place where out of his own immediate family circle he could expect to find only the enemies which he had been but too active in making for himself. He remained at Weimar until the close of the year 1818, when he removed with his wife and children to Manheim; where, on the 23d of March, 1819, he had a dagger plunged in his breast by a student of Jena, named Sand. Kotzebue had passed the day in his usual manner. In the afternoon, at five o'clock, when his family was receiving a visit from a lady, he was informed, that a young stranger wished to speak to him. He immediately went to the adjoining room, into which Sand had been ushered by the servant. At the end of a few minutes a piercing cry was heard. The servants hastened to the room, where they found their master on the floor, weltering in his blood. He was still wrestling with the stranger, who held with a firm hand the bloody dagger, with which he had stabbed the unfortunate Kotzebue through the heart and lungs. Surrounded by his sorrowing family, Kotzebue, at the end of a very few moments, closed his eyes for ever. And whilst all was hurry and confusion, and a surgeon was sent for, Sand left the room, rushed down stairs, and reached the street, where he fell on his knees, and proclaimed with a loud and sonorous voice, "The traitor is no more, my country is saved! I am his murderer! Thus must all traitors perish! Father in Heaven! I thank thee, that thou hast allowed me to perform the deed!" At the same instant he tore his clothes open, turned the dagger against himself, and inflicted a deep wound in his breast. The multitude that crowded about him carried him half-dead to the hospital, where he was slowly cured of his wounds; and on the 20th of May, 1820, he was beheaded at six o'clock in the morning, in a plain between Manheim and Heidelberg. We will conclude this article with the following account of the domestic habits of Kotzebue, from the volume before us. "Kotzebue was highly pleased with his residence at Berlin, but it did not agree with the health of his consort. As she was frequently indisposed, she attributed her indisposition to the climate; she saw no company, and devoted herself entirely to the care of her chil dren, and to her domestic duties. Kotzebue himself had that attachment for his offspring, which is so natural to human feelings. He delighted to see his children, but never attended to their education; this he committed to their mother, and to strangers. When his sons grew up, he placed them in the military schools at Petersburgh and Vienna. His daughters were brought up under the eyes of their mother. Kotzebue's great activity was confined to literary occupations, the stage, and company. It is not likely that he changed his mode of living in the latter part of his life, as it was only by a constant adherence to it, that he could find time for his inconceivably numerous literary productions. He generally rose before five o'clock in the morning, and smoking a pipe to his coffee, sat writing at his desk till eleven, when he received or paid visits, attended at rehearsals or readings of plays, or took an airing in his carriage. He used to dine soon after one, and rarely accepted of invitations to dinner, because he preferred dining with his family. After a short nap he resumed his seat at his writing table. The evening was devoted to the theatre, to company, or to his domestic circle. He was fond of passing the summer evenings in the open air; in the winter evenings he liked to play at cards. In every society he readily joined in the amusements of the company. seldom sat up later than eleven o'clock. The pleasures of the table had great attractions for him, yet he desired nota variety of dishes, but well-dressed victuals. His rooms were elegantly furnished; he liked to see every thing about him wearing the appearance of good taste and elegance, and could be bitter in his censures for any neglect in this respect. A good economist of his time, he was not less economical in his expenses, without either avarice or covetousness. He was compassionate and charitable, were it only to keep every disagreeable impression at a distance. Though easily irritated, he was not less easily reconciled; and whoever had studiously observed him for a length of time, could not possibly hate him." He THE works of Charles Lamb form a delightful curiosity in the literature of the times. They are replete with beauties almost as rare in their kind, as they are pure in their water, and exquisite in their polishing. His claim to the praise of originality, which he eminently deserves, rests on far higher grounds than that of many who are accustomed to receive it. He has not sought for distinction by choosing untried or startling themes-he has asked no aid from the strange or the terrific he has aimed neither at novelty nor effect by describing the anomalies of nature, or the devious aberrations of passion, which chill while they astonish, and which, however strikingly depicted, find no answering chord in the general heart. His originality consists-not in the mere choice of his subjects-but in the whole cast of his fancy, reflection, humour, and feeling. His thoughts and imaginations, indeed, dwell for the most part on the beaten paths of existence. Over their old and accustomed objects he delights to throw the tender light of his genius, or to open to us the lowly recesses by the way-side of humanity, among which little joys and consolations are nestling. Mr. Lamb is a true and genuine inheritor of the old Shakespearian sweetness. This is the only mark of individuality which our immortal poet retains. While he throws himself into a myriad varieties of sentiment and passion, and seems to live and breathe only in his characters, it still cleaves to him. This it is which we find every where, gently withdrawing its sting from agony, nicely disclosing the soul of goodness in things evil, shading the most repulsive objects with a rich overarching of glorious imagery, and diverting sorrow by such golden fancies and beautiful coneeits as make our sympathy delicious. The quality of which we speak, and which has been more out of fashion than even the more prominent of Shake speare's excellencies, is not something distinct from the powers of observation, which leads a philosophic poet to soften down the less pleasing results of his enquiry. It pervades and imbues the whole range of his faculties leading them, as by a divine affinity, to find the deep and pure springs of hope and love, which are scattered every where through this our human nature and giving them an intuitive perception of those NEW MONTHLY MAG-No. 79. 1 things to which they are thus naturally attracted. It is a kind of intellectual magic, like the power of those magicians who are represented in Arabian story, as discovering hidden treasures where all appeared barren to the common eye, and as able by a word to open the rich veins of precious ore. Of this genial wisdom-this" divine philosophy,"-none since its great master has so largely partaken, as the author whose genius we are faintly attempting to describe. Every thing which belongs to genuine humanity is grasped by him with cordial love. He seems to "live along" the golden fibres of affection by which the brotherhood of man is mysteriously bound together, and to rejoice in the little delicacies of feeling and dear immunities of heart that cluster about them. His very satire-if such a name be not misapplied-so tenderly treats the little frailties and peculiarities of its subjects, that it make us love them the better while we smile. His pathos, deep and touching as it is, only draws forth such tears as it is a luxury to shed. His wit does not merely dazzle by its splendour, or surprise by the admirable combinations which it exhibits. It is full of the warmth of humanity; ever scattering its soft and delicate gleams on some lurking tenderness of the soul, some train of old and genial recollections, or some little knot of pure and delightful sympathies. "John Woodvil,"-a tragedy written, in the true language and spirit of our elder dramatists-is the longest of the poems which Mr. Lamb has as yet given to the world. Its story, though most affecting, is peculiarly simple. The hero, a gay and loyal youth, is represented just after the restoration of Charles the Second, as dissipating in high revels the fortunes of his banished father, who lingers in the forest of Sherwood, chained by " a childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth" at the peril of his life. There he is accompanied by his younger son Simon, who, with a spirit of gentle allowance to less generous natures, while devoting his whole being to the duteous offices of filial affection, strives to extenuate his brother's weaknesses. In an hour of intoxication, John betrays to a wretched parasite the retreat of old Sir Walter, who is consequently taken in the forest, and dies without a word, struck to the heart by VOL. XIV. S the treachery of his child. The un happy reveller soon hears of the fatal effects of his indiscretion, and sinks into a cold despair. From this s stony andi silent suffering he is won at last into a gentler grief by the soothings of a most delicate and high-souled woman, whom he had slighted in the days of his pride, and by the recollections of his early childhood, which sweetly force their way to his heart as he kneels on the old spot in the family pew, 1;: "where he as oft had kneel'd, To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, mona To view the graceful deer come tripping by, si Like bashful younkers in society. To mark the structure of a plant or tree, Mr. Lamb's sonnets are perhaps the daintiest pieces of pure beauty which have ever adorned their class of poems. The following, which has a strange exquisiteness of a feeling blended with the richest fantasy, will more than justify our praise: "Was it some sweet device of Faery A gentle infant, by Sir Walter's side." In all this, it is very true, there are none of the crowded incidents, striking situations, or violently contrasted characters, which the cravings of the theatrical public require. But there is much that comes home to the inmost soul. The perversion of a frank and generous nature in Woodvil-the high swellings of his spirit, which prompt him so woefully to overstep his duty-the quick, yet most natural transitions, from the spirit of boundless confidence to humiliation, Soft soothing things, which might enforce Despair thence to defiance, and thence to cool "To see the sun to bed, and to arise, That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, To drop the murdering knife, and let go by Was there ever a more felicitous recalling of one of the wildest and intensest moments of existence, than in the following lines? "Oh! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep Like to a child. For now to my raised mind o winged bark! how swift along the night To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, The Miscellaneous Poems of our au thor are not only instinct with bright fantasy and original thought, but are, in their mere numbers, full of the choicest music. The structure of his verse is almost as original as the cast of his sentiment and fancy. Let the reader take, by way of example, the following lines, extracted from a poem addressed to a child who passed his infancy in prison which, though in length only of eight syllables, have a facile majesty which modern poetry seldom exhibits: "But the clouds, that overcast~-~ |